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Augustine laughs a little. Her eyes turn back to Raffaele. “I will get you into the city, my Messenger, if you can place a wedge between the queen and her Inquisitor.”
    “I am a consort,” Raffaele replies. “I’ll find a way.”
    Maeve stares in silence for a moment at her preparing fleet. “There is something else,” she says, without looking at him.
    “Yes, Your Majesty?”
    “Tell me, Raffaele,” she goes on, turning her head slightly in his direction, “that you can sense my power.” She says it loudly enough for the other Daggers to hear. Michel, the closest, stiffens at her words. Gemma inhales sharply. But Raffaele notices Lucent’s reaction the most—the sudden, sickly paleness of her face, the surprise in her eyes. She glances at Raffaele.
    “Her power?” she asks, forgetting for the first time to refer to Maeve by her title.
    Raffaele hesitates, then bows his head to the young queen. “I do,” he replies. “I’d thought it rude to ask until you decided to share it.”
    Maeve smiles a little. “Then it will be no surprise to you when I tell you that I, too, am an Elite.” She doesn’t seem to react to Lucent’s shock—although her eyes do dart briefly to her.
    Raffaele shakes his head. “Not a surprise to me, Your Majesty. You may have had a different effect on my Daggers, though.”
    “And can you guess what I do?”
    Raffaele reaches out once again to study the energy that surrounds her. It is a familiar feeling, one that leaves him with a chill. Something about her aligns with darkness,with the angels of Fear and Fury, the goddess of Death. The same alignments he felt in Adelina. The mere memory of her makes Raffaele clench his horse’s reins. “I cannot guess, Your Majesty,” he replies.
    Maeve looks over her shoulder at the youngest prince, with his dueling mask still on, and nods. “Tristan,” she says. “Let us see your face.”
    Her other brothers grow quiet at her command. Raffaele senses Lucent’s heart lurch forward, and when he glances at her, he notices that her eyes have turned wide. The youngest prince nods, reaches up, and pulls the mask off his face.
    He resembles Maeve, as well as his brothers. But while the others seem natural and whole, this prince is not—the eerie energy about him remains, haunting Raffaele.
    “My youngest brother, Prince Tristan,” Maeve says.
    It is Lucent who finally breaks the silence. “You said in your letters that he had managed to pull through,” she chokes out. “You told me he never died.”
    “He did.” Maeve’s expression turns harder. “But I brought him back.”
    Lucent goes pale. “That’s impossible. You said—he almost drowned—and your mother—the Queen Mother—banished me for the near death of her son. This is impossible . You—” She turns to Maeve. “You never told me. I heard nothing about this in your letters.”
    “I couldn’t tell you,” Maeve answers sharply. Then she continues, in a quieter voice, “My mother screened everyletter that left the palace, particularly those I meant for you. I could not risk her finding out about my power. She, like you, like everyone , assumed that Tristan never died, because I brought him back on the same night she banished you.”
    Raffaele only stares, hardly able to believe what he is witnessing. Threads of energy that do not belong in the land of the living. He understands it now, the unsettling, unnatural bond. He also understands immediately why Maeve is telling them this.
    “Enzo,” he whispers. “You want—”
    “I want to bring back your prince,” Maeve finishes for him. “Tristan, as you can see, is able to enjoy life again. Even more than that, though, he has brought some part of the Underworld with him. He has gained the strength of a dozen men.”
    The thought of Enzo alive again leaves Raffaele short of breath. The world spins for a moment. No. Wait. There is something else about Prince Tristan that the queen isn’t telling him. “And what