Page 74 of The Stolen Heir

“What are—”

I hear cloth rustling and my unmother’s voice cutting off Bex. “Wren, I know you want to talk to yoursister.” She emphasizes the word as though I am about to deny it. “But I have something quick to say. If you’re in some kind of trouble, we can help you. You just tell us what’s going on. Bex made it sound like you were living on the streets.”

I almost laugh at that. “I’m surviving.”

“That’s not enough.” She gives an enormous shaky sigh. “But even if it were, I’d like to see you. I’ve wondered how you were doing. What you were doing. If you had enough to eat. If you were warm.”

My eyes burn, but I can’t imagine being there, in their living room, wearing my true face. I would horrify them. Maybe they wouldn’t scream and shove me away at first, the way they did when they were enchanted, but it would quickly turn awful. I couldn’t be the child that they had loved.

Not after everything that happened to me. Not after learning that I am made of sticks and snow.

Headlights swing into view. I am already moving by the time I hear the squeal of brakes.

“I never needed to be warm,” I tell my unmother, my voice hard, full of the anger that has been gnawing at my insides for years.

“Wren,” she says, stung.

I feel as though I am about to weep, and I am not even sure why.

“Tell Bex to remember the salt, the rowan, and the iron,” I say, and hang up the phone, racing for the bus.

Only one person gets off, and then I get on, holding out my fake ticket to the driver and concentrating my magic on him.Believe me, I plead with all the force I possess.Believe I have a ticket.

He nods in a distracted fashion, and I flee to the back of the bus, still holding the phone. A few more people board, including the man who was watching me so strangely. My feelings are too tangled up for me to pay any of them much attention.

Once Lady Nore is dead, or perhaps wearing the bridle, maybe I will speak with Bex and my unmother and unfather again. Maybe, if I knew I could keep them safe from Bogdana. If I knew I could keep them safe from me.

Leaning my cheek against the glass, I slip my hand into the folds of the scarf, just to have the reassuring feel of the bridle’s leather strap, to know I have a plan. I dig my fingers through the cloth, then reach around my body, scratching at my stomach, fresh panic flooding my chest.

The bridle isn’t there.

Outside the window, Titch sits on the gutter of the bus station, blinking at me with golden eyes.

The bus begins to roll forward. I try to tell myself that I can still get away. That perhaps the bus will drive faster than the creature can fly. That Oak and Tiernan will not be able to follow.

That’s when I hear a tire pop. The bus lurches to a stop, and I realize there is nowhere for me to go.

CHAPTER

12

As I walk back through the woods, I am furious with all the world, but especially myself.

Even though I knew Oak had played the entire Court of Moths false and gotten himself punched in the face twice to convince them he was a vain, useless courtier, had preened and drank a trough of wine to hide his swordsmanship. Even though Oak told me the Roach had taught him the trick with the coin, still I didn’t consider that the goblin might also have taught Oak the far more practical skill ofstealing.

The prince was careful to speak to me as if nothing at all was the matter, even as he lifted the bridle from around my waist. Worked it off with such deftness that I hadn’t felt more than a single touch. Lulled by his conversation, I let myself believe I had fooled him at the very moment he was fooling me.

He was as deceptive as the rest of his family. More, maybe.

He never let down his guard with me, not once.

Too late, I understand what’s terrifying about his charm. He seems entirely open when he is unknowable. Every smile is painted on, a mask.

Maybe I’m glad that you gave me an opportunity to be my worst self.

The campsite is as quiet as when I left it. Tiernan remains draped in the tree, making soft snoring sounds. Titch shadows me with shining eyes. I stare at Oak, half-hoping he will turn over and confront me, and half-dreading it.

As I pass him, I note that his breaths are even, though I bet he sleeps the way cats do, lightly. If I got too close, I bet he would spring up, ready to fight.