The Treachery of Beautiful Things (27 page)

“I want to take Tom and go home. You can have your fantasy kingdom and everything that goes with it.” And more, so much more, she wanted this to be over.

“Really?” The single word scraped the air.

“She doesn’t ask much, my queen,” Tom interrupted, his voice plaintive and weak. “Just to go. Just for the two of us to go.”

“
You
aren’t going anywhere. You have an appointment in two days’ time,
tithe
. You should never have run from me. I might have kept you forever, the way you make music,
the way your music makes magic. But I can’t stand betrayal. Such treachery. You brought
her
here.”

“Let her go, Majesty,” he continued, actually wringing his hands. “I didn’t mean to. Not her. Please. I swear, I’ll go willingly, give myself up for you, to protect you. I’ll be the tithe. Wipe her memories and let her go.”

Jenny stared at him. What was this change? Minutes ago he’d wanted to send her as sacrifice in his place.

“For me? Really?” Titania simpered, but her sugar-sweet voice devolved into cruelty. “Or to protect
her
?” She laughed. “Someone get the piper something to drink. He forgets himself. Or rather, he remembers.”

Two men—tall and willowy Sidhe lords—grabbed Tom by either arm and pulled him away, laughing at his protests and easily overpowering his struggles.

That left Jenny alone with the queen and her court, and her heart sank. In spite of all he had said and done, the changes wrought on him by his time here, Tom was her brother. Something in their food and drink changed him, made him…made him more like them. And when it wore off, for a moment he was Tom again.

Jack had told her not to take their food or wine. That was why, she realized. It changed you forever. Made you their slave. She thought of the servants in the palace, lost in their dreams, mindless drudges, doing the will of the Sidhe for eternity. He hadn’t lied about that, then. He hadn’t
actually lied about much at all. She just wished that he’d told her everything.

Jenny closed her eyes and forced Jack from her mind. Her mouth dried as she brought her eyes back to Titania’s face.

The queen studied her for a moment and then made a subtle pass of her hand in front of Jenny’s face. When she looked down again, she wore the same dove-gray clothes of the servants. A fitted bodice, high neck, and long sleeves, all edged with buttons covered in the same fabric. The full skirt was heavy and awkward. Around her waist was a pristine white apron with deep pockets. She could still feel her own clothes beneath. Another illusion.

Titania’s eyes glittered like shards of glass, hard and devoid of feeling. Her beauty was unreal, harsh in its perfection. Jenny remembered the glimpse of the dark thing lurking inside her, the thing she’d seen in the forest when she first laid eyes on her. Mab. It was Mab. The evil inside Titania. Beyond the cool beauty. Now she circled Jenny, examining her work, her every glance critical.

“There,” she said at last. “I thought you could be improved. What do you think of her now, Thomas?”

He stepped back through the attendant Sidhe and Jenny saw at once that whatever they had given him, he was the heartless piper once more.

“You’ll make her a skivvy?” asked Tom.

“I can’t think of a better occupation for a would-be queen. She needs to learn her place.”

Jenny stiffened but remained silent. What good would it do to argue now? She couldn’t outrun them all.
But later…

“I know what you’re thinking, little Wren,” the queen mocked. She snapped her fingers and someone passed her a bottle. The glass was a brilliant green, and little dints of light glittered on the surface. Its round bottom caught the sun, but from there it tapered up to a long neck, closed with a stopper made of silver, shaped like a rose.

“Lethe water,” said the queen. “Although I doubt you, in your modern age, know what that is. We make it ourselves with honey and valerian and…oh, a thousand special things. It has no effect on the folk of Faerie, although it tastes like nectar, but on humans…well…You’ll see.”

Jenny clamped her lips together and shook her head. Whatever that stuff was, there was no way she was drinking it. She’d seen what it had done to Tom.

“Stubborn, obstinate child,” the queen growled, and nodded to two more of her courtiers. They seized Jenny’s arms, forcing her to her knees so Titania towered over her. One of them pinched her arm hard and she cried out in spite of herself.

That was all it took. Titania thrust the mouth of the bottle between Jenny’s lips and upended it. A stream of sweet, cloying liquid filled her mouth, choking her as she coughed,
spluttered, and tried to pull away. Someone held her head and they forced her to drink it, draining the whole bottle until she fell, coughing and gasping for air.

The Sidhe pulled Jenny back to her feet and she hung limply between her captors. Titania pressed her hands on either side of Jenny’s head. The last thing she saw was the queen’s victorious smile.

It was like falling into dark water, like being dragged down by the Nix all over again. The soft fragrance of night closed over her, a cushion of down, a cocoon. Music surged around her, beguiling. As Jenny opened her eyes, she found the world had transformed.

Laughter pealed around a great stone hall. On a family holiday, long ago, she had visited Mont Saint Michel and stood in the banqueting hall, a vaulted room with glass windows looking out over the treacherous sands, twin fireplaces her whole family could stand in. Tom had been a pain that day, bored with the whole thing and out of sorts, but Jenny had fallen in love with the romance of the place. It had been hers alone, the palace she dreamed of where she was a princess and nothing could harm her or any of her family. She had hopped from slab to slab across the floor, pretending she was dancing, until her mother had made her stop, telling her to consider what people would think.

Now the hall inside her dreams was filled with a fairy
ball. Fires blazed in the fireplaces, candles burned in the chandeliers. It was dark outside, not the dark of night. No moon or stars were visible. The windows showed nothing. They might have been made of stone themselves. Laughter and the sounds of amused conversation entwined with the music, swirling up to the ceiling so far above her. The stone slabs covering the floor seemed to move, even as she looked at them, twisting in the unnatural way things did in dreams.

This wasn’t real. She knew it couldn’t be. This palace was not Titania’s palace. This was cold stone, not polished marble. This was a world away from the queen’s shining palace. Yet it had its own beauty.

Strong arms caught her shoulders, twirling her around. The gray servants’ gown had vanished, and something spun of diaphanous silk took its place, a confection of lace and captured light. A snow-white dress swirled about her legs, the bodice clinging to her torso, lifting up her breasts like an offering to the man dancing with her.

His hair was the color of coal dust and his eyes so dark as to appear endless black. On his head he wore a golden crown, styled like antlers, leaves, and berries. A king, then. Her king. A face from her dreams, sending a shudder of recognition through her, a face she’d known all her life, and yet never known at all. He smiled, a seductive, indulgent expression. His eyes captured hers and she stumbled
under the impact of his gaze, falling into his embrace. That look promised so much, things she didn’t dare to want yet, things for which her traitor body yearned. He caught her, turning her so that her clumsiness became part of their dance, transforming her into a being of grace in spite of herself.

His long fingers caressed her bare shoulders or entwined with hers, and her heart beat faster. With him pressed so close, the heat from his body swept over her, the elegant washed silk gown felt like nothing more than a veil, and a flimsy one at that. She could have been naked before him. A smile curled the corners of his mouth, as if he could read her very thoughts.

“Gwynhyfer,”
he murmured. His voice rumbled deep inside his chest and her heart beat in response, a bird trapped in a cage, a wren. The single word echoed on and on, twisting and resolving as she listened to her name.
Gwynhyfer…Guinevere…Jennifer…

Entangling his hand in her hair, he pulled her close, kissing her deeply. He tasted warm and earthy, of forests and undergrowth, but unlike Jack, beneath that initial touch, he was cold, icy cold. The cold of deep beneath the ground, of places that had never seen the sun. It was the cold of winter, clawing deep inside her. There was magic, but not the magic of Jack’s kiss.

Beware a kiss,
Jack had told her.
Kisses are powerful things.
You expose part of your soul. Have you learned nothing?

She tore herself free with a gasp. The memory of his voice was so clear he could have been standing at her side, whispering in her ear. Her smiling partner didn’t seem fazed by the abrupt movement. He took her hand and led her forward, twirling her on the end of his arm. He made her dance now, though she wanted to escape, moving her around him, dancing with her despite her resistance. And how could she resist him? He overwhelmed her with just his presence.

“Stop,” she whispered breathlessly, her head spinning, her stomach sickening. It still churned from the Lethe water having been forced down her throat, and she couldn’t think straight. She needed him to stop, all of them to stop, just for a minute, to leave her alone and let her be. “Please, stop.”

But no one was listening to her. The crowd parted to watch them pass, some laughing good-naturedly, some applauding. Through all the unreal masks and smiling faces she couldn’t spot a single one she recognized, a single soul she could trust to help her. She didn’t know any of them, but every eye was upon her. Studying her, waiting for her to falter and fail so they could laugh. How they loved to laugh.

The throne was fashioned from the gnarled trunk of a hawthorn tree, the branches twisted to form the arms and
the ornate crest on the top. The roots plunged through the stony floor beneath it, and white blossoms hung in heavy clumps from the branches. There was no sunlight here. Nor moonlight either. Only the dark and the flame. So how could the tree still be alive?

Her dance partner spun her around one last time, the glossy surface of his green cloak catching the light. It looked like leaves, like holly leaves, rich and dark, glistening. Jenny felt herself falling into the living throne as he released her. She landed, the gown billowing out around her, and the music fell silent at last.

His figure loomed over her, a silhouette with small horns or antler points poking through the curls, and eyes bright with unspoken threat. He gave her that dangerous smile again and lifted a coronet of tiny white flowers. He cradled it in his long fingers, bruising the flowers a little until a heady scent rose from them.

Jenny shrank back against the wood, but it was useless. There was no way out. If only Jack were here. He’d help her. Jack would draw his great sword, shout a battle cry, and fight their way out. She closed her eyes, wishing he were there, knowing he was gone. He’d betrayed her, hadn’t he? Brought her here. And she’d lost him. She had seen the earth swallow him whole. He was gone.

She was alone. If she was to escape, she’d have to do it herself. But the throne drained away all her will.

Don’t listen to that,
a voice in the back of her mind whispered.
You are strong.
Stronger than you know.

She’d rescued the Leczi, stopped the dragon, helped Jack escape the Nix, she’d fought and struggled and done her best to find her brother. It couldn’t end like this.

Tears wet her cheeks and she heard the onlookers give a collective susurration of appreciation. She looked up as her dance partner placed a crown of flowers on her head. The thorns scraped her scalp, tearing her skin.

“Greetings to you, May Queen.” His deep voice rumbled again and the crowd echoed him. With a curious tilt of his head, he reached out to touch a tear on her cheek. Then he smiled again. “Perfect,” he told her. “Just perfect. I was certain you would be.”

“I—I’m not the May Queen,” she stammered.

“Oh, but you are, pretty one. The guardian named you so. And besides, the throne of thorns accepts you. Look.”

The throne trembled beneath her and then shoots erupted from it, bright green, growing as she watched. The roots swelled, cracking through the stone floor. She twisted, looking for a gap to flee through, but the hawthorn throne embraced her, growing around her, trapping her in a cage, in a human shape made of twigs and branches.

“There’s a mistake!” she cried. “I’m not a queen.”

The king—for she couldn’t doubt that’s who he was, Oberon at large in her nightmare—laughed and stepped
aside. A defeated figure knelt at the front of the throng of dancers, his head bowed, his pose immobile. A cloak of leaves covered his back too, but these were dying, turning to autumn colors even as she watched. All around him, even as the other beings of her dream continued their celebrations, the guardian remained locked in his abeyance.

“Tell her.” The king’s command boomed through the room. No one could fail to obey him. No one. Not even—

“Comes the Wren,” said this broken knight. “Comes the May Queen. Comes the spring.”

Only one person had given her a pet name in years. Jack had called her Jenny Wren.

Comes the Wren.

Jenny’s tears flooded her eyes, and with each one she shed, the hawthorn tree grew, its thick limbs wrapping around her. She threw back her head and screamed. There was but a single intelligible word in the sound, the name of the boy clad in leaves and bearing a Saxon-like sword strapped across his back. His cloak of dying oak leaves spilled across the floor and the guardian, her guardian, raised his mismatched eyes to look on her. There was nothing in his face, no love, no affection, not even anger or annoyance or pained disappointment.

Jenny Wren.

She had trusted him. She had let him lead her through
the Realm. She had let him make of her whatever the Realm demanded.