The hall ended in another blank wall. I nearly slammed into it, the charm pulling me on faster than my feet could process what was happening. I managed to skid to a stop, putting out my arm to force Quentin to do the same. He made a soft “oof” noise as he collided with my elbow. Then he ducked under my arm, shoving the short sword into his belt before beginning to tap a rapid pattern against the wood with his now-free hand. The charm kept trying to jerk me forward, not seeming concerned by the fact that I can’t walk through walls. That was my problem. It just wanted to get me to Chelsea, and if it had to break my skull to make that happen, it really didn’t care.

“Almost there,” said Quentin through gritted teeth. The strain in his voice told me just how hard his charm was yanking on him.

“Breathe,” I advised.

He shot me a grateful look and kept tapping. A few more seconds passed, and the section of wall slid smoothly open. There was fabric on the other side; another of those damn tapestries Riordan was so fond of. I signaled the others to silence—maybe unnecessarily, but I was definitely more interested in being safe than sorry—and moved past Quentin, stepping through the opening.

The tapestry was actually hanging about two feet away from the wall, creating an artificial corridor for servants to use when entering the reception room. That made sense; if the tapestry had been flush with the wall, it would have been hard to get the illusion of invisible service to work the way that it was supposed to. I inched carefully along until I reached the end of the tapestry, and peeked out into the receiving room.

It was empty, unless you wanted to count the enormous hole cut out of the air behind the throne. It was unguarded, and through it I could see the bracken-choked Annwn moors stretching off toward the distant shadow of a high-walled castle. I stopped where I was, staring, even as the Luidaeg’s charm tried to pull me toward the hole.

Tybalt and Quentin stepped up behind me and joined me in silent contemplation of the portal. We were safely hidden by the tapestry, and we needed a moment to regroup. It was a little reassuring that I wasn’t the only one completely floored by what I was seeing.

Finally, Quentin asked, “What is it?”

“Annwn,” said Tybalt. “One of the deeper realms.”

“Chelsea,” I said, and started walking. Tybalt and Quentin followed close behind me, all of us moving as fast as we could.

“What is it doing there?” asked Quentin.

“Well, sugar, it’s standing open, waiting for me,” said Riordan. I stiffened, coming to a stop. Tybalt hissed, a soft, almost smothered sound. Slowly, the three of us turned to see the Duchess of Dreamer’s Glass stepping out from behind a tapestry on the other side of the room, back in her jeans and black T-shirt, with a faint smile on her classically beautiful face.

“Where’s Chelsea?” I asked.

Riordan shook her head. The light from our charms glittered off the ruby at her throat. “That’s what I don’t like about you, Sir Daye. You’re always right to business, no pleasantries, no playing nice. It makes a body want to play rough, just to show you that you ought to have some manners.”

“I assure you, her manners are among the best in this room,” said Tybalt, tone frosty.

“I have no trouble believing that.” Riordan turned her attention on Tybalt, smile growing wider. “It was awfully nice of you to come with her. Saves me the trouble of having someone go find you.”

I stared at her, a sudden, horrible realization growing in the pit of my stomach. Duchess Riordan was paranoid. Everyone knew that. It was what made her such a dangerous neighbor to have. Why would someone with that well-earned a reputation for paranoia leave a hole in their defenses as large as the one Tybalt had exploited to bring us to her knowe?

Answer: she wouldn’t.

“Tybalt, get us a doorway to the Shadow Roads,” I murmured, hoping that Riordan was too far away to hear me. “Get us a doorway to the Shadow Roads now.”

He gave me a sideways look, but he didn’t argue. His fingers twitched, moving toward the shadows to our left. Then they stilled, his pupils narrowing to startled slits.

“I…I can’t,” he said. “They aren’t there.”

Riordan was still smiling. “If you were just going for your back door, sorry, sugars, but I had it locked down as soon as you were through my wards. You’re going to be the recipients of my hospitality whether you like it or not.”

“I’m voting not,” I said, loudly enough for her to hear. “Where’s Chelsea? I’m not going to ask you again.”

“You shouldn’t lie when you don’t have to. Makes it difficult to believe a word you say. You’re going to ask me again and again, and keep on asking, probably right up until the point where we get tired of it and have you gagged.” Riordan’s smile subsided into a look of weary irritation. “You know, my life would be a lot easier if people like you would just learn your place and not bother with things like this.”

“She’s a little girl.”

“She’s a changeling. She’s got no place in this world and no place in the world she comes from. But because she’s a useful tool, maybe she can find herself a place.” Riordan indicated the hole with a sweep of her hand. “Maybe it’s waiting for her out there.”

“The worse you scare her, the more she undermines Faerie!” said Quentin. “This is treason.”

“Against whom, little boy? The mad Queen in her castle by the sea? Or maybe the High King and Queen, off in their ice palace in Toronto? By the time anyone thinks to tell them I’ve been naughty, I’ll be long gone. And you talk like this has never happened before. The Summerlands have always survived. That’s the thing about tools. They may do a lot of damage while they’re working, but, inevitably, they break.”

Her voice was calm and reasonable throughout. The sinking in my stomach got worse. I’ve dealt with madmen and zealots, people who were so far down their personal rabbit holes that they genuinely thought that whatever they were doing was the right thing. Duchess Riordan didn’t fall into that category.

Duchess Riordan was perfectly, dangerously sane. And that was something I could see being a major problem if we wanted to get out of this alive.

“I’m going to give you one more chance,” I said, as calmly as I could. “Give Chelsea to us, and we’ll leave your lands, and we won’t come back. You haven’t done any permanent damage. You haven’t committed any crimes.” Even after everything she’d done, she hadn’t done a single thing most purebloods would acknowledge as “wrong.” Stealing a changeling who’d never been given her Choice would practically be viewed as community service in some circles. The Queen might even give her a public commendation, if it weren’t for the part where Chelsea was undermining the fabric of Faerie.