Tavis cracked his knuckles, drawing himself up to his full height. Many breeds of fae trend toward “tall,” but Bridge Trolls are tall and built like linebackers; when Tavis stood all the way up, it was like watching a wall decide to get involved. “When do I get to hit someone?” he demanded.

“You can hit Oleander if you find her, but you might want to use a net instead,” I said. “She’s enough of a snake that I wouldn’t be surprised if she spits poison.”

“Assuming she’s there at all,” muttered Garm. That was enough to set the room shouting again. Only Grianne stayed silent. Her Merry Dancers were expressive enough to make up for it. They’d been spinning wildly when we started, flashing a variety of garish colors that telegraphed her doubts. Now they were bobbing in the air on either side of her, glowing a steady green. That was reassuring. If we could convince Grianne, we could convince anybody . . . or at least, Sylvester and Connor could.

Sylvester made inspiring pleas for cooperation. Connor provided support and a second voice arguing for my innocence. I just stood there trying to look harmless—whatever that meant. I was mostly fighting not to squirm. Disguises make my ears itch. After the third iteration of things I already knew, I backed away, moving to sit on one of the nearby benches. I was close enough to be visible, but maybe taking me out of the conversation would finally make it end. I could hope, anyway.

The light in the garden slanted through the roses around the bench, casting tiny prisms around me. I leaned on my hands, letting my attention drift. I’ve always loved the Garden of Glass Roses. It’s soothing, and sometimes, I need to be soothed.

The argument had moved on to how Sylvester’s guards were supposed to find a killer in a space the size of Shadowed Hills. Tavis was pointing out—with increasing volume—that if we didn’t start looking soon, it wouldn’t matter. The Queen would send someone to collect me, and we’d be done discussing.

The shouting was loud enough that I didn’t hear Etienne coming until he sat beside me, folding his hands in his lap. I kept my attention on the roses. Neither of us spoke for several minutes, until finally, quietly, Etienne said, “I’m sorry.”

I didn’t look at him. “Don’t worry about it. You didn’t know.”

“I saw the sword, and I thought—”

“Like I said, don’t worry about it.” I glanced back to the group. Sylvester seemed to be getting the crowd under control. “Poor guy.”

Etienne followed my gaze. “The Duke?”

“Raysel’s in this to her eyebrows. Being willing to admit that, and to deal with it . . . imagine having to sacrifice your own daughter.”

Etienne stood, giving me a sidelong look. “What do you think he did when he stood by and let the Queen’s guard have you?” he asked, before walking back to the others without waiting for an answer. I stared after him, speechless.

Sylvester’s not my father. He’s the man who pulled me out of the mortal world, and who kept Mom’s secret for decades, watching me struggle to be Daoine Sidhe when he knew damn well that I wasn’t.

He’s also the man who took care of me when Mom wandered off on her little “expeditions.” The man who watched me grow up, got me knighted, and made sure I would always have a place. He was “Uncle Sylvester” long before I understood that we weren’t related. In all the ways that mattered, he’d been my father for a long time. It wasn’t like his real daughter had set the bar particularly high. “At least I’m not planning to murder my mom,” I muttered.

“October?” I looked up. Sylvester was gesturing me back. A consensus had apparently been reached, because the crowd dispersed as I stood, breaking into smaller groups and moving toward the door. Some offered me nods or fleeting smiles as they went, but none paused to say good-bye.

After less than a minute, only a few of us remained: Sylvester and Etienne, with matching grim expressions on their faces; Garm, looking quietly terrified; and Connor, who looked simply and deeply weary. Only Grianne had no expression to speak of, sitting frozen as a statue while her Merry Dancers flickered around her like strobe lights.

I turned to Sylvester, raising an eyebrow. “Well?”

“The others have gone to begin the search,” said Sylvester. He sounded as worn-out as I felt. “They’ll call if they see Rayseline or Oleander.”

“Do they know what Oleander looks like?” Oleander and Nerium looked nothing alike. It wouldn’t do us any good if they were so busy looking for a Hob that they walked right past the Peri, or vice versa.

“They know she may be disguised, and have descriptions of both of her known faces. She may have more; there’s nothing we can do for that.”

“It’s a start.” I glanced at the others. “So what are we going to do?”

“You’re going to close your eyes and allow Garm to make sure that if Rayseline has called the Queen’s guard, they don’t take you away again,” said Sylvester.

I blinked. “What?”

“Illusions,” said Grianne. All of us turned to look at her. She shrugged. “They work against us. They can work for us, too.”

Sylvester raised a hand, cutting me off before I could object. “Think about it.”

I didn’t like to admit it, but he was right: it wasn’t safe for me to be seen wearing my own face with the Queen’s guard, Raysel, and Oleander all out looking for me. Still . . . “Why can’t I cast my own illusions?”

“Garm’s Gwragen,” said Connor, like that explained everything.

Sadly, it did. “Fine,” I muttered, feeling balky and sullen. I hate having other people enchant me. It makes me itch even more than my own illusions do.

“Close your eyes,” said Garm. I did as I was told. His hands pressed against my cheeks as the air filled with the taste of moss and swampy water. My cheeks and ears began to tingle and itch. I didn’t move. Squirming too much could make him lose the spell, and I didn’t want to make him start over.

The smell faded, taking the tingle with it, although the itch remained. Garm pulled his hands away. “It’s done.”

“Whee,” I deadpanned, unsurprised when my voice came out higher than usual. The Gwragen are some of the best illusionists in Faerie. When they disguise something, they do it right. Opening my eyes, I blinked up at Connor, who was suddenly about six inches taller than me. I looked at my hands. They were slightly darker than I was used to, with long, slim fingers. I raised them to feel my face. My ears were even sharper than I expected, and my hair was a short, sleek bob. “Tuatha de Dannan?”