Page 64 of The Forgotten Prince

“Well enough.”

She pretended an interest in a slight scratch on the wooden table as she asked, “I wonder… how many times have you visited this village?”

“Over the past seven hundred years?” His tone suggested it would be impossible to count. “A few times, I suppose.”

“And Esme?”

“More than me.”

As usual, no answer he ever gave offered more than the meagerest of information.

Swish, swish.

“Well,” she said, once again turning her mother’s little ring beneath the table, perhaps as a reminder. “There is something about him I do not trust.”

The Púca suddenly returned to its three-headed form and shrieked at the top of its lungs with every voice—a terrifying sound that felt as though it would shatter Gwendolyn’s eardrums. But it sounded the way she felt—ready to shatter. When the creature’s “song” subsided again, she offered, “That is quite an annoying creature.”

“Can be.”

“What language does it speak?”

“Gaelg.”

Gwendolyn tipped him an inquisitive look.

“The First Tongue.”

“And what does he sing about?”

“A song prohibited in the Fae realm.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “On the one hand, it reveals too much, on the other, too little.”

How appropriate, Gwendolyn thought, though she nodded without remark, returning her gaze to the salver of Hob cake. Unaccustomed to this dance of words, especially with Málik, she was trying in vain to make polite conversation. Forsooth. Even when their discourse had been inimical, they were never at a lack. And now she had reason to guard every word that came out of her mouth. “I visited with Emrys this morn,” she said, offhand.

“And?”

“He’s the same. His symptoms unusual. Nothing like I have ever encountered.”

Málik lifted his goblet, tilting it one way, then the other, considering. “As I told you, there are substances in the Fae realm that could affect a mortal aversely.”

“What sort?”

He gave her a pointed look, once again deflecting the question. “Which reminds me, Gwendolyn… if they ever invite you to sup, you must consume nothing, unless I tell you it is safe.” Gwendolyn frowned—for the most obvious reason: Because he wouldn’t be with her. But also, because how could she ever trust him again?

And regardless, she agreed without argument. “I will not.” And then she tilted her head, smiling coyly. “Any further counsel, now that we are down to it?”

“Oh, then? Has Deartháir Harri changed his mind about the portal?”

“Nay,” Gwendolyn said, feeling thwarted. “He has not.”

And then, despite his obvious aversion to truth, she opted for honesty on her part. “It doesn’t matter; I will cross the Veil.”

He smiled, then raised his glass, winking. “I place my wagers on the Cornish princess,” he said amiably, but Gwendolyn had the unmistakable impression his thoughts were swirling with speculation and suspicion.

She couldn’t afford for him to wonder, so she tried for an easier tone, one that bespoke their previous fellowship. “Have you any new opinion on the Máistir’s condition?”

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