Page 132 of Beyond the Faerie Gate

He’s made a hasty retreat from the crowd of people and is lingering several feet away with his wings tucked tight against his spine. Has anyone checked to see if he’s okay?

He catches my eye briefly, and he must read my concern because he offers me a small smile and a nod.

“Ghislane,” one of my maids calls, shaking at the female’s shoulders.

So that’s her name. The thought, so out of place given what’s just happened, makes me laugh, but it comes out as more of a choked cough.

Ghislane—whose name I commit to memory—comes around just as the maids manage to get her back into her seat.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” she murmurs.

But her voice is warped. Painfully so. In a way that reminds me almost of Bree’s when we first met.

“Please, go and rest,” I say, even though I have no idea what just happened. “We can discuss whatever else is on your list another time. But you look…”

Almost as bad as I feel.I don’t say it, but Ghislane must read it in my face because she offers me a watery smile. “Yes, my lady.”

“Go with her and make sure she’s okay,” I instruct the maids, who are still trying to attend to me. “I’ll be fine. I have Bree.”

They startle, as if they’ve forgotten he’s there, then drop hasty curtsies at both of us. Between the three of them, they carry Ghislane over to the stairs, which connect my garden room to the rest of the palace.

The moment they’re out of sight, I turn to Bree. “Are you okay?”

For a second, he looks so utterly confused and his ears twitch on his head as if searching for my real meaning.

“I’m immortal. If I was injured, I would heal.” His voice is less scratchy today, and I smile at the difference. “You, on the other hand, look pale.”

I frown. “Surely I’m immortal too, so by your logic, it shouldn’t matter if I’m pale.”

He shakes his head and crosses to sit on the chair Ghislane just abandoned. His wings recede into his back as he does so, enabling him to sit comfortably. “Hearing a banshee scream is not an easy thing. Especially for someone as delicate as you.”

“I’m not delicate,” I object. At his bemused look, I continue, “I mean it, Bree. Don’t call me anything like that. I heard too much of it when I was human.”

He half-bows in his seat. “If that’s what you wish.”

“It is.” I pause. “So is Ghislane a banshee?”

He nods his head once. “It’s a rare species of under fae. Their screams probably affect you more than others because they’re supposedly portents of death from the Otherworld.”

Whatever he might’ve said next is interrupted when Jaro bursts into my garden, panting, with Drystan at his heels.

“Rose?” He ignores the path to my patio completely in favour of trampling the flowerbeds in his haste to get to me. “Is she okay?” he asks Bree.

Before Bree can say anything, Lore’s voice echoes from above us. “She’s fine, but the banshee screamed.”

I look up to find the redcap hanging by his knees from a branch of one of the taller trees in the garden. His scarlet hat has transformed into a rounded helmet with a chin strap to keep it on his head while his body is inverted.

Both Drystan and Jaro tense.

Jaro’s hand actually falls to rest on his sword. “Someone go and check on the Fomorian,” he growls. “I’m going to order a sweep of the perimeter.”

“Why? What’s going on?” I ask, but I’m ignored.

The four of them are too busy scanning my garden, as if a small army is about to spring out from the bushes at any moment.

“I’ve got the Fomorian,” Lore calls, blinking down from his tree, removing his cap and running for the edge of the garden. When he reaches it, he jumps. A scream lodges in my throat, but his hat transforms into the same wide-brimmed one from before. It catches the air, and Lore uses it like a parachute.

“Whoopeee!” he cheers, as he drops out of sight.

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