Page 137 of Beyond the Faerie Gate

Drystan

Rose descends the steps into the courtyard and instantly all of our attention falls on her.

At least she looks the part in the pale grey tunic with its frothy hem and the matching, carefully embroidered cape and leggings. The snowy fur wrap around her upper arms and her elbow-length gloves are a little formal, but at least her maids chose something warm. The thick fabrics cover most of her skin and help smother her aura slightly as well, which is a relief.

She’s beautiful, and for once I’d like to be able to appreciate that without worrying about going blind.

A glance at Lore and Jaro shows they’re both as starstruck by her as they are every time they see her. Bree is lurking in the corner, but like me, he rarely looks directly at her for long, so it’s no surprise when he drags his gaze away and turns to regard the courtyard instead.

The servants have lit candles and placed them inside hundreds of tiny carved lanterns, bathing the area in light. In cities, towns, and villages across the realm, everyone from kings to beggars will be doing the same thing.

They believe the lights help the Wild Hunt find the souls of the dead.

Another ridiculous superstition, but it’s a harmless one. I’m just grateful that the fear of being mistaken for a spirit and hauled off to join the host keeps most fae inside and out of our way for the night.

Florian bows. “You look perfect,” he says, heading over to her.

Rose doesn’t seem to notice the compliment. “Is Ghislane all right?” she asks, peering around as if hoping to see the banshee hiding behind his muscular body.

Florian smiles. “She’ll be fine. Just a little shaken, as usual.”

The subtle implication that banshee screams happen all the time seems to soothe Rose, but I frown. While it’s not an outright lie—impossible for a fae—he shouldn’t misdirect her like that.

She doesn’t know it, but the whole palace is on high alert—for good reason, given Rose’s propensity for causing chaos wherever she goes. Banshees only scream for those they have emotional ties to—which for Ghislane is practically everyone in the palace—and the elder fae hasn’t wailed since the death of Diana. So, it’s no surprise that Florian has tripled the soldiers on the walls.

It’s enough to make me feel on edge.

Once we’re summoned, it will be my responsibility to keep Rose safe. No backup.

It’s a pain to admit that I’ve come to rely on Jaro’s presence, at least.

I almost regret the Hunt’s ‘no outsiders’ rule. I doubt she’s happy to be stuck alone with me, rather than Lorcan or Jaro, but I can’t change it. Some laws are written in the very fabric of Faerie, and the Wild Hunt is one of them.

The moment the sun dips below the horizon, every fae who belongs to the Hunt will be summoned to the Sanctuary at the peak of Calimnel. No one else can enter.

Not even Cedwyn, for all that having a part of his Court closed to him pisses him off.

Ordinarily, I’d believe that meant Rose will be safe for a few hours. Yet, this Nicnevin seems determined to put herself at risk at every opportunity. Healing the Goddess-damned Fomorian. Going on dates with a redcap assassin. Getting shot. Dying.

Argh.

Florian had the nerve to ask me if a member of the host might try to harm her. Like they aren’t fae and just as reliant on Rose’s survival as the rest of her people.

Above us, the sun is turning the sky the same blood-red crimson it does every year, but the young queen is staring at it like it’s some horrific omen. Jaro tugs her close, murmuring in her ear to reassure her, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

At some point, they need to stop babying her.

Yes, she’s ludicrously sheltered and woefully under-prepared for this life, but—for all its magic and beauty—Faerie isn’t the kind of place where the innocent live long.

“We don’t have all night,” I warn, because Jaro and Lorcan look like they’re about to hustle her away to save her from the sky, of all things.

I turn my back on her, breathing a silent sigh of relief even as I try to blink away the sunspots that looking at her aura for so long has left in my vision, and tend to Blizzard.

The horse is so intertwined with my own magic that the Hunt has claimed him as well—despite him being a horse.

Movement at my back makes me stiffen, and her white-gloved hand comes to rest on his velvety muzzle as I check the tack.

“Can I speak with you?” Jaro asks me, as our Nicnevin gently coos at my warhorse like he’s a pony.

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