True evil is rarely obvious. It is quiet, patient. Insidious. Awaiting the perfect moment to strike.

Joy Malone finally knows who she is, where she comes from and how to live in two worlds at once. And now she can introduce her family and friends to her mysterious boyfriend, Indelible Ink. But when Ink’s twin sister, Invisible Inq, calls in a favor, Joy must accept a dangerous mission to find a forgotten door between worlds—a door hiding a secret that some will kill to keep.

Unseen enemies, treasonous magic and an unthinkable betrayal threaten both the Twixt and human worlds as Joy races to expose an ancient conspiracy and unleash the unalterable truth—some secrets cannot remain secret forever.

PRAISE FOR DAWN METCALF

“This exhilarating story of Ink and Joy has marked my heart forever. Dawn Metcalf, I am indelibly bound to you. More!”

—New York Times bestselling author Nancy Holder on Indelible

“[Metcalf’s] rich physical descriptions create a complex fey world that coexists uneasily with the industrialized human one. An uneven but eventually engaging story of first love, family drama and supernatural violence.”

—Kirkus Reviews on Indelible

“Dangerous, bizarre, and romantic, Indelible makes for a delicious paranormal read, and I for one can’t wait to see more of the Twixt.”

—Bookyurt on Indelible

“Fans of fae fantasy, YA paranormal and modern fantasy will adore this novel and find themselves willingly trapped within the Twixt. Read. This. Book!”

—Serena Chase, USATODAY.com’s Happy Ever After blog

on Indelible

“Romance fans will melt for this new tale of the Twixt.”

—Booklist Online on Invisible

Books by Dawn Metcalf available from Mira Ink

The Twixt series

(in reading order)

INDELIBLE

INVISIBLE

INSIDIOUS

Insidious

• THE TWIXT • BOOK THREE •

Dawn Metcalf

www.miraink.co.uk

For S.L. & A.J.

I love you more than all the words!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Booklist

Title Page

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Extract

Copyright

ONE

JOY OPENED THE door with a mix of nervousness, excitement and dread. She smiled at her boyfriend, who stood in the hall looking human.

“Ink!” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. He smelled like spring rain. “Just act normal,” she whispered by his ear.

Ink blinked in confusion. His glamour made his all-black eyes look brown.

“I am not normal,” he said.

Joy hooked his arm and squeezed. “Aaaaaand that’s what I love about you.” She steered him into the condo. “Ink’s here!”

“We can see that,” Stef said, coming up behind her. “We have eyes. Two of them, in fact. Both in working condition.” He gave a toothy grin. “Imagine that.”

Joy frowned. Her brother didn’t mention that Ink had stabbed her in the eye six months ago when he’d discovered that she had the Sight—the ability to see the Folk like him in the Twixt—but he didn’t have to; it hung in the air like an unspoken threat. The kitchen light flashed off of her brother’s glyph-scribbled glasses.

“Stef—” Joy warned.

He pointed to himself. “Older brother,” he said. “It’s part of the job. With great power comes great scrutiny.”

“Stef.” Their father’s voice came from across the kitchen. “Are you harassing our guest?”

Joy said, “Yes!” just as Stef said “No!”

Mr. Malone shook his head. His girlfriend, Shelley, chuckled while untying her apron. “Let’s all sit down,” she said soothingly. “Dinner’s ready.”

Stef stepped aside. Joy marched Ink in.

We can do this, she thought. No problem. It’s not war, it’s not life-and-death—it’s just dinner with my family. And my boyfriend. My inhuman, immortal, usually invisible boyfriend. She patted Ink’s arm. Okay, remember: one conniption fit at a time.

“Have a seat.” Joy’s father waved at the table. “Glad you could make it, Mark.” Mr. Malone refused to call Ink by his nickname, which was funny since “Mark Carver” was his human alias—everyone in the Twixt called him “Indelible Ink.” His True Name was written as an unpronounceable symbol, a signatura. Names were powerful things in the Twixt, and the Folk had learned to take precautions against human entrapment.

“I’m glad to be here,” Ink said, careful to use contractions. Joy had coached him that he sounded more human that way. Joy guided Ink to the chair next to hers. It was the one she’d been sitting in when he’d first traced her ear, exploring the tiniest details of what it meant to be human...and accidentally learning what it felt like to fall in love.

She saw him remember. Two dimples appeared, and Joy felt her cheeks warm as she smiled.

Stef sat down and began heaping chicken and green beans onto his plate. Joy grabbed the platter out of his hands.

“Guests first,” Joy said through clenched teeth.

“That’s right, Stef,” Mr. Malone said as he offered Ink a large bowl of roasted red potatoes. “You know the rules.”

Picking up the salad, Stef scooped out big chunks of feta and black olives. “Whatever happened to ‘you snooze, you lose’?”

“Some rules are meant to be broken,” Mr. Malone said. “Like free Wi-Fi privileges while you’re home if you don’t start acting more civil. Got it?”

Stef stared at his plate and nodded. “Got it.”

Mr. Malone sighed. “Sorry, Mark,” her dad said, reaching for the salad. “The unofficial family motto is what got this family through puberty. These two grew up eating everything in sight.”

Shelley leaned forward with a stage whisper. “My advice? Watch your fingers.”

Ink clutched the bowl closer, eying Joy and Stef warily.

Joy swallowed. “Ha-ha,” she said. “Just a joke. Very funny.” Given the variety of monsters who lived in the Twixt, Joy could well imagine that some of them ate fingers. She served a portion of chicken to Ink and kept the platter moving. Ink slowly relaxed, loosening his grip on the potatoes. She nudged his knee and rolled her eyes toward her dad.

“Joy has been talking about the big trip this weekend,” Ink said, reciting his opening line like a pro. “How long will you be gone?”

Mr. Malone grinned. “Three days,” he said and clapped a hand on Stef’s shoulder. “One last camping weekend before this one goes back to college.”

Stef didn’t respond as he chewed, but Joy suspected it was less about his bottomless appetite and more about avoiding talking directly to Ink.

“Will you be visiting Stef on campus?” Shelley asked Joy.

Joy exchanged a look with her brother. Both frowned. “No. Why?”

“Oh, well, I didn’t know if U Penn was on your list,” Shelley said as she stacked three cucumber slices on her fork. “I asked your father, and he said he didn’t know your plans.”

“Plans?” Joy said.

“It’s your senior year,” Mr. Malone said. “I know we sent off a bunch of college applications, but I haven’t heard anything since.”

Joy was speechless. College applications had been the last thing on her mind. After Mom had left, she had quit gymnastics and joined Dad’s swan dive into a sea of depression, axing her dreams of becoming an Olympian, which was all she’d ever wanted since age six. She’d become a numb, moping black hole. Shaking it off had been largely thanks to her best friend, Monica, a night dancing at their favorite club and unexpectedly getting stabbed in the eye. A lot had happened since January. She’d forgotten all about college.

“Um...”

“I know it’s been a tough year,” her dad said. “And I didn’t want to push, but you really need to start thinking about what you want to do next fall.” He saw her squirm in her seat and gave a slight nod, acknowledging Ink. “We can talk about it more during the trip.”

Joy untwisted her fingers from the edge of her shirt. “Yeah. Okay.”

“And what do you do, Mark?” Shelley asked Ink. Joy had told her father that Ink was a kind of exclusive tattoo artist...it had not gone over well.

“I mark people,” Ink said.

Joy almost snarfed her lemon water. She grabbed her napkin, and Ink looked mischievously pleased as he continued, “I like to say I get paid to draw on people’s skin.” Joy marveled at the single dimple tucked into his half smile like a smirk. “It’s not exactly glamorous,” he said. “But I never want for work.”

Joy pressed her napkin to her mouth, trying not to laugh. He’d told the truth! “Not exactly glamorous”—but it had more than paid for his glamour! The wizard’s spell had been insanely expensive, but it was the only way her friends and family could see Ink without the Sight. He wore the magical projection like a suit, a perfect picture of himself, but with human-looking eyes and a tattoo of Joy’s signatura on his left arm.

“But that’s not a long-term thing, right?” Stef said, looking smug. “What do you want to do when you grow up?”

Joy picked up the serving spoon, debating its heft.

Shelley paused over the dressing. “I thought only the chicken was getting grilled tonight,” she said and winked at Joy. Joy sent her a smile of thanks. At least Shelley had her back.

“You’re just lucky I didn’t invite Monica,” Dad said. “She would’ve brought the thumbscrews.”

Ink glanced at Joy. “Thumbscrews?”

“He’s kidding,” Joy said, patting Ink’s hand. “Seriously. Kidding.”

Ink’s eyebrows twitched under his long, black bangs. “‘Seriously kidding’?”

Stef and Dad exchanged glances. Joy’s heart beat double-time and she waved at Ink to forget about it. She’d try to explain later. If they made it through this dinner alive.

“So, Ink, where do you live?” Stef said with a wicked, knowing grin.

Joy drained her drink and slammed down her cup. “Anyone need more water?”

“You sit. I’ll get it.” Her father got up, snagged the empty pitcher and went to the fridge, filling the room with gurgles and the crack of the ice maker.

Shelley looked at the glares across the table and sighed. “I’ll cut some more lemons,” she said and joined Mr. Malone where they could talk quietly by the sink.

“Have some more ice water,” Joy whispered to her brother. “Then take the hint and chill out!”

“I’m testing a theory,” Stef whispered back, pointing a fork at Ink. “I thought that his kind couldn’t lie.”

Ink looked up, surprised. “I cannot lie.”

“Oh, really, Mark Carver?”

Joy hissed, “Stef!”

“Ah,” Ink said, cutting his roll neatly in half. “I see your mistake. That name is not a lie—more like a time-honored tradition.” His voice skimmed low over the table, crisp and clear. “I did not change my name, I simply named my glamour ‘Mark Carver.’”

He grinned and took a bite. Butter wet his lips.

Joy beamed in relief, and Stef laughed despite himself. “Clever,” he said.

Mr. Malone thunked the water pitcher on to the table, cutting off their conversation. He and Shelley sat down.

“Now, where were we?” he asked, setting his napkin on his lap.

“Grilling,” Ink said.

Stef snorted.

Joy lunged for the earthenware bowl. “More potatoes?”

Ink spooned out three roasted potatoes and watched them wobble across his plate. He poked at one with his fork, painting a long trail of rosemary and oil. Catching a piece of herb on a tine, he examined it curiously, turning the fork over and over, watching the bit of leaf glisten under the lights. His face was a mask of pure fascination. Joy put a hand on his leg. Startled, he looked up with a smile.

“This looks delicious,” Ink said.

“It is,” Mr. Malone said. “It’s Shelley’s recipe. She’s a great cook.”

“Oh, stop,” Shelley said and patted her red hair into place. “It’s an old family recipe. The secret is to crush fresh herbs and garlic and store it in the olive oil overnight.”

Ink put the potato in his mouth, chewed carefully and swallowed.

“I have never tasted better,” he said. Joy grinned. Besides being polite, Ink was telling the truth: he had only recently begun to taste things because he’d only recently begun to eat. It was fun watching him talk circles around the others, hiding the whole truth behind words that were one hundred percent true.

Joy’s phone rang. She glanced at her purse in the hall.

“Don’t you dare,” her father said without looking up from his plate. “Whoever it is can wait.”

No phones at the dinner table was a new household rule. Dad was trying to reinstate the sacredness of family dinners before everyone split up again. Joy didn’t recognize the ringtone so it wasn’t Monica or Kurt or Graus Claude or Luiz. It might be one of the other Cabana Boys, which made her feel nervous and guilty. Ink’s sister, Invisible Inq, had a tribe of mortal lovers who supported one another through thick and thin, like an extended family of hot male models that stretched across the globe. Even if Joy technically wasn’t Ink’s lehman anymore, she was still considered one of them—a mortal who loved one of the Folk—and a call from one of the boys meant something important. Joy sat on her hands as the call flipped over to voice mail.

“Thank you,” Dad said. “Now can you please pass the—”

Joy’s text messaging pinged. And again. And again. Dad sighed. Stef rolled his eyes. Ink looked up, curious. Joy took a shy bite of green beans. Shelley passed Dad the pepper.

“Where will you be camping?” Ink asked as he sliced a potato in half. Joy was glad that he could handle subject changes as easily as a fork and knife.

“Lake James,” her father answered and took a drink of water. Ink took a drink at the same time, mimicking her father’s movements, watching him with the same intensity he used while watching Joy. Ink was still learning the subtleties of how to act human. His efforts made her smile. Stef glared at his green beans as he chewed.

“It’s a great place,” Dad said. “We used to do a lot of family camping trips—” he swerved to avoid the words before Mom left and continued smoothly “—when the kids were little.” The subject of Mom didn’t hurt like it once had—they’d all grown used to the weekly calls and video chats. Time healed things without meaning to, whether you wanted it to or not. “How about you?” he asked Ink. “What does your family do on vacations?”

Ink put his fork down, and Joy twisted her napkin over her thumb. This was what they’d been rehearsing ever since Dad suggested that Joy invite Ink over for dinner. Her nervousness reminded her of how Monica had felt about her boyfriend, Gordon, meeting her parents, but Ink wasn’t a different race, he was a different reality. As a member of the Twixt, Ink, like Joy, could not lie...but the Folk could be rather creative with the truth.

“I never knew my parents,” Ink said and smiled to take the sting out of his words. “But I have a twin sister, and she’s all the family I can handle.”

Joy laughed. Stef didn’t. Mr. Malone looked apologetic.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

Ink shrugged and made looping swirls in the ketchup. “It’s all right,” he said. “She and I are very close. We’ve traveled a lot, met lots of interesting people, seen many amazing things together—over the years, we have created our own family.”

“That’s good,” her father said, nodding. “Family’s important.”

Mr. Malone glanced over at his son and smiled. It was only recently that Stef had come out as gay, and Joy had forgiven their mother for the divorce. The past two years hadn’t been easy for anyone, but they’d made it through as a family—albeit a different one from the original. A lot had changed, but they still loved each other, and that was something.

Shelley turned in her chair, sniffing.

“Did we leave the stove on?” she asked. “I smell something burning.” She got up and walked over to the oven.

Joy could smell it, too—a whiff of smoke like a burnt matchstick. She recognized the odor: vellum and ash. Filly. It must have come from the pouch the young Valkyrie used to send Joy messages. Now Joy knew something was wrong. Ink did, too; his body tightened, tense and alert. Joy put down her fork, trying to think up some excuse to grab her purse and go check.

That was when she saw the face in the window.

She almost screamed but bit her lips together. It was a tiny face, different from the monstrous Kodama that had scared her that first time. The small, winged creature pressed its bulbous nose against the glass, hair and beard a wild halo of tangles. It waved to get their attention. Joy couldn’t move, but she couldn’t look away. Ink casually traced the silver chain at his hip to the wallet in his back pocket where he kept his blades. Joy held her breath as Shelley walked right past the creature on her way back to the table. It watched her pass, its wild eyes bulging with curiosity. Stef’s face was carefully neutral, his fingers white-knuckled on his knife. Joy wasn’t sure what any of them could do with Dad and Shelley present.

The creature pointed emphatically at them.

Under the table, Ink pointed to himself and raised his eyebrows like a question.

The tiny creature shook its head and pointed again, tapping the glass.

Shelley glanced at the window. “Do you hear pecking?”

“It’s the birds,” Mr. Malone said without turning around. “There’s one of them trying to build a nest in the window box. I keep meaning to install a mesh lid.”

Joy lifted her napkin to hide her hand and pointed at herself. The little creature nodded, wagging its tail. Joy dabbed her lips. Great. Now what?

The winged Folk hooked its tiny toes into the sill, licked one of its long fingers and drew a word reversed on the glass. Its saliva was brown and sticky-looking, the letters gooey and smeared.

It made a big show of licking its finger again, a dribble of drool stuck to the hairs on its chin.

Joy felt light-headed. This was how it had all started: strange messages left on her window and phone for a mysterious someone called “Ink.” She glanced at him across the table. He kept his eyes down and nodded as if in thought. It was enough confirmation for the little creature, who flipped backward, wings unfolding, and hovered in the air. Stef rolled up his sleeve, and Joy wondered if he was going to draw wizards’ symbols on his forearms with the butter knife. She shook her head. Her brother glared at her and picked up his unused spoon.

“You need to wash it off,” Stef said, shoving it at her, pointedly not looking at the window. Joy swallowed. He was right—even if Dad and Shelley didn’t have the Sight, there was a chance they’d see the words written on the glass in ooze.

“Stef—” Mr. Malone said tiredly.

“No, he’s right,” Joy said, grabbing the spoon and standing up. “It was my turn to do the dishes. My bad.” She hurried over to the sink, blocking the view of the kitchen window with her body. She turned on the water and scrubbed the spoon, mouthing to the creature, Wash it off! She made a scrubbing motion with the sponge and lifted the water nozzle. The little face scrunched up in confusion. Joy pointed at the letters. Wash. It. Off, she overemphasized with her lips.

The creature suddenly smiled and nodded, its big eyes glinting merrily through its bristly mane.

Joy gave it a wave of thanks and returned to her seat, handing back the spoon to her brother. “There,” she said. “Better?”

There was a drizzling, trickling sound like rain against the window. Joy peeked over her shoulder. The incriminating words dribbled down the glass as the little creature flew around, peeing on them. Stef changed his snort into a cough, and Joy pushed her plate aside, having suddenly lost her appetite.

Ink looked at Joy’s father. “More potatoes?”

Mr. Malone shook his head and patted his stomach. “Portion control,” he said. “Don’t tempt me.”

Shelley shook her head. Stef did, too. “Pass.”

Ink lowered the bowl slowly. He touched his chest, rubbing the dip at his breastbone, the space above his heart where he now felt things like love and pain and fear. He looked disoriented, confused.

Joy touched his arm, “You okay?”

Ink didn’t say anything. He turned around in his chair and stared at the door.

Someone knocked.

Joy went cold.

“That’s odd,” Mr. Malone said, standing up. “Who could that be?”

Joy couldn’t decide whether to stop him or not, wondering if he’d even see anything should he look through the peephole. Stef and Joy exchanged glances. Joy reached for Ink’s hand. Stef picked up a steak knife and the salt.

Mr. Malone opened the door...and there was Invisible Inq.

The resemblance between the two Scribes was unmistakable. Even wearing their glamours, they both had the same spiky black hair, the same long, lean bodies and the same youthful faces with liquid eyes that wobbled when wet. Mr. Malone didn’t need to ask who she was, but it was eerie having her stand there so still.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and Joy was startled to hear that she really sounded sorry—no snark, no sly wit, no smoky insincerity. Inq glanced at the table. “Sorry to interrupt. I see you’re having dinner. With my brother—” she looked at Ink, eyes pleading “—I need to talk to him. And Joy.”

“It must be a twin thing,” Shelley whispered.

“Come in,” said Mr. Malone. “Would you like to sit down?”

Ink stood up. “What is it?” he said, but everyone heard What’s wrong?

A smile warred with a frown on Inq’s face as if she couldn’t quite decide which was which. Her eyes swam, pools of fathomless black.

“It’s Enrique,” she said.

And Joy knew even before Inq could say the words.

TWO

WANDERING THROUGH THE funeral parlor, Joy examined the photos on display—Enrique sailing ships, climbing mountains, posing with friends laughing, clinking glasses at a bar, windsurfing at Cape Hatteras, showing off an octopus in both hands, hiking somewhere in the rain forests, riding a camel through the desert, snorkeling in the Great Barrier Reef and haloed against a gorgeous sunrise at the top of Machu Picchu—Enrique’s life had been one amazing adventure after the next. It was hard to believe that he was dead.

People milled about in black dresses and crisp suits, talking in low voices and hugging one another in tissue-soft arms. Joy could hear the whispers between them, words like aneurysm, what a shame and really knew how to live. Joy inhaled the sweet scent of lilies. The flowers crowded the reception tables and flanked the heavy-looking urn. Inq welcomed guests, looking glamorous in a little black dress and a choker of pearls. She smiled and nodded and thanked them all for coming. Luiz had saved Joy a seat with the rest of the Cabana Boys, who looked unusually somber in the front row. Joy remembered that Enrique had said that he had no family, so she figured that these were his friends, his business colleagues and a few dozen invisible people.

Joy sat down gingerly, self-conscious about joining the row of beautiful men who had known Enrique best, but she didn’t know anyone else here. The murmurings and gentle noises slid around her, not touching, not comforting, barely real. Unlike Inq, she didn’t know what to say, and the silence felt as black as her dress. Beside her, Ilhami took her hand and squeezed. She squeezed back. With all that was unsaid between them, they understood each other perfectly.

“Sorry, Cabana Girl,” he whispered. “No booby doll today.”

He’d surprised a smile out of her. “That’s okay.”

He shrugged, looking uncomfortable in his expensive suit. “Where’s Ink?”

“In some hospital in Darfur,” Joy said. “He said he’d be here soon.”

Ilhami tugged his cuffs over his tattoos. “Better save him a seat.”

She placed her purse on the empty seat to her right and tried to remember the sound of Enrique’s voice, the way his eyes twinkled when he was being clever, or her first impression of him—a South American James Bond. She tried to hold on to the things that he’d told her, that family was important and that they were both very lucky and how sorry he was for bringing her deeper into their world of danger and politics. He’d tucked her into a coat and kissed her forehead and given her coffee before he’d sent her into a drug lord’s den on the edge of the Twixt in order to rescue Ilhami. Later he’d driven the getaway car at high speeds and ensured she’d made it back home in one piece. A tightness welled in her throat, and Tuan offered her a box of tissues. She took one and twisted it around her fingertip.

She didn’t remember calling in to work. She didn’t remember what excuses she’d given. She had told her father that she was going to the funeral of her boyfriend’s sister’s boyfriend, which was close enough to the truth that it hadn’t hurt to say it except for the usual hurt of having to say such things aloud.

That morning, Nikolai had picked her up in Enrique’s customized Ferrari and handed her a cup of coffee as they’d driven together in silence. His full lips had pinched as he’d hit the hidden switch, slipping them instantly through time and space to arrive just south of the funeral home.

Joy glanced out the window. She had no idea where they were—probably New York City, which was where Enrique had worked when he was in the States. It was green and leafy outside, unfamiliar, with an open, airy sky that didn’t feel like New York, but they could be anywhere. It didn’t really matter. Enrique, the eldest Cabana Boy, was gone, leaving behind friends and tears and photos and ashes. Joy stroked the inside of her palm, tracing the damp lifeline.

This was where all adventures ended. This was what it meant to be mortal.

Even with Folk blood in her veins and her own signatura, Joy Malone was not immortal.

The service washed over her in a buzz of condolences, Bible quotes and expensive cologne. Words wafted through her ears, unremarkable and unimportant. Joy fixed her gaze on the dark metal container in the center of the dais. She had a hard time reconciling how anything so small could possibly contain Enrique, who had lived so large. It was too small, too ordinary, too quiet to be him. Without seeing a body, Joy found it hard to believe that he was dead.

He could be faking it—staging his own death. Living under the radar, off the grid, leaving his old life behind in order to live in the Twixt. Maybe Inq helps him do it. Maybe he’s older than he looked and has to make a new life somewhere every sixty years to throw people off the scent. There are movies like that, right? It makes sense. It could happen. It could be a bluff...

But she knew, in her heart, it wasn’t.

It had taken Inq several tries to convince Joy that her lehman’s death had been due to natural causes, a sudden burst in the brain, and not some kind of mistake, and even more convincing to assure her that he hadn’t been a victim of Ladybird or Briarhook, Sol Leander or any one of their other enemies in the Twixt. Enrique’s death hadn’t been murder or revenge—it had just been time.

“He was mortal,” Inq had said. “Mortals die.”

It had happened. It was real. And there was nothing Joy could do. Humans were mortal. There were some things not even her magical scalpel could erase.

Sometimes there are no mistakes.

Joy shuddered and pulled her shrug closer.

She didn’t have a lot of experience with death, having been six or seven when her last grandparent died. She didn’t know how her Folk blood might affect how long she’d live and what would happen to her afterward. She knew what she was supposed to believe, but her brief stint in Sunday School had never prepared her for being part-Twixt. Did Folk go to Heaven? Did their half-human descendants, those with the Sight? Or did they go somewhere else? Where was Great-Grandmother Caroline now? Had she died young, for one of the Folk, or had she been old for a human? Joy glanced at Inq, dry-eyed and poised, knowing few could see the pale glyphs flying over her skin in silent fury.

A dark, long-haired woman offered Inq a tissue, which she politely refused. Joy stared at the Scribe. Would Ink be this calm when Joy was the one in a box?

The scent of lilies became cloying, and Joy pressed the tissue to her face.

When her eyes cleared, Ink was beside her.

She didn’t know when he had arrived, whether he’d walked through the door or if he had appeared out of thin air, but she quickly took his hand in hers, twining their fingers together. He’s here. We’re both alive. We’re together. I love you.

Ink was handsome in his black suit; only the silver wallet chain hanging by his leg looked slightly out of place. She leaned closer, breathing in the fresh rain scent of him. He sat comfortably, open-faced, listening to the speeches, taking cues from her and those around him, immersing himself in what it meant to be mortal, to experience loss, to be part of her world, even as his sister walked up to the podium to say a few words.

She ignored the microphone and stood straight in her heels. “Thank you for coming,” she said in her crisp, clear voice. She didn’t need an amplifier—even her whispers sliced through sound. “I loved Enrique, as did all of you.” She tipped her head to the side. “Well, maybe I loved him a little bit more.” There were some appreciative chuckles, Joy’s among them. Ink ran his thumb gently over her wrist. “And while I loved his beautiful body—” a few eyebrows rose, Joy’s included “—I mostly loved his soul—his funny, warm, incredibly generous, fiercely competitive, adventurous, wondrous soul.” As she smiled, her black eyes grew bigger, shining with bright flashes of hot pink and green. Joy wondered what those without the Sight could see in them. “And I will miss him, as do all of you.” Inq lowered her chin, taking a moment to breathe. “But I might miss him a little bit more.” Her smile was wreathed in sadness; her voice wilted as she gestured toward the urn. “This was just his body. His soul will live on—that funny, warm, incredibly generous, fiercely competitive, adventurous, wondrous soul. We all knew him once, and therefore, when we live life to its fullest, strip it naked and pour it to the brim, rich and overflowing, then he will live on in each of us, until we meet again.”

The priest stumbled on the “Amen,” but Inq was already leaving the podium.

Antony and the long-haired woman helped escort her to her seat as the priest gave instructions about where the reception would be held. The other guests rose and gathered their things. More kisses. More talking. More handshakes and hugs. Joy was surprised to see that many of the Cabana Boys had brought someone with them, often female, but then again, she knew that Inq wasn’t big into monogamy. There was lots of comforting. Joy squeezed Ink’s hand again, and he pressed a gentle kiss to her temple.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“No,” Joy said and dabbed her eyes. “But I will be.” Ilhami offered her a last tissue. She took it. “Thanks.”

Ilhami nodded, eyes red-rimmed, and Joy wondered if he was crying or high. He sniffed and straightened his lapels.

“I’ll see you at the funeral,” he said.

Joy frowned. Definitely high. She tried not to be angry with the young Turkish artist. Enrique had loved his brother lehman, despite his habits, but Joy still hadn’t forgiven him for the terrifying trip to Ladybird’s. “We’re at the funeral,” she said quietly.

Ilhami sniffed again with a little laugh. “This? For Enrique? I don’t think so.” He nodded politely to Ink and tapped Joy’s shoulder. “See you there.”

He walked down the row only to be grabbed by Nikolai, who hugged him so fiercely, he nearly lifted the smaller man off the floor. They pounded on each other’s backs as Ink helped Joy to stand.

“Thirty-seven,” Ink said.

“What?” Joy looked up.

“Types of hugs,” he explained as the Cabana Boys embraced. “I have been counting subtle differences as separate variations.” He tilted his head to one side. “Why do they hit each other?”

“I don’t know,” Joy said, wiping her eyes. “But don’t try that one with me.”

“How about this one?” Ink gathered her around the shoulders. Her arms circled his body, and she leaned against him, warm and solid. She took several deep breaths of him and calm, life-giving air. She was alive. Ink was alive. He was here, holding her.

She rocked in his arms for a long moment before whispering, “Which one is this?”

“Number sixteen,” he said. Joy smiled.

“It’s perfect.”

He breathed into her hair. “I am learning,” he said, drawing her closer, sounding sad and lost. “But I wish I did not have to learn this lesson so soon.”

Joy said nothing as they slowly broke apart, and she picked up her purse. “Come on,” she said and made her way toward Inq, who was accepting a hug from an older couple, the last stragglers in the room. As they left, Joy stepped forward and gave Inq a hug, too.

“I’m sorry,” she said, because that was what people said at funerals.

Inq nodded. “I’m sorry, too.” Her smile seemed to wobble as she tucked a stray bit of brown hair behind Joy’s ear. “Stupid fragile humans.” She laughed a little and slid her fingers along her string of pearls. Her gaze switched to Ink. He gave his sister a kiss on the cheek, and they rested their foreheads together for a long, quiet moment. Inq blinked and raised her head.

“Thank you,” she said, although Ink hadn’t said anything at all.

“Ink?”

The long-haired woman crossed the room and took Ink into her arms like an old friend. He hugged her politely, not at all like he’d held Joy. He was learning, but his hand lingered on the small of the woman’s back. Joy figured they still had to work on exits.

“Joy, this is Raina,” he said. “Raina, I would like you to meet Joy.”

Raina was stunning—all long limbs and shining black hair and deeply tanned skin. Her smile was winning, radiant, haloed in shimmering gold lipstick.

Joy smiled timidly and held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Raina ignored the hand and hugged her, comfortably and sincerely. Her copious hair smelled warm and tropical, as if she’d just flown in from someplace exotic. It parted over her shoulder in a long, glossy sheet, like in a Pantene commercial.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Joy,” she said, pulling back, yet still holding both of Joy’s hands. “I am only sorry that it is under such sad circumstances.”

Joy’s brain struggled to remember where she’d heard the woman’s name before while politely trying to extricate her fingers from the strong, lingering touch. Raina seemed to sense her discomfort and let go as she reached out to stroke Inq’s shoulder. Raina stood very close, as if oblivious to personal boundaries.

“Enrique was the finest among us,” Raina said. “A true treasure.”

Joy felt a frown, but didn’t let it show. Us? Joy could see that Raina was human, her Sight able to pierce things like glamours and the veil. Was Raina being figurative? Or was she like Mr. Vinh, someone with a foot in both worlds? Joy glanced between Ink and Inq, trying to guess. How much does this woman know?

Inq smiled and smoothed a hand over Raina’s hair. “He was a handsome boy with the shiniest toys and was a lion in bed, and I will miss him greatly.” Raina gave Inq’s hand a squeeze, eyes full of sympathy.

“I’ll see you after the reception,” Raina said, and she slipped her arm smoothly into the crook of Ink’s elbow. Joy stared at it. Then stared at them. They made a striking couple. “Mind walking me to my car?” she asked, steering him down the aisle. Raina smiled warmly over her shoulder. “It was nice meeting you, Joy.”

And together, she and Ink walked out of the room.

Joy stared numbly—dumbly—after them.

What just happened?

“I need to talk to you,” Inq said, taking Joy’s hand and tugging her closer to the urn. The smell of lilies was overwhelming. Joy’s brain was trying to keep up.

“But...” Joy tried to catch a glimpse of where Ink had gone—with Raina—outside, rewinding time in her mind, sifting through facts like Ink, Enrique, death, numbered hugs, black hair, white lilies and hooked elbows. She struggled to find the puzzle piece that made everything fit, the missing key to making this moment make sense. It wasn’t working.

Joy sneezed.

“Hello? Earth to Joy?”

Grabbing another tissue, she turned to Inq. “What is it?”

Inq lowered her voice. “I want you to kill someone.”

THREE

IT TOOK A moment for the words to sink in. Joy ran through them a second time just to make sure she’d heard Inq correctly.

“Um, I don’t think you can talk about killing someone at a funeral,” Joy said, checking discreetly for witnesses. “I’m pretty sure there’s some rule against it.”

Inq sighed. “Look, this sad, sorry ritual has reminded me that we haven’t got much time together,” she said. “I’d forgotten how short human lives can be, and if I’m going to use your help, then we’ve got to act fast.”

Joy gently but firmly removed her arm from Inq’s grip. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Inq grinned slyly. “Yes, well, you do and you don’t. That’s why you’re perfect for the job.” She plucked a flower from the arrangement and twirled it slowly in her hands. “I know what you can do, and you know I know what you can do—so don’t disappoint me by being difficult.” She handed the lily to Joy, its stiff petals curled over her palm. “Even without your armor, you’re still a wildflower with bite.”

“Yeah, but I don’t...” Joy’s mouth turned dry, her tongue fat and swollen, the next words solidified, lodged in her throat. She couldn’t say I don’t kill people! because that wasn’t true, and Joy, being part-Folk, could not tell a lie. The fact was, she had done more than kill someone—she had erased one of the Folk completely out of existence. And Inq had seen her do it. It was a secret Inq had agreed to keep “just between us girls.”

“I’ll explain later,” Inq said at normal volume. “Still so much to do! And so little time—isn’t that the theme of the day?” She scooped up the urn in both hands. “See you at the funeral!” she cooed as she skipped down the stairs.

“You mean the reception,” Joy said dully.

Inq waved a hand dismissively over her head. “Oh, don’t be silly,” she said as she strolled down the center aisle. She patted Ink’s arm as she passed through the doors. “See you both later!” She snagged a thin wrap from the coatroom and strutted to the waiting limousine parked out front.

Ink approached, fingers absently sliding along his wallet chain.

“Joy?” he said. “What happened?”

She looked at him blankly. She couldn’t say, exactly, what had happened. Had she just been blackmailed into being Inq’s assassin? Joy couldn’t figure out how to tell him what Inq had said because it didn’t make sense, but she couldn’t lie. She hadn’t told him what had really happened to the Red Knight, and she couldn’t bring herself to ask him who Raina was or why he’d gone with her or what Ilhami was talking about or what Inq was up to this time—it all felt strangely surreal, like an illusion. She shook her head. Only Aniseed could be so cruel.

Joy remembered being trapped in an illusion of her kitchen by the ancient dryad as bait for Ink. Aniseed’s hatred for humans had fueled her plans for worldwide genocide and an imagined “Golden Age.” Joy had been the one to stop her, erasing Aniseed’s signatura and the poison within it. She shuddered at the memory of the eight-petaled star of eyes on her skin. Joy was glad that Aniseed was dead.

She leaned over and put her arms around Ink.

“Can I have another number sixteen, please?”

He slipped his arms around her and they stood together, Ink rocking Joy gently against his chest. She blinked a few times as her breath fluttered. She felt as if she were running in circles while standing still.

“Are you ready to leave?” he asked.

“Yes,” she mumbled gratefully into his shirt.

He stroked his fingers through her hair and whispered, “Come with me.”

Taking her hand, he led her into the tiny coatroom and shut the door behind them. Joy’s eyebrows shot up.

“This is hardly appropriate,” she said, wondering if funerals brought out the weirdness in Scribes. Maybe immortals didn’t do well when faced with death? Both he and Inq were acting very strange.

Ink smirked as he twirled his straight razor in one hand, looking much as he had when he’d first tossed a jug of milk into the air, slipped thousands of miles away, then stepped through the breach to catch it a mere moment later. It was a mischievous, slightly naughty little-boy grin.

“Follow me,” he said. Slashing a quick line, he peeled away the edge of the world halfway through a set of empty hangers and the floor. A wild darkness shot with colored light pulsed beyond the rift.

Joy hesitated. “I thought we were going to the reception.”

“That is for humans,” he said mysteriously. “Not for us.”

Joy didn’t know what to say to that, so she took his hand, warm and smooth, and stepped through the void, stumbling into the sudden dark. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. She stepped onto the lip of rough stone and looked all the way down.

Then Joy understood.

Below the rocky ledge was a cavern full of bonfires. Shadows of wild, frenetic dancers moved to tribal music throbbing with heavy percussion and rattles and horns. Folk were laughing, drinking, spinning, eating, dancing. They gathered in groups of threes and fives tucked into natural nooks and along the edges of the crowd. Knotted roots covered the sloping walls like tapestries in reverse, the veins of different minerals shimmering in the light of many fires; pinks and grays and greens and blues with flecks of mica winking in the bedrock like stars. Things resembling balloon-animal, crystal chandeliers hung suspended in the air, made up of individual twists and tubes of glowing glass. There were whispers of melodies and rhythms that seemed familiar mixed with earthy, primal songs and high-pitched undulating cries. There was no smoke, but the smell of roasting meat, rich and bubbling and basted in wine, filled the subterranean fête. There were tables of food absolutely everywhere, and the noise fizzed like champagne bubbles, effervescent and overflowing.

Joy looked down at the carnival in the stone basin. “Where are we?”

“Under the Hill near the Wild,” Ink said. “That is where Enrique said he wanted his ashes buried.”

“As well as the North Pole, Sri Lanka, Maui, Budapest, Mount Everest, Taiwan, Rio, Portugal and the dark side of the moon,” Inq said, sidling up to the pair in distinctly less than her funeral attire—in fact, it didn’t look like she was wearing much more than body paint. “I’ve just gotten back from honoring his wishes, with a short delay on that last one because there isn’t another space flight scheduled at present, but I’ve got time.” She looked over the two of them, frowning with a pout of her lower lip. She smelled of wine and dusty roses. “Why haven’t you changed?”

“We just got here,” Ink explained.

“No excuses!” Inq said and yanked off Ink’s coat. “This is Enrique’s celebration, so start celebrating!” She threw the suit jacket away. It hit the wall. “Less clothes, more music! Honor the spirit! Enrique loved to dance!” She spun and ran down the incline, jumping off the jagged ledge. Joy’s heart lodged in her throat as she watched Inq fall, but the hands of many strangers rose up to meet her; a hearty cheer of triumph erupted as they caught her body in its trust-fall landing. Together, they lowered her to the ground. Inq broke away, laughing, and ran to join a circle of dancers stomping and clapping and throwing handfuls of powder into the air. When the dust hit the bonfires, the flames changed color and spat out twirling, whistling sparks.

Ink stepped closer. Joy felt him on her skin.

“Is she okay?” Joy asked.

“Do not worry about Inq,” Ink said, undoing the top buttons of his shirt. “Everyone grieves differently.”

“Uh, yeah.” Joy gaped at the spectacle. “This is...?”

“Enrique’s funeral,” Ink said. “The way the Folk celebrate it.”

Joy shook her head in wonder. “Wow. It’s...”

“Bacchanalian?” Ink said.

“No. It’s beautiful,” Joy said. There wasn’t a sad face in the crowd. It was bold and boisterous, lively and wild—just like Enrique. “It’s perfect.”

“The Folk do not ritualize death as humans do,” he said, leading her down the incline at a much safer stroll. Joy removed her heels, and Ink carried her shoes. “Being immortal means that death is possible but not inevitable. So we celebrate a life well lived. Enrique certainly did.” Ink gestured to the revel. “Now those who knew him gather together to honor that and remember. We grieve the body, but honor the spirit.”

Joy smiled. It felt a lot better than tears. “So, what do we do now?”

Ink lifted two glasses from a table and handed one to her. “We eat, we drink, we dance, we talk, we tell stories, we reminisce.” He stepped toward her and looked up at the swirls of crystal colors and light. The spots of brilliance reflected bright sparkles in his eyes. “We remember.” He smiled at her. “We celebrate life.”

“To Enrique!” someone shouted from deep in the hall.

“To Enrique!” the gathered crowds screamed as many whooped and drank.

“To Enrique!” Inq shouted giddily. “And the Imminent Return!”

“To the Imminent Return!”

Joy lifted her glass along with the rest. “What’s the Imminent Return?” she asked.

“It is an old toast,” Ink said. “To friends long forgotten but still in our hearts.”

Joy clinked her glass against Ink’s. The liquid inside swirled. She paused.

“Can I drink this?” she asked.

Ink considered the wine. “Why not?”

She twirled the stem, watching the liquid hug the sides of the glass. “I’ve read stories where if a human eats or drinks something from Fairyland, then they can never go back.” The deep purple liquid smelled of cherries, oak and fire. “Or maybe it was the underworld? Something with pomegranates? I forget.”

Ink cocked his head. “This isn’t Faeland,” he said. “And you are not human.”

“Good point,” Joy said and sipped her drink. It barely had a taste, more like a vapor of old forests and honey that filled her head and slid down her spine. She hadn’t realized she’d swallowed, it was so smooth. It burned, slow and sensuous, inside her. Joy put the glass down carefully. “Aaaaaand that’s enough for me.”

Ink placed his glass next to hers and curled his arms around her middle, his chest pressed against her back, his chin resting on her shoulder.

“What would you like to do?” he asked. “Dance? Sing? Sculpt?”

“Sculpt?” Joy asked, and Ink pointed. Like a weird reception line, there were Folk picking soft, translucent balls out of a tall basket, which glowed like a kiln. Each person molded whatever was in their hands, fashioning the clay with fingers and claws, small tools or stones spread out on the floor, crafting shapes lovingly, delicately, or banging them hard against the wall. As the Folk worked, the stuff began to glow from within, growing brighter the more they tinkered with it until the shapes became too bright to see, illuminating faces like miniature suns, hardening into crystal.

“What are they?” she asked.

“Memories,” Ink said. “Emotions. Wishes. Watch.”

Joy hushed as a thin man with dragonfly wings lifted the glowing crystal over his head and opened his hand slowly, letting it go. Joy followed his gaze as his creation floated gently upward while a small, shaggy thing with flaring nostrils snuffled around his ankles and whipped its finished crystal angrily at the sky. Both lights eventually slowed as they rose the great distance to the high ceiling and slid into place among the other luminous shapes that hovered in midair. That was when Joy realized that the chandelier was actually a mass of memories—the collective thoughts about Enrique by those who knew him best. It made her heart swell.

“The memory crystal holds on to those thoughts, those memories, like dreams under glass,” Ink said. “We can visit them anytime to free our thoughts and remember so that our loved ones will never be forgotten.”

“That’s beautiful,” she murmured.

“That is immortality.”

She turned and faced him. A powerful heat sparked between them, trickling up the soles of her feet, wrapping around her knees and thrumming in her teeth. She tapped her fingers on the drum of his chest as her body swayed in Ink’s arms. The music and magic were a warm glow in her veins.

“I want to dance,” she said.

It was ridiculous, but it was true. When she felt so much more than her body could hold, she wanted to move—to run and trick and flip and kick. She was kinetic, kinesthetic. It was as necessary to her as breathing, like living, like flying. The shiver up her legs was an urge, a push. The energy in the room was stronger than the wine. She wanted to leave everything that had happened at the dreary human funeral behind. Ink looked at her, eyes sparkling, as if he understood perfectly.

“Come,” Ink said, taking her hand and leading her across the room, weaving expertly between Folk who unconsciously moved out of his way. He could always part a crowd with ease. Joy followed, feeling the heat of bodies and bonfires burning all around her. The music hummed in her rib cage, an anticipating crackle under her toes. She wanted to dive into this like Inq into the crowd, swim above it, through it; she wanted to feel that freedom Enrique had loved during all of his adventures all over the world.

He’d said that she was an ordinary girl who’d been given an extraordinary life. She’d known that, intellectually, but this was where she felt it for the first time—what it meant to be part of this world, paired with someone who loved her.

Blackmail and jealousy and damp tissues could wait. This was about Enrique, and they were going to dance!

Joy squeezed Ink’s hand as they wove between circles and dodged couples shouting over the music. Someone bumped into her, smearing her black dress in blue paint.

“Perdóneme,” the figure said and then stopped dead. “Joy?”

“Luiz?” Joy almost laughed. She would never have recognized the young lehman. He was painted in bright colors from his wavy hair to his toes, save for what looked like a loincloth and a spattered necklace of metal beads. He was dripping with sweat; rainbow rivulets ran down his chest. He flashed his butter-melt smile and gestured at her dress.

“I’d hug you,” he said, “but it’d only make things worse.”

“I’ll risk it,” she said, and he squeezed her in his strong arms, swirling her around and laughing—but it was laughter that she understood; it was mortal and tight, and there were tears behind it. Humans grieved differently than Folk. Luiz was drunk with glee and sorrow. He let her go, peeling himself away in primary splotches. She laughed at herself smeared in red, blue and gold. He gestured to the whole of the room.

“Do you like it?” Luiz said, waving all around. “Enrique loved things like Burning Man and Carnival. Honor the spirit, right? Well, trust me, he would’ve loved this!” He turned to Ink, arms wide. “May I?”

“Number four?” Ink said with a shrug. “Of course.”

Luiz swept forward and picked up Ink, twirling and laughing with him just the same, smearing his pristine dress shirt a mottled tie-dye of yellow and purple and a shocking lime green. Luiz dropped him, and Ink staggered back, a rainbow riot. Joy laughed so hard, she cried.

Ink grinned with deep dimples as Luiz patted his back.

“Ditch the shirt,” Luiz advised and glanced at Joy. “And the shoes. Let’s dance!”

He grabbed Joy’s hand as she grabbed Ink’s, and they swung into the circle of rhythmic dancers swirling around the flames. Stomping feet became clapping hands, and whirling contras slid into hand-off marches, grasping forearms, passing partners, smearing paint on arms and cheeks. Beads were looped around strangers’ necks, shells clattered, rattles shook, feathers blurred and fur rippled as trinkets passed from hand to hand to hand. Ink threw his stained shirt into the flames to a collective cheer. Joy kept her dress on, inviting teasing and laughter. Soon she was festooned in ribbons and crystals and mad swirls of paint. Ink matched her, bare-chested, wearing smeared handprints and a lei of teeth. Both of them laughed, running and twirling, spinning and leaping, and it wasn’t long before Joy was lost to the music, her body vibrating with heartbeat and the thunder of sound.

Thump-THUMP. Thump-THUMP. Like a wordless chant, the glow inside her built like a clenched fist, power eking through the cracks, an almost-pleasure-pain...

Too much. Too much!

When it crested, Joy launched, her legs fueled by the sound, the fire and the deep, driving light—Ink caught her, tethering her to this world and the ground. She split-kicked as Ink held her aloft, arms locked, solid and strong. She tilted her head back and spun under the chandelier, its crystal labyrinth filling the ceiling as more and more people poured out their joy and grief.

The strange, wondrous feeling poured through her limbs, shivering down her arms and out the soles of her feet. It might have been grief, but it felt like magic. This was her tribute. This moment. This memory. This.

Joy slowly bent her knees and came down to applause, feeling vulnerable and proud, energized and spent. Ink twirled her around, a wild excitement in his eyes.

“It is you!” he said. “Can you feel it? This is joy!”

Another swing in the music and several drums joined in, tumbling over one another, beating faster and faster, like outrunning death. Joy and Ink became separated as twin circles of dancers raced around the fires. The flames began to lift and swirl into snapping plumes. The mob became a percussive instrument—a living, flashing Kodo drum, a sword dance of flying feet and clapping hands without blades. Scarves and ribbons streamed like banners. Sweat ran through paint. Joy’s hair flew over her shoulders and into her face. Adrenaline coursed through her body, pounding her heart and slamming her feet, smacking her soles against the hard-packed ground, driving the defiant beat harder, faster. The music spun, twirling random partners together and apart in the maelstrom of motion, a rave on fire—this was where she lived: this body, this earth, with Ink and the rhythm of her blood in her ears. This was life. This was living. This was alive. This.

The music stopped abruptly. Panting, Joy beamed, holding a stranger’s hand.

“You?”

She registered the shock of white hair and the gray-green eyes, chest heaving under a familiar feathered cloak. His smile was fading fast.

It was like déjà vu in reverse, the way the strange young man stared at her, exposed on the dance floor, surprised at being seen; but this wasn’t Ink at the Carousel—this was the young courtier who’d stood by Sol Leander, a member of the Tide, the faction that had hired the Red Knight to kill her. She was too surprised to do anything but stare.

His shock turned to revulsion as he yanked his hand out of her grasp and swept away with a dramatic swirl of his cloak.

“Joy?” Ink appeared behind her.

“Ink!” she whispered as they stepped away from the fires. It was colder now—much colder—and fear brought goose bumps to her skin.

“Hoy, Joy Malone!” Filly bounded over, wearing her usual leather vambraces and short cape of bones, as brash and bold as ever despite the scandalous smears of blue paint down her front and the crown of ivy wilting atop her head. The young warrior turned to watch the feathered cloak swirl away between the dancers and licked the blue tattooed spot beneath her lower lip. “Problem with your dance partner?” she quipped.

“I think the problem’s mutual,” Joy said. She was grateful to have the young Valkyrie near—Filly was both a true friend and crazy good in a fight. “What is he doing here?”

Ink curled his arm around Joy and spoke close to her ear. “Perhaps he knew Enrique,” Ink said. “All who knew him are welcome here.” He brushed back a wet curl from her face. “Despite being human, Enrique was well-known for his adventuresome spirit, and that made him quite popular.” He gestured around the room with a pink-and-orange hand. “Normally the Folk do not acknowledge Inq and I or our associates, but Inq has gone out of her way to make herself difficult to ignore.” He lifted his chin toward his sister, who was crowd surfing, carried aloft by many loving hands. She swam in the decadence, a blissful smile on her lips. “The fact her lehman were allowed to attend such an event is a testament to how high the Folk hold her and Enrique in their esteem.”

Or her skill in blackmail, Joy thought as she watched the pale-haired man cross the room. When he glanced back, it was with thinly guarded fury. She looked away, feeling strangely guilty, then angry at herself for feeling anything of the sort. The Tide wanted her dead! They claimed that she was a threat to the Twixt—the most dangerous human in the world: one who had the Sight and could also wield power over their True Names given form. Only the Scribes were allowed to draw others’ signaturae. But once Joy had claimed her birthright, she’d become one of them—one of the Folk, a member of the Twixt, the Third Scribe—protected by the Council and therefore, sacrosanct. The Folk were too few for infighting, but that did not mean that she had been forgiven. Her near-escape and new status did not make her popular—it made her infamous.

And the Folk had long memories for revenge.

“Is his master here?” Joy had trouble even saying the words Sol Leander without feeling sick.

“Ha!” Filly barked. “I doubt you’ll see any of the Council down here. Not even your overdressed toad in his finest silks.”

“Most of the Folk would not honor a human in this way,” Ink said. “Sol Leander in particular considers humans to be the enemy and we Scribes to be mere tools, barely more than animated quills—we do not register as ‘alive’ to him, so he would hardly acknowledge the death of one of our lehman.”

Joy nodded dully. While the words made sense, she couldn’t ignore the creepy chill that now colored her mood. She felt every flaky inch and prickle of dried paint on her skin. She began walking away. Away is good.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Leaving so soon?” Filly said, surprised. “They haven’t even cracked the casks open yet! The night is young, and blood beats hot!” She grinned and gestured to the bonfire plumes. Firelight turned her horse head pendant gold. “Come dance and remember! Dance and forget! That is what we are here for—to dance ere we die!”

“No, thanks,” Joy said, taking Ink’s hand. “I’m going home.”

Filly grinned wider. “There are other kinds of dancing.”

Ink tugged Joy closer. “Well said and well met.”

The young horsewoman raised a goblet and snorted. “Good morrow, then, as you shall surely enjoy a good night!”

They made their way up the incline, leaving Filly and the feast and the Folk behind. Collecting her discarded shoes and purse, Joy stepped onto the jutting overhang where they’d first come in, safely distant from anyone who might blunder into Ink as he sliced open a door through the world. Joy cast a last glance around the revelry, trying to spy familiar faces in order to wave her goodbyes, but her attention snagged on a feathery cloak illuminated in the light of the basket kiln.

She watched as Sol Leander’s young aide opened his hand, allowing the crystal spire he had wrought to slip free. The look on his face was reverent as his eyes followed the delicate sculpture up-up-up, glittering like a tiny star climbing toward the light.

“Joy?” Ink said. He held a flap of nothing at all.

She turned her back on the spectacle, took Ink’s hand and stepped quickly through the breach.

* * *

They appeared in her room, just inside the door, and Joy found herself suddenly in Ink’s arms, his lips hungry on hers. She kissed him back gratefully—thankful to be alive, to be together, safe and finally alone.

He cupped her face as he kissed her and ran his hands through her hair, combing out stray feathers and glitter. She felt his bare arms and shoulders, his smooth, muscular chest pressed flat against hers. Paint flaked off under her fingertips. She wiped her hands on her dress and laughed into his mouth.

“Your poor shirt,” she said between kisses.

“I can get another,” he said and kissed her again—over and over as if he could not get enough. Joy was convinced he was addicted to kissing. Ink paused, his lips grazing hers. “Graus Claude has a very good tailor.”

She laughed and squirmed under his touch. He’d driven all bad thoughts away. It was getting hard to keep standing. She twisted a finger in his wallet chain and tugged him closer. His fingers traced the zipper down the back of her dress. Joy hadn’t realized he knew about zippers.

“We’re covered in paint,” she whispered next to his ear. He breathed a warm line down the length of her neck. Her fingers tightened in his hair. He kissed her collarbone and lifted his fathomless eyes to hers—they were dark and drowning.

“I don’t care,” he said.

She smiled at his rare contraction. “You ‘don’t’?”

He shook his head; only the tips of his hair moved, black eyes unblinking. “No.”

Joy backed up, pulling him along by his chain. He followed. She pressed herself against the wall by her headboard and wrapped one arm over his shoulders, drawing him into a long, luxurious kiss. He groaned against her, one hand flat by her ear. She distantly heard his fingernails scratch against the paint. She tapped her palm beside her hip.

“Can you make a door—” she tapped the wall again “—here?”

Ink withdrew an aching inch, looking where she’d knocked.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked.

“Just through the wall.”

He grinned like a little boy, all dimples. “Oh? Why?”

Joy tugged the silver chain again and whispered in his ear, “Come see.”

He needed no further encouragement. Reaching behind him, Ink pulled the straight razor from his wallet and snapped it open with a practiced flick. Staring into her eyes, he drew a line directly over Joy’s head. He then carefully traced a long loop past her shoulder, her elbow, her hip, her knee, and then sliced along the baseboard, nudging Joy to one side. He stood, pocketed the blade and pushed the breach open like a door. His eyes twinkled as he gave a small bow. Joy grinned in delight and kissed him as they walked through the wall with the taste of limes in her mouth.

Then she was kissing him in the bathroom, the sound of their breaths a tiny echo against tile. Joy tasted his lips and curled her toes in the thick bath mat. She caught his bottom lip gently in her teeth—she had to be careful with teeth; last time, he’d bitten her.

“Shh,” she whispered as she released him and reached through the shower curtain to twist the knob. The room exploded in splashing applause. High-pressure water rained against the bathtub and the air slowly turned misty with steam. She brushed her bangs from her eyes and touched the flaky handprints on his chest.

She looked down at his feet on the bath mat and then up. “Ditch the shoes,” she all but mouthed. Joy smiled. Ink stared at her mouth, his fingers gone still.

She drew him toward the shower, holding his forearm as she pushed the curtain aside and stepped in. The water was hot and she adjusted the temperature as he took off his boots and stepped in beside her, both of them still clothed. Paint began spilling in rivers down his chest, pooling at the waistband as water soaked his jeans.

Joy stood under the showerhead. Rainbow colors slid down her body, dripping off her elbows and swirling around her feet, her black dress plastered against her thighs and her back. She wiped water from her face and blinked at Ink through wet lashes. He absorbed her every movement, his gaze coursing over her like the water itself, hugging her curves and caressing her skin.

She leaned forward and kissed him, her mouth slick and wet. Ink kissed her curiously. She stepped back. He licked his lip.

“It is different,” he said. “It is like kissing you in the rain.”

“You can feel the difference?” Joy asked.

“Yes. Warmer, less friction.” He touched the drop at her chin. “Wet.”

His eyelashes were speckled with watery pearls. His black hair drooped in long, damp tendrils over his cheeks. Joy’s dress was completely drenched as she ran a hand from his neck to his belly button, admiring that tiny detail. We did that.

She picked up a bar of soap and began lathering it in her hands. Ink watched the bubbles form with kittenlike interest. The foam turned pink and gray and blue.

“Feel this,” she said and spread a smear of soapy bubbles over his chest. Ink gasped and stepped back awkwardly, contained in the narrow tub. Joy held on to his wrist, his skin sliding against hers. She squeezed, slipping her fingers over his long muscles, massaging his arm. He stared, fascinated. She watched him feeling every inch of the new sensation. Joy pushed soap up to his shoulder. Froth cascaded down his back. Ink held on to the wall and exhaled with a hitch in his breath.

Joy smiled, spreading her slick hands over his chest, fingers swimming through the suds, rubbing slow circles, washing the paint from his skin. The foam turned red and purple and yellow and green. Joy wiped away the colors and cupped her hands under the showerhead, splashing his front, trickling clean.

Ink touched a hand to his chest, splayed fingers wide. There was a flicker in his throat, and his eyes brimmed full of mist and stars.

“Again, please.”

Smiling, she did. Running the soap through her fingers, she kissed him as she slid her hands over his back. His spine arched toward her, and he held on to her shoulders, kissing and gasping with one shared breath. She tugged him under the spray—now hotter—rinsing him off as she squeezed her eyes shut, her hair a dark curtain running all over her face. She squeezed past him, letting the shower hit Ink full in the chest. His head tipped back, and his arms loosened as his eyes slipped closed. She turned him around by the shoulders so that his back was to her. Water slid off his wallet chain. His signatura flashed in the dark. Joy touched the ouroboros under the water, watching the dragon-swallowing-its-tail circle spin, wondering if his mark was sensitive to temperature and emotion like Inq’s. Like hers?

She smoothed her palms over his shoulders and up the sides of his neck, thumbs pushing into his hairline. She smiled, hearing him sigh.

His head lolled forward, and he flattened his hands against the wall, warm water coursing down the back of his head. A tiny stream ran down the length of his spine, bisecting the ouroboros and her circle of soap. Joy traced it with her fingers and pushed the heels of her hands into the muscles of his back. He steadied himself and murmured, a sound crisp and clean through the splash; although she didn’t understand the words, she got the meaning loud and clear.

Pushing her knuckles into his lower back, she kneaded upward and inched her thumbs slowly up either side of his spine. Ink arched again, lifting his head and turning to face her. His hair was drenched flat. His eyes were cavernous. Joy had the odd thought that he looked taller when wet. She stopped moving, her heartbeat loud in her ears, wondering what, exactly, would happen next.

Ink slowly took the soap from her hand. Running it smoothly between his palms, he gazed at her, unblinking. Soapy bubbles dripped down his forearms, off his elbows, and hit the floor. His voice was a sort of whisper.

“Now you.”

He took her wrist and slid his thumbs up the inside of her forearm, squeezing gently as he soaped her to the elbow. Joy’s mouth opened, trying to catch enough breath, hot and misty and clean on her tongue. He cupped her shoulder, pushing the bubbles down her collarbone, suds dripping along the scooped neckline of her dress. His fingertips followed, drawing long, slow circles, working off smears of orange, blue and black. Joy’s eyes fluttered under his strong hands. One of his palms rested over her heart, fingers spread across her breastbone, his pinkie slipping under the shoulder strap of her bra. Joy’s pulse thudded in her chest, a thick beat through the foam. Ink’s hand slid up her neck, behind her ears. Her eyes opened as he brushed a dab of paint from her cheek.

He looked into her eyes for a long moment, breathing.

Joy reached over her shoulder and pressed his fingers to the tiny metal pull at the back of her neck. Ink pinched it in his finger and thumb. He watched her face, mesmerized, as he slowly unzipped her dress.

She felt his hands slide over her bare back, and she made a small sound in her throat. He pushed the heels of his hands into the muscles above her hips, kneading upward as she had, running his thumbs along either side of her spine. Joy arched into him, meeting tongues and lips and wanting. He was following her every motion, mimicking her lead, and it was driving her crazy.

“Ink,” she said, almost dizzy with heat.

He slid her body against his. She gasped in his mouth.

“Joy,” he said.

Kissing him deeply, Joy pulled her arms through the straps and let the sodden weight of the dress hit the drain.

She shrieked as the water turned ice cold. Ink plastered himself against the wall, gaping in shock. Joy twisted out of the bathtub and yanked the water off. Wrapping a towel around her shivering shoulders, she saw the last twinkles of a spell fade.

“Take the hint,” Stef’s voice said through the crack in the door. “And chill out.”

Joy’s teeth chattered. She was shaking, mortified.

Ink and his boots were already gone.

FOUR

JOY JUMPED OUT of bed and tripped over the soggy pile of clothes. Picking up her shoes, she sighed. The multicolored scuffs on the heels looked deep, and she wondered if it was even worth trying to salvage the dress. She ran a hand over the smears of paint and smiled despite herself. She’d dreamed of lilies, dancing, feathers and fire. And Ink. So much Ink.

She reminded herself to punch Stef in the face.

After stuffing the dress into her trash bin, she tossed her shoes into the closet, pulled her hair into a ponytail and changed for work. The summer was almost over and then her hours at Nordstrom Rack would be cut in half. Dad was right—she should be thinking about colleges or work or what she wanted to do after her senior year, since she obviously wouldn’t be training with a private gymnastics coach in Australia come next July. She couldn’t say that she wanted to travel around the world with her boyfriend—not only did that sound bad, it wasn’t entirely true. She unwound her finger from the twist in her shirt and smoothed out the wrinkles. What do you do when your lifelong dreams change?

Joy wandered into the kitchen with a head full of thoughts. Stef was still snoring in his room. She debated waking him with a glassful of ice water, but Dad was already at the table, so her best-served-cold revenge would have to be served sometime later.

“Morning,” she said sleepily.

Dad looked up from his laptop. “Morning,” he said. “I didn’t hear you come home last night.”

“It was late,” she said as she poured herself some cereal and sliced a banana into the bowl.

“I didn’t realize funerals ran late on Monday nights.” Her father tried to sound nonchalant but only got as far as “parentally concerned” with a dash of “gently warning his daughter that he’d noticed the time.”

“Yeah, well,” Joy said, fishing the milk out of the fridge. “This wasn’t your average funeral.” Massive understatement. “And Ink and I went out afterward.” Massive understatement squared. She grabbed a spoon and sat down, quite pleased with her almost-deceptions. She was getting better at this. Maybe it ran in the genes.

“Well, we’ve got two days to pack, load up and head out to Lake James,” he said around his last mouthful of eggs. Joy saw that the buttered toast was absent. Twelve more pounds to goal weight—he kept a total on the fridge. “We have this one last hurrah before Stef’s back at U Penn, and I want to make the most of it, so I don’t want to spend a lot of time on Friday dithering.”

Joy chewed and swallowed, still thinking about bonfires and chandeliers.

Her father frowned. “Joy?”

“Check,” she said. “No dithering.”

“I’m serious, Joy. Stef’s already packed.”

“Of course he’s already packed. He’s going back to college next week.” Joy’s flippant comment fell flat in her lap. She hadn’t fully realized the truth until she’d said it aloud. Only a few more days with Stef, and then it was back to just her and Dad. And Shelley. Joy liked her father’s girlfriend, but her dad had been spending a lot more time out with Shelley and less time around the house—which was good—but with Stef gone, the condo would fast become dark and lonely again with Joy home all by herself. She didn’t want a repeat of the Year of Hell, the one following her parents’ divorce when her father had become a smelly zombie hermit and she’d quit the gymnastics team to match. She poked a bit of banana into the milk with her spoon. It had been nice having her big brother home—cold showers aside—and it had been handy to have him save her life with wizard’s magic once in a while. She mumbled into her cereal bowl, “I’ll be ready, don’t worry.”

“Being a father, I worry,” he said. “Being the father of two teenagers, I’ve learned to take precautions.” He wiped his mouth and balled up the napkin. “Be fully packed by 5:00 a.m. Friday, or I’m taking your phone for two weeks. Got it?”

He was pulling out the big guns. Joy swallowed. “Got it.”

“Okay, then. I’m off to work,” he said. “When do you have to punch in?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“Don’t be late.” Joy rolled her eyes. Her father prided himself on being punctual, reliable, loyal and hardworking—to be in all ways indispensable. It was the one thing he’d held on to throughout the rough years, and it had finally paid off. He’d gotten a promotion, which came with a decent raise and had done worlds for his confidence. Her father slipped on his jacket and grabbed his new leather briefcase. “And see if you can’t get Stef out of bed before you leave. He’s been staying up nights and sleeping half the day.”

“Sounds like college,” she said around her last spoonful of cereal.

“Sounds like lazy,” her father said and paused at the door. He was staring at her feet. “Wait—no mismatched socks?”

Joy shrugged. “It’s against the dress code.”

He frowned a mock-sad-clown face. “Is the big, bad capitalistic corporation squishing the individuality out of my baby girl?”

She grinned over her spoon. “I wear mismatched earrings.”

He pumped his fist. “Stick it to the Man, sweetheart! I’ll see you tonight.”

“I’m meeting Monica after work,” she reminded him.

“Okay, but tonight’s Stef’s special smorgasbord send-off. Don’t forget.” He checked his watch. “Got to go.”

Joy waved as he closed the door, then washed her bowl in the sink and watched as he hopped into his Accord and drove away. She inspected the kitchen window for monsters or message pee and did a double-take when she saw the white sports car drive around the corner. Joy leaned over the sink, trying to follow it with her eyes, trying to convince herself that she’d imagined it—it couldn’t be!—but hope caught in her throat. She almost dropped the bowl when it pulled up to the gate: a white Ferrari 458.

There was a buzz from the intercom. Stef groaned in protest. Joy ran over to the call box and hit the button.

“Yes?”

“Joy?”

She didn’t recognize the male voice, husky with sleep. Could it be...?

“Yes? Who is this?”

He’s alive!

“It’s Ilhami.” Joy’s heart stuttered. Not Enrique—just his car. She started breathing again, but the air felt too thin. She almost missed the next words. “You left something behind last night.”

Disappointment colored her voice. “I did?”

“Yes,” Ilhami said. “I brought it over. Want to come down and get it?”

She hesitated, her finger on Call. “Hang on,” she said. Joy released the button, checked the call box for glyphs and dug inside her purse. Grabbing her scalpel, Joy opened the door and marched outside into the moist August heat.

She kept her hand on the blade as she walked down the stairs. She couldn’t remember leaving anything behind at the funeral or the celebration. Her senses were on orange alert. She remembered Inq’s bizarre request, and she didn’t trust Ilhami. Enrique had once called the young Turkish artist a “tortured genius,” but Joy hadn’t forgotten what had happened in East New York, fleeing the cops at high speed and making an enemy of Ilhami’s drug dealer, Ladybird. She’d had to pay three drops of blood for a dose of Ladybird’s powerful Sunset Dust in order to take down the Red Knight. Joy had no idea why Ladybird had wanted her blood and was fairly certain she didn’t want to find out. So the question now was whether Ilhami was up to something, obeying orders from Inq or Ladybird, or if he was being used as bait to flush her out of her house and its protective wards. Either way, between Ink’s scalpel and Inq’s gift—a little push glyph on her palm—Joy wasn’t going anywhere unprepared.

When she crossed the parking lot, she saw Ilhami leaning casually against the gleaming Ferrari parked on the grass. His head was freshly buzzed to a millimeter fuzz, his tattooed arms bare in a muscleman shirt, and his thumbs tucked into the belt loops of his jeans. He gave an easy smile.

“‘Morning, Cabana Girl,” he said.

“Good morning,” she said warily. “I didn’t see you at the celebration last night.”

“Oh, I was there.” He smirked. “I hooked up with some pixie chick with a wicked sense of gravity. Talk about a head-rush!” Joy rolled her eyes. Ilhami shrugged. “What? Honor the spirit. Enrique loved hooking up!”

“Anyway...?” she prompted. “What did I forget? Is it bigger than a bread box?”

“I’d say so,” he tapped the car door and threw her something. She caught it, heavy in her hand. Keys. He winked slyly. “It’s all yours.”

Joy gaped. “What?”

Ilhami wiped an imaginary speck of dust off the hood with his thumb. “Enrique wanted you to have it,” he said. “He felt bad about you losing your wheels. Said you needed your own way to get around. I had it detailed and everything. Nik may be pretty, but he smells like beans.”

Joy looked at the keys, the car and her second-floor kitchen window, praying that nobody could see her. This was the last thing she’d expected.

“I can’t have a car like that!” she said under her breath. “Seriously. I’m a senior in high school. People would ask questions...people like my dad! I can’t say I got it from some nice older gentleman who died and left me his car.” Joy shook the keys in her fist. “Cuz that sounds really, really bad!”

“Whatever. I haven’t even told you about the special features, yet,” Ilhami said, opening the driver’s door, dropping into the seat and pointing at the dash. “You already saw how the slip-drive works. I changed the GPS coordinates to this spot so you can park it without blocking the driveway. It’s got a short-range auto-drive feature—like Cruise Control for Dummies—treated windows, voice-activated phone, glyphs on the safeties and securities, and a warded buffer field.” He tapped the door again. “Enrique hated getting it dinged. It’s not like he could take it into the shop. Oh, and press the blue button on the fob.”

Curious, Joy did. The car disappeared. Ilhami smiled from the half-open door suspended in nothing.

“Cloaked parking feature,” he said. “Very slick.”

Joy shook her head. “You have got to be kidding.”

Ilhami climbed out of the invisible car and shut the door. “The engine’s tricked out—runs on pure water. Filtered, not tap,” he warned. “The Folk seriously frown on fossil fuels.”

“But...” Joy stammered. It was a dream car—an impossible, invisible, luxury dream car. “I can’t drive it!”

Ilhami snorted. “So what? Give it to Ink—it’ll be his excuse for wheels,” he said. “If he’s going to start coming over for family dinners, he can’t keep ripping his way through thin air, right?” He leaned forward, grinning ear to ear. “Right?”

“Right,” Joy said weakly. Enrique had given her his car. She couldn’t refuse it. “Um...thanks.”

Ilhami shouldered his backpack, which had been behind the bumper and was fully visible now that the car was not. “Hey, I’m just the messenger,” he said. “No thanks necessary. And besides, you shouldn’t thank me—you still have to wait until you’re twenty-one to get your part of the inheritance.” He laughed at the look on her face.

“Inheritance?” she squeaked.

“Oh, yeah. Enrique had bank, but he had no parents, no children,” he said, spreading his arms to embrace the summer sky. “We’re his family, Cabana Girl, and for some people, family is everything.”

Joy shook her head. She stammered, “I can’t...”

Ilhami waved her off. “Pfft. Whatever. Luiz got the yacht, but I’m not complaining.” He climbed into a sharp-angled Lamborghini parked on the curb. It looked like an enameled shark. Joy squinted down the street. How did it get here? He kissed his fingers and waved, a gesture she recognized from Nikolai. “Arrivederci, Cabana Girl! Remember, life’s short—have fun!” he howled out the window, gunned the engine and roared unapologetically down the street.

Joy stared after him, feeling silly and stupid as she tucked the keys into her purse. His visit had nothing to do with Ladybird or with Inq’s weird request. She had no idea what to think. She checked her phone for the time. Swearing, she turned her back on her magic sports car, running at top speed to catch the bus.

She was ten minutes late for work.

* * *

“Hey, wage slave!” Monica chirped. “You almost done?”

Joy stopped folding the light sweaters and sighed in relief. Just seeing her best friend brought a wave of much-needed sanity after a long day of stock work.

She dropped her tag gun. “If there is a God, then, yes.”

Monica adjusted her shoulder strap. “As a churchgoing girl, I’d say you’re free and clear, but you might want to check with your boss first.” She stroked her dark hand over the autumn-colored cashmere. “Ooo. Pretty. Do you think I’d look good in orange?”

Joy collapsed a cardboard box with a practiced snap. “Honestly, I’m not a big fan of orange.” The color reminded her of fox fur, mahogany eyes and malice. Joy still had nightmares and scars on her skin, both gifts from Aniseed. “I vote red.”

“Mmm. Gordon says red is my color,” Monica said. “Passionate, vibrant, smoldering hot...”

Joy gathered up the extra security tags, smiling. “Whatever happened to him bringing out your softer side?”

Monica shrugged and smoothed her slicked bangs. “I got over it.”

They laughed as Joy punched out, swapping directions to the closest decent restaurant they could find via GPS. Once they’d nabbed some chips and salsa at the nearby cantina, Joy started feeling half human again.

“Remember to breathe,” Monica said. “Aren’t you having another family dinner thing in a couple of hours?”

“It’s just Stef’s last excuse to pig out on Dad’s tab,” Joy said and pointed to herself as she chewed. “And, hello? Hypoglycemic, remember?” She slurped a chunk of tomato off her chip. “My metabolism needs food every four hours. The doctors say I have to keep up a base caloric intake or I’ll turn into a stick.”

Monica snapped a chip in half. “I think I speak for all dieters everywhere when I say pfbthth!”

Joy drank her water, ignoring the raspberry. The ice cubes clunked against the glass and her teeth. She speared a piece of ice with her straw and crunched on it as they waited to order—she had picked up the less-than-genteel habit from the normally genteel Graus Claude. She had been surprised not to see the Bailiwick last night, but then again, Filly had been sure that he wouldn’t show. Joy had no idea if the Bailiwick knew the Cabana Boys personally, but she didn’t think he would stay away because of bigotry, like Sol Leander; Graus Claude knew that the Scribes were people. The only difference was that they were made, not born.

“So,” she said while fishing her straw around for another cube. “What are you going to do while I’m gone?”

“Pine,” Monica said, scooping more tomatillos onto her plate. “Waste away to nothing without my bestie.” She pressed the back of her wrist to her forehead and swooned dramatically against the seat. “Or, on the other hand, I could curl up with my sweetie and watch a mindless movie marathon. It’s a close second.”

Joy snickered. “Did you just call Gordon ‘my sweetie’?’”

Monica snagged the last chip. “Didn’t I just.”

“I think I feel ill.”

“That’s the salsa talking,” Monica said. “But I was wondering if I could borrow your MGM Classics collection. I remember you got the set for your birthday.”

“Sure. I think it’s still shrink-wrapped,” Joy said. It had been a gift from her mother back when Joy wasn’t speaking to her. Things had changed, slowly but surely, but she hadn’t had time to watch late-night movies. Her nights had been filled with secret trips to London, Glasgow, Rome and Belize. She’d gone anywhere and everywhere with Ink and Inq and Inq’s horde of gorgeous guys and felt supremely guilty about not sharing any of it with her best friend. Joy’s mood slipped when she thought about Enrique and veered into extra-nervous when she thought about his invisible car parked on her lawn. Joy poked her straw around the glass, letting the sound mask her silence.

“Sounds like somebody is becoming a homebody,” Joy teased.

“As if,” Monica said. “I’m still up for dancing the night away whenever you get your skinny butt in gear—you just say when.”

Joy smiled, remembering her last dance—the pull and the heat of it. “When.”

“Seriously?” Monica said, surprised. “Tonight?”

“No,” Joy admitted. “My feet are killing me. But soon. Maybe when I get back? Last fling of summer?”

Monica and Joy clinked spoons. “It’s a date.”

Their server apologized for the wait and took their order. Joy felt a twinge of sympathy for the woman bussing her own tables and the two families with toddlers who were making a huge mess. She made a mental note to leave an extra-large tip. She’d been on the other side of the napkin, and it wasn’t pretty.

Monica handed back their menus as their server disappeared into the kitchen. “Can I ask you something?”

Joy chewed more ice. “You look beautiful.”

“No,” Monica said and leaned forward. “Are you ever going to tell me what went down at the hospital? Because, FYI, I would really like to know.”

Joy glanced at her friend’s face, the bald scar in Monica’s eyebrow a telltale remnant of their encounter with the Red Knight, the invincible, invisible assassin who had been sent to kill Joy. While Joy had been protected by Inq’s glyph-wrought armor, Monica had not, and she’d suffered a glancing blow from his massive sword. Joy’s attempts to erase the scar, and her guilt, had nearly cost her Ink and her place in the Twixt. Now every time she looked at Monica, that scar was a reminder of what was at stake, what really mattered and what she’d almost lost forever. And, if Joy looked more closely, she could still see the signatura etched there—the angled arrow of Sol Leander’s True Name like a gruesome slash on Monica’s face. Her best friend lived under the auspice of Joy’s greatest enemy in the Twixt.

Monica misunderstood Joy’s silence. “You have to tell me eventually, you know.”

“I know,” Joy said.

“I covered for you,” Monica said. “I lied to my parents.”

“I know.”

“You know,” Monica repeated back at her. “You’re just lucky that my mom believed that crazy story about Aunt Meredith. Her sister was seriously into some weird voodoo.” Monica shook her head, setting her gold hoops swaying. “I mean, what am I supposed to do when the woman sends me an ox-bone knife for Confirmation? I mean, seriously? But she’s family, right? I couldn’t just throw it away.” She brushed the edges of her razor-cut bob. “I use the thing for a letter opener.”

Joy laughed. Monica’s eyes grew serious. “Joy, you’ve got to tell me what really happened—Mom said you had a knife over my head, and the police said that no one saw anybody attack us at the mall.”

Joy’s insides burned hot, then cold. She held her breath and concentrated on Monica’s chin as she kept talking. “There was a whole lot of weird reports that day—things flying around, stuff breaking, lights smashed—but no one could explain it, not even the security tapes, not even the shrinks.” Monica’s ebony fingers curled over one another, turning her knuckles pale. “I know you’d never hurt me, and you know you can tell me anything,” she said earnestly. “Anything, right? So why don’t you?”

Joy squirmed, staring at Monica’s burgundy nail polish. Monica was her best friend—Joy owed her the truth—but she couldn’t tell her the truth, and she couldn’t lie. The risks were bigger than both of them, and she refused to place Monica in danger again.

“It’s...hard to explain,” Joy ventured. She couldn’t say that she couldn’t tell Monica, because, physically, she could—she just knew that she shouldn’t, for both of their sakes. Joy squinted up at the overhead lights. “I’ll tell you once I can wrap my brain around it.” Which could easily be never. She tried to act brave as she made eye contact, ignoring the accusing welt in her friend’s arched eyebrow. “But I’m not ready,” Joy said. “Not yet.”

Monica could’ve been angry, but she wasn’t, although her eyes were cool and distant. Monica would accept that there was a reason, and that it was important, and that what Joy needed was time. Joy loved her for it—but it made her feel worse for not telling her outright: Joy was the reason that Monica had gotten hurt. The guilt burned hotter than jalapeños and brought a flush to her face.

Monica might not understand why Joy wouldn’t talk, but they weren’t best friends for nothing. She simply said, “Why not?”

Joy smiled weakly. “Because, remember—No Stupid.”

Monica took a deep breath, wide nose flaring. Joy tried to look earnest. It felt fake even though it was true.

“Okay,” Monica said finally. “Okay. I can deal with that. But someday?”

Joy’s breath was tight in her chest. “Yeah,” she said, “someday.”

“Promise?”

Joy shook her head. “No.”

Monica jerked like she’d been slapped. Joy twisted her napkin and tried to explain.

“Look,” she said. “I won’t promise you something that I can’t guarantee.” Joy leaned over the tabletop, voice low. “If I promise you something, I will always mean it, because you deserve that,” she said. “I won’t lie to you. Ever.”

Their server appeared with impeccable Waitress Timing, dispersing the tension of too much truth with a double order of large veggie quesadillas. Monica wordlessly spread her napkin in her lap and tapped her fingernails on the table before picking up her knife.

“But you will tell me,” she said slowly. “When you’re ready?”

Joy sighed, caught. Monica was right—that was what she’d said. Joy could easily understand how the Folk—tricked by countless centuries of humans who could twist their words against them—had needed to develop better protections against mortals. Using signaturae, unspoken True Names, now made more sense to Joy—it was hard to get tangled up in words when the most important things couldn’t be said.

“Okay, yes,” Joy said. “I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”

Monica nodded. “I’ll hold you to that. Pass me the hot sauce.”

“Hot sauce? On quesadillas?”

Monica waved a manicured hand. “I have sophisticated taste.”

Joy gave her the small orange bottle and welcomed the silence of eating good food. She didn’t know how she was going to settle things with Monica and the Twixt, but for now she could enjoy a quesadilla grande with her best friend and pretend that things were normal, the way they used to be before everything went crazy.

Joy folded a triangle of cheese and peppers in half and wondered when, exactly, crazy had started feeling normal.

FIVE

Your presence is required at 9am EST. Training will begin promptly. I will send the car to collect you. Prepare to take notes. —GC

JOY DELETED THE text and kissed her dad goodbye as she prepared to meet the Bentley. She’d woken up Stef with an ice cube in his ear and sprinted out the door when he’d screamed. She hoped that her manager didn’t call home to see how she was feeling after she’d taken an emergency sick day; Joy suspected Stef wouldn’t cover for her.

“Are you packed?” her father asked as she headed for the door.

“No. Not yet.”

He frowned. “Are you packing, as in, ‘in the beginning stages of getting packed’?”

Joy laughed and grabbed her purse. “I’m on it. Don’t worry.”

“I’m your father,” he said. “It’s my job to worry.”

“Later. Gotta go!”

Joy’s hand was on the doorknob as she spied her brother in the hall. He didn’t stop her or berate her, but he knew where she was going. The silence hung between them, filled with unsaid things. Stef despised the Folk, the “Other Thans,” who had hurt their great-grandmother so long ago, but he loved his little sister, and he knew that she loved Ink. That was probably what made it so hard for him to see them together, and why it was so hard for her to tell him that he was one of them—part-Folk—which was probably why she hadn’t yet.

It was another secret standing between them.

It was amazing how close secrets were to lies.

Joy tried not to think about it as she opened the door, crossed the courtyard and the street, and stood waiting at the corner of Wilkes and Main. She tried not to dwell on it as she watched the vintage car take the turn, and attempted to put it out of her mind as she settled into the buttery leather seats, letting sleep overtake her in its customary way as she slipped from Glendale, North Carolina, to Boston town.

She tried very, very hard, but she felt guilty all the same.

Joy blinked awake as the Bentley slowed to a stop in front of the grand brownstone, and she waited politely for the driver to open her passenger door. Wiping the gunk from her eyes, she scraped her heel against the edge of curb just to convince herself once again that this was real—she’d traveled hundreds of miles in a matter of moments during a spell-induced catnap. She’d never get used to it.

Joy climbed the stone steps and rapped the old-fashioned brass knocker twice. She had her tablet under her arm and a new pair of shoes, but she still felt unprepared for her meeting with Graus Claude.

Kurt opened the door and ushered her in with one white-gloved hand. The fact that the other wasn’t tucked into his jacket over the bulge of his gun made her feel better—what did it say about her that she felt comforted by the fact that this wasn’t one of those times when someone was actively trying to kill her?

Joy stepped into the foyer as the Bentley rolled away in a hush of white-rimmed tires. She followed Kurt as he walked through the cream-colored foyer, down the long hallway toward the great double doors of the Bailiwick’s office.

“Any hint of what I’m in for?” Joy whispered.

Kurt said nothing, only knocked upon the ironwood doors and then opened them both at once. He was in butler mode—silent, efficient, precise, unhelpful. Joy sighed and walked inside.

“Ah, Miss Malone.” Graus Claude got up from his enormous, thronelike chair and stood behind the great mahogany desk. The grandiose amphibian stood eight feet at the shoulder, his hunchback somewhat lessened under a tailored pinstripe suit with extra-wide lapels. All four of his arms ended in crisp cuffs folded back from his manicured claws, and his smile was full of sharp teeth. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured to one of the chairs facing him with two of his hands; the third clicked the wireless mouse and the fourth flipped open a pocket watch on a chain. “We have a lot to go over in a regretfully brief time, so I shall begin my duties as your sponsor in the Twixt with all due haste.” The gentleman toad’s icy blue gaze swept over her. “I would advise you take notes,” he said. “Starting now.”

“Right,” Joy said, flipping her tablet and attaching the keyboard. She placed it on the edge of the desk and clicked open a new document.

“Now then,” the Bailiwick said, lumbering out from behind the desk. “Since you have already accepted your True Name, there is no need to go into a detailed synopsis. Your unique sigil will protect you from undo harm and direct spell manipulation, save from those to whom you give it willingly.” He paused, giving weight to his words. “This is something I do not recommend.” Joy underlined the sentence in her document as he continued. “However, my research indicates that your case falls neatly between two known categories—that of a changeling and that of a halfling.” He threaded two clawed hands together while the others gestured as he spoke. “A changeling is a Folk child, disguised as a human child, who is switched shortly after birth for the human mother to raise out of infancy—” He paused at Joy’s look of horror. “This practice rarely occurs anymore.”

Joy rolled her eyes. “Why? Did somebody finally figure out that it was wrong?”

Graus Claude’s head stilled as his eyes narrowed. “There has not been a birth in the Twixt for over a thousand years. It is considered a sensitive subject.”

Joy blinked. “Oh.”

The Bailiwick smoothed the gold watch chain against his side. “As I was saying,” he continued, “halflings, on the other hand, are the product of a Folk-human pairing.” His palsied shake returned as he circled the stone basin of floating lily pads. “While, technically, you would not be a halfling—I might estimate closer to a two-to-the-sixth-power-ling—if we theorize that those with the Sight are descendants of mixed heritage, then this category would most aptly suit your situation. In fact, it serves our purposes nicely as halflings traditionally make their way back to the Twixt by their own means, like hatchling turtles making their way home to sea.” He gave a solemn nod. “We can use this to explain your unusually dramatic and unanticipated arrival Under the Hill.”

Joy finished typing and looked up at Graus Claude’s expectant expression.

“Okay,” she said. “Great.”

“O-kay,” Graus Claude rumbled and took a deep, bellows breath. “As you know, the Folk are few and thus bloodshed is highly discouraged.” She all but felt the Bailiwick’s stare touch her shoulder, the place where her Grimson’s mark burned. Inq had put it there after Joy had killed the Red Knight; her act of self-defense was only considered acceptable because the assassin had broken the Edict. “Indeed, this is one of the reasons that the Scribes were created—to take on the risks inherent in marking humans claimed by the Folk without putting any of our own people in danger.”

“But Ink and Inq are your people,” Joy said, turning in her chair. She rankled at bigotry in either world. “They are part of the Twixt, too.”

Graus Claude shifted his elephantine feet. His shoes were topped in immaculate peach spats. “Technically, Master Ink and Mistress Inq are not Folk, per se,” the Bailiwick said. “They are homunculi, constructed instruments that attained consciousness over time. While they are, indeed, part of the Twixt, they are not, strictly speaking, part of the Folk. They were made, not born.”

“So it’s okay to put them at risk,” Joy said hotly. “Sort of like stealing babies?”

The Bailiwick sighed. “Miss Malone, this is not an ethical debate. Please, try to stay on topic.” Joy chewed the inside of her cheek and typed The Council Sucks!!! in bold font. Graus Claude either didn’t see it or chose to ignore it as he ambled past. “This paucity of numbers has created a symbiotic network among the Folk, a web of alliances, threats and favors that have ensured the collective safety and status of practically everyone within the Twixt. That network must now adapt to include you.” He paused by her chair as if to emphasize the point. Joy felt a warm breath puff her hair. She kept typing. “The Folk must find a place for you and will attempt to weave you into their matrices like so many spiders spinning their webs. They will wish to sway you to their favor, bow to their behest, absorb your resources into their positions of power—in essence, the Folk will jockey to claim you under their influence.” He brushed away a line of imaginary dust. “This will be cloaked in etiquette at best and intrigue at worst. My charge is to educate you on the finer points of protocol and proper behavior so that you may forge your own alliances wisely and not place yourself in any undo danger by giving offense.”

“Danger?” Joy said, looking up from the keys. “What danger? I thought you said that the Folk can’t off one another.”

“Well, certainly they can—” he said with a casual flip of one hand. “The Red Knight was an excellent case in point. By triggering fresh incarnations after the Council’s initial binding spell was cast, the new Knight was not included under the Edict and therefore was unaffected by the rule, free to hunt without recrimination. In essence, the spell did not call him by his True Name, and therefore, he was not bound to obey it. A neat little loophole you closed up nicely.” The Bailiwick tapped the basin’s edge. “But do not make the same mistake that many mortals do—just because you cannot be killed outright does not mean that you cannot die due to injury, foolishness or being maneuvered into a less-than-desirable position.” He smiled, all teeth. “It is one of the finer diversions of a prolonged existence, the subtle art of abiding by the rules that govern our world whilst applying a deft hand to their creative interpretation.” He raised one manicured claw. “If you were to change an enemy into a tree or a fly or bury them a thousand feet underground, then, technically, you would not have killed them, but it can make life considerably inconvenient for the offender, not to mention quite brief.” Joy stared at the giant toad’s beatific smile. He noticed her expression and lowered his head to hers. “Therefore, the most prudent thing to do is not to offend.” They locked eyes for a long moment. Graus Claude tapped her screen. “Write that down.”

She did.

For the next several hours, she dutifully typed everything that the Bailiwick dictated about the Council, its representatives, the Hall and Under the Hill, the Glen—the First Forest, which was how the town of Glendale got its name—as well as outlining several key Houses and Courts that divided the Folk into categories based on their origins or common alliances. Some of them were familiar, like Water, Earth, Forest and Aether, others had strange names like the Middle Kingdom, the Fortunate Isles or the Silver Ley Axis, but whenever she tried asking about them, she was immediately shushed and ordered to keep typing.

“When you are greeted by your given name, you must respond with grace, with thanks and in kind,” he said. “If you do not know a person’s given name, then they have you at a disadvantage and have asserted themselves into the superior position. This can be counteracted if you know their proper title, address or that of their superiors...” Graus Claude paced the room as he orated, recollecting details and nuances and innumerable ways one could possibly offend someone or attempt to avoid domination, sometimes mumbling vague complaints under his breath.

“By the swells, this is going to take forever...”

“Sounds painful,” Joy muttered as she typed.

Graus Claude stopped. “What was that?”

“Sorry,” Joy said and cracked her knuckles over the keyboard. “I know this is serious. I’m just getting punchy staring at the screen.”

“No.” The hunchbacked frog drew closer. “What did you say?”

Joy swallowed, wondering if she had already given some offense. Graus Claude hadn’t covered Folk swearing. “Um... I said, ‘Sounds painful’ having the swells.” She tucked her hands under her lap. “‘By the swells’? Get it?”

The Bailiwick examined her face, staring into one eye, then the next. “You should not have heard that,” he said, grimacing, eyes narrowing to icy slits. “He said you were not Water, but then how...?”

Joy was growing increasingly uncomfortable under his close scrutiny and the proximity of his many teeth. “Who said?”

Graus Claude made a sound like waves crashing together, driving flotsam into the undertow. Joy was surprised that she recognized it.

“The hippocamp?” Joy said. “Oh. He said I had an eelet.”

“An eelet?” Graus Claude said, surprised. “Where did you get an eelet?”

“From Dennis Thomas,” she said. “Before he turned me over to Aniseed, back when he’d asked me to deliver a message to Ink. He tipped me a seashell, which evidently had a thing inside it that went into my ear—” Even talking about it made Joy want to stick a finger in her ear and fish it out. “It lets me hear Water Folk.” She debated trying to pronounce the water horse’s name but quickly ditched the idea. “The hippocamp told me that this eelet was some royal, deep-water breed.”

Graus Claude rose up, nearing his full height, and stared down on her.

“You always bring me the most unusual surprises, Miss Malone,” he said. “As your sponsor, I imagine that I shall grow to expect them over the years.” Joy wasn’t certain if this was meant to be a compliment. He reached one claw out and tapped the tablet. “Keep typing.”

Joy’s hands were stiff and the pads of her fingers pink and swollen by the time Kurt entered with a rolling tea tray and a carafe of freshly squeezed orange juice. Joy inhaled a tall glass in several gulps. She had begun to feel the effects of going too long without food, but hadn’t wanted to risk annoying Graus Claude despite the growing headache and winking lights on the edge of her vision. Kurt was both aware of her blood sugar and possessed excellent timing.

She poured herself another glass. “If having the Sight means that I am part-Folk, then why haven’t any others been found out before now?” Joy asked her question while the Bailiwick sipped his tea so that she could not possibly be accused of interrupting him again. It was sneaky, but she was desperate for answers.

“Well,” Graus Claude said, warming to the topic, “I must admit that I do not know how many humans born with the Sight were ever marked, let alone had experienced prolonged involvement with the Twixt or were otherwise affected by such a wide variety of individuals from our community as have you.” He wiped his lips with several napkins.

Joy scoffed, “That’s because you blinded them first.”

“Which, logically, would place them under Sol Leander’s auspice,” Graus Claude mused. “They would be survivors of an unprovoked attack.”

“Ugh! I couldn’t stand being under his auspice,” Joy said and tried not to think too hard about how Monica, her best friend, had Sol Leander’s mark—a mark she’d all but put there and one that she could have erased...but hadn’t. Guilt still burned like a slow coal in her gut. The idea of Sol Leander watching over her made her ill.

“Fortunately, this was a fate you were spared by becoming lehman to Master Ink,” the giant toad said. “Still, if those with the Sight are, indeed, descendants of our bloodlines, then one would think that, as survivors of an unmitigated assault, they would have been claimed by Sol Leander and discovered for what they were. And, if not, why not?” He pursed his olive lips. “It would be a closed loop to both abide by the rules and yet refuse to acknowledge claims. Hmm. Perhaps the base theory is flawed...” The Bailiwick settled himself back into his chair. “There are a great number of Houses that account for all the denizens of the Courts, as well as old families, oath societies, political factions and formal alliances that make up the modern Accords. Any one of them might have records about a circumstance resembling yours, yet none have come forward.” He spread his four hands. “Therefore, it is all a matter of where you fit into the Twixt.”

“So where do I fit?” Joy asked. “What House do I belong to?”

Graus Claude placed his teacup in its saucer. “Usually that is a matter of the maternal or paternal progenitor stepping forward and acknowledging their claim,” he said. “However, since we have only recently entertained the possibility that those with the Sight share a common ancestry, I would not imagine the Malones have been registered as being under Folk scrutiny.”

“The McDermotts,” Joy said. “I inherited the Sight from my mother’s side, not my father’s.”

“Hmm. It is good to be aware of such things,” he said as he applied a pat of rich butter to his bread with even strokes. “The Folk take pains to keep track of their progeny, else the past has ways of catching up when it is least expected and most inconvenient.” Graus Claude lifted another one of his covered plate lids and began dicing a huge steak into pieces with the dance of four hands. “In any event, we can simply wait to witness your change,” he said casually. “Then your genealogy should become fairly evident.”

“Change?” Joy said. “What change?”

The Bailiwick lifted a polite finger to wait as he skewered four pieces of steak into his mouth. He swallowed. “Once you manifested your True Name and accepted your place within the Twixt, the change would have begun,” he said simply. “Hence why I described you as being betwixt categories, as it were—halfling and changeling.” He dabbed at his wide chin. “Essentially, after taking on your True Name, you will take on your true nature as one of the Folk.”

“What?”

Graus Claude blithely ignored her outburst as he stabbed more cubes of steak. “The change is already under way,” he said. “I suspect it began when Master Ink first marked you, alighting the magic in your blood.” He tapped one of his skewers against the side of the plate. “It is my theory that if those with the Sight are marked by one of the Folk, it ignites the latent, recessive genes into activity. The signatura ritual brings it to the surface, completing it. Or, perhaps, it is triggered by heightened physical response—panic, elation, fear, desire.” He gave a double shrug. “As this has never happened before, I can only hazard an educated guess, but you ought to be experiencing some of the effects by now.”

Like heat and light and a glow in her veins—the elation of dancing and the pain of grief. She’d felt...something. What happened at the funeral? Has it already begun? Joy hugged her arms to keep herself from shaking.

“But I don’t want to change!” Joy said with spiky terror, her mind racing through the myriad of misshapen creatures that she’d met inside the Twixt. “I don’t want to grow feathers or claws or whatever—” a horrific thought struck her “—I don’t want to be invisible to my parents!” Panic scrabbled inside her, roiling acid hot and squeezing her voice thin. “I want to go to college! I want to graduate and have kids someday! I want to be seen on TV!” Joy didn’t know where all the words were coming from; they were bubbling out of her mouth in a rush. She thought she might throw up. “I’m still human—part-human—and I want to keep that!” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I want to keep being me!”

Graus Claude gave one of his deep-chested sighs. “Miss Malone, I feel that we keep returning to this same conversation, ad infinitum,” he said. “You, yourself, were the one who chose to exercise this option, and now you are having some difficulty accepting its outcome.” His gaze grew sharp. “Did you think this is an honor we bestow upon a mere human? Your choice—and here I must emphasize the word choice—was to join this world. And you have—or you will—when the change is complete.” He lifted an enormous, fluted glass filled with water in two hands. “Those are the rules, Miss Malone, not guidelines or suggestions—they are the very words that created this world. They are.”

“Rules can be changed,” she said. “Rules can be broken.”

“Not by you,” Graus Claude said dangerously. “And not by me. Nor by anyone on the Council or anyone in this world—and they would all tell you the same.” He huffed like a sneeze. “Human laws can be changed, Miss Malone, minds can be changed, fates may be altered, and fashions might fall out of favor, but the rules that created our world were the ones that cleaved order from chaos, light from darkness, and forged rational thought out of the wild abyss. They are absolute. They cannot be changed.” A contemplative quiet passed over his features, which faded as he set down his glass. “Even the human world recognizes the power of words that set the wheels of life into motion. Do not presume that you are an exception.”

“I’ve been one before,” she said, which earned her a darker glance. “Even you admit that my circumstances are unusual.”

The Bailiwick’s expression didn’t change in the slightest. “I can hardly contain my astonishment that the word unusual would be closely associated with your person, Miss Malone. In point of fact, during our brief association, I find that adjective to be most appropriate.” He sat back in his chair, which settled with its familiar, wooden groan. “But not this time. Despite circumstantial evidence, it would seem likely that you will follow the pattern woven into the very fabric of life in the Twixt. Best accept that inevitability as the choice you have made.”

Joy sputtered but couldn’t help remembering Ink’s advice when she’d first encountered the Bailiwick. Respect him. Always. She counted to ten in her head. Then upped it to twenty, clamping her fingers under her armpits to keep herself still. She could buy a glamour if she had to, right? She could look the same. But she would know the difference—she and all the Twixt. She couldn’t imagine looking into a mirror and seeing an unfamiliar face any more than she could imagine looking into a mirror and seeing nothing at all.

“What is going to happen?” Joy asked. “What about me is going to change?”

Graus Claude sat back, his ire abating as he wove his double set of fingers over his chest. “The changeling acclamation can affect any number of characteristics, depending on one’s genealogical source,” he said. “Once you adopted your signatura, you placed yourself within the magics that make up the Twixt, the last vestiges of magic on Earth. Just as you accepted the Twixt, now the Twixt must accept you.” He leaned forward slightly. “You must adjust yourself and your expectations to the rules that bind our world—the rules that will shape and govern the rest of your life—and that, I suspect, will be the thing that will change you the most.”

Joy tried to follow the implications of his pretty speech. “I’m becoming magic?”

Graus Claude looked askance. “You are magic, Miss Malone,” he said. “All humans and places who have a modicum of magic are the very people who are chosen by the Folk and thereby claimed under an auspice, subsequently marked by one of the Scribes. You were marked by Master Ink, therefore it is no wonder that you should have originally possessed some of that magic in the first place, having been one with the Sight, and now that magic has been activated, either instigated by his hand or by your own actions during your latest display in the Council Hall.” His browridge quirked. “Indeed, given your history, we should have expected something like this.”

Joy marveled at the ever-widening definition of something like this.

There was a knock at the door, and Kurt entered bearing a silver tray with a single calling card. The Bailiwick wiped each of his four hands on cloth napkins before taking it primly in his claws. Graus Claude squinted at the words, and two hands pushed against the arms of the chair as he heaved himself up, still staring at the piece of card stock. One hand folded the napkin over his plate as the fourth brushed crumbs from his suit.

“Let him in,” Graus Claude said.

Kurt bowed and departed. The Bailiwick eyed Joy, who had stopped eating.

“Remember what I told you,” he said quietly.

Before she could reply, Kurt opened the door and Sol Leander walked in.

Joy’s stomach flipped as he strode across the room, his sunken eyes sharp and ferret-bright beneath his dramatic widow’s peak. The cloak of starlight wheeled about his legs in a haughty sweep, and his arms were tucked into bell sleeves that made him look like a rather severe-looking monk or a vampiric Jedi knight. He bowed to the Bailiwick, who inclined his head in return.

“Welcome, Sol Leander,” Graus Claude said magnanimously. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”

The Tide’s representative stared right past Joy and rendered what he must have thought was a smile. It looked like it hurt.

“I am pleased to find you both here,” he said. Joy privately suspected that he had spies watching her and had known that she was here all along. When he spun to face her, she flinched. “I came to bid you welcome, on behalf of the Council.” He raised his hands in grandiose greeting. “Welcome, Joy Malone. Welcome home to the Twixt!” He slid his hands together, tucking them once more beneath his sleeves. Joy was surprised that his voice held not a hint of mockery. Sol Leander was very, very good at this game.

She, on the other hand, was new at it. Dangerously so. Joy could feel the Bailiwick’s eyes on the back of her head. She’d just written this down. Respond with grace, with thanks and in kind.

“Thank you, Councilex Leander,” she said with a bow.

“Very good,” Sol Leander said as he turned to her sponsor. “She can be taught! You are to be commended, Graus Claude. Proper manners and etiquette will, of course, be essential for her upcoming debut.”

Graus Claude’s left eye gave an infinitesimal twitch.

“Debut?” he inquired politely. “What debut?”

“Why, the one to welcome Miss Malone, of course,” Sol Leander said as he produced an envelope from one sleeve, signed in elaborate script. He handed it to the Bailiwick. “You were right, Councilex Claude—this is a rare and exciting opportunity that should not be challenged, but celebrated! It’s been far too long since we welcomed an addition into our world, and we have suffered far too much loss as of late—don’t you agree?” His smile was reptilian. “What better way to revive our community spirit than a gala?” He gave a small nod to Joy, who stood transfixed by the exchange. She had never seen Graus Claude struck speechless before. “I am here to extend a formal invitation to yourself and Miss Malone. The festivities will be in your honor, of course,” Sol Leander said to Joy. “You are to be presented to the Council and then to your people, the entirety of the Twixt, in order to take your place among them.” His eyes flicked over her shoulders and knees. “Proper attire is required. Masks are optional, although there will certainly be no need to hide your face—” his dark eyes glittered “—you are the reason all of this is happening, after all.” The pointed double meaning wasn’t lost on Joy. She pressed her fingers together to keep them from twisting into childish knots.

“I see,” Graus Claude said softly, his tone hinting that he comprehended far more than what was actually being said.

“Yes,” Sol Leander said. “I imagine so.” He gave a bow to the Bailiwick and then to Joy, his eyes hard. “The gala promises to be an event that will equal your esteem.” He inclined his head. “Formal attire. In your honor. In three days’ time.”

“Three days?”

Joy wasn’t sure whether she or Graus Claude said it first. Sol Leander looked mildly surprised.

“Naturally the Council wished to make immediate reparation for the unfortunate circumstances concerning Miss Malone,” he said. “Therefore, it was deemed urgent in order to put all of this sordid business behind us and continue forward as a people, united. You, yourself, Councilex Claude, called for such action before regarding Miss Malone’s necessary Edict and referendum.” Sol Leander lifted his shoulders and stood straight as an obelisk. “It is a matter of honor.”

The Bailiwick sat back in his chair, the groaning wood sounding like a threatening growl. He passed the invitation from hand to hand until it rested quite neatly in the center of his desk.

“Quite,” he said, over-enunciating the t.

Sol Leander stepped back with a flourish. “Until the Imminent Return,” he said with a bow.

“Until the Imminent Return,” Graus Claude answered.

Casting a last, parting glance at Joy, the Tide’s representative bent neatly at the waist as if to speak to her in confidence. “And I would advise that you keep your friend Miss Monica Reid well away,” he said with more than a hint of warning. “Her safekeeping is in everyone’s best interests. We are allied in this, at least, Miss Malone.” And without another word, he swept through the door, his starlight cloak a swirling flick of finality.

The office doors clicked closed.

Graus Claude leaned heavily to the side, one hand over his eyes. Joy wet her lips, her mind whirling in mad, panicked circles.

“What’s that about the Imminent Return?” she said, finally. It seemed strange for Council members to part with a toast.

The Bailiwick ran two of his hands over his face as the two others cleared away any trinkets on the desk. “It’s an old expression that hearkens to a mythical ‘someday’ when we won’t have to play these sorts of games any longer.” He sighed deeply and considered the invitation. “Well, that’s done it nice and neat,” he said, tapping a claw against the seal. “I could not have designed it better myself.”

Joy wound the edge of her shirt around her thumb. “I take it this gala isn’t a good thing?”

“Oh, a welcome gala is a marvelous thing—all finery and majesty, with riches to dazzle your every sense, opulence and decadence beyond anything imaginable. A parade of marvels and magics set upon a stage of high drama, low morals and clandestine affairs,” Graus Claude said, smiling. “However, three days...” He shook his head. “Three days? It’s unconscionable. And they agreed?” His many claws clicked against the desk. “Certainly, as your sponsor, I have only myself to blame. I suspect Maia is behind it. She entertains a particular delight in seeing me squirm.”

Joy waved a hand to get the Bailiwick’s attention. “Excuse me?” she said, leaning forward. “What are we talking about here? Because it sounds to me like this is just an elaborate excuse to let me fall on my face and make you look bad.”

“Precisely.” Graus Claude beamed. “Very well done!” He seemed genuinely pleased, which was strangely flattering. “Sol Leander has successfully woven a rope of many threads and expects you to tie the noose and hang yourself with it.” The Bailiwick squeezed a single fat fist. “Therefore, it is our job to make certain that he is the one who chokes on it instead.” He sounded positively vicious.

“Lovely,” Joy muttered. “So what do we do?”

“What, indeed?” he said. “There is simply no way to teach you all that you need to know before being presented formally to the community at large. A proper gala to welcome a new member into society takes months, years—perhaps he convinced them on an expedient time line given your mortal nature. More likely, certain favors changed hands. In any case, it is an effective way to make your introduction uncomfortable in the least, and virtually guarantee a number of long-term social casualties. Formal etiquette is very strict, and many in the Twixt are easily offended—they’ll use it as an excuse to cause all sorts of trouble. ‘Bridges burned wound lurking trolls,’ as they say.” He paused at Joy’s baffled expression. “Another old saying,” he explained. “Like the Imminent Return. Regardless, you will be expected to know how to present yourself accordingly and demonstrate your ability to establish your status in the pecking order, selecting your supporters and spurning your detractors in equal measure. Your presentation must be staged with precision and care, for among the Folk, impressions are everything and memories are long.” Two of his hands smoothed down his lapels as he came to a sudden realization. “Good heavens, I’ll have to contact my tailor...”

“Hello? Newbie halfling here who will be out of town those three days and currently hasn’t a clue what’s going on.” Joy pointed to herself. “I can’t go.”

“Correction—you must go,” Graus Claude said. “It is a welcome gala being held in your honor, after all—it will probably be the event of the century. To snub this invitation would cast yourself as a social pariah, which, trust me, is not a viable option.” His hands wove themselves together in pairs. “And you have nothing to worry about concerning distance or time. Indeed, there are far more serious things to worry about.”

“Like if I’m going to grow wings?”

“Don’t be absurd.” Graus Claude sniffed. “You would have sprouted fledgling nubs by now.”

Joy dropped her head into her hands and felt sick.

“Now, now, don’t fret overmuch—these things take time and, considering how dilute your lineage, you may be long in the tooth before you develop fangs.” Joy shot him a look. “Or gills,” he amended. “Actually, you might be quite fetching in spots.”

“Stop,” Joy said, closing her eyes and rubbing her hands over her knees. “One conniption fit at a time, okay?” She took a deep breath through her nose and out through her mouth. “If there’s no way that I can possibly learn everything before I immortally offend someone and smear both our reps, what options does that leave us with?”

Graus Claude gave one of his wide, toothy smiles.

“That’s simple,” he said. “We cheat.”

* * *

Joy picked up a pearl from a small pile spread across the Bailiwick’s desk. He was inspecting each one carefully, comparing their size and color and hue. It was hard for her to imagine Graus Claude ordering her a dress to match. Ball gown, she reminded herself, for my welcome gala. It was too ridiculous to take seriously.

“Is this really necessary?” she said.

“Trust me, Miss Malone, I believe this is our best option, given the current situation.” He opened his hand expectantly. Joy placed the pearl into his palm.

“I don’t understand what this has to do with my learning enough proper etiquette in time for the gala.”

Graus Claude grinned. “Leave it to me.”

“So I can stop typing?”

“Very droll,” he said while rolling the pearls between two plates of smoked glass suspended over a mirror. Joy couldn’t quite see how the thing held itself together, but Graus Claude stared intently at each pearl with a jeweler’s eyepiece jammed under his brow and several thin instruments in each of his hands. Long tubules ran from what looked like a brass coronet on his forehead to a nest of bulbs at its base. The emerald lamp shone close to his chin, highlighting every crag of his face in white gold. “You continue your work and I shall continue mine.” The Bailiwick went back to tinkering and muttering. “Think they can outsmart me, do they...?”

Figuring that she was still hearing him through the eelet, Joy decided not to comment. She turned back to the long list of official acknowledgment protocols on the tablet in her lap. Eye contact is mandatory excepting when bowing or curtseying to those greater than two stations above your current rank, whereupon eyes are lowered and lifted prior to attaining an upright position...bend at the knees, ankles parallel...hind in, chest out, don’t swallow as it is considered lewd...

A flicker of movement caught her eye. She stopped typing, grateful for the interruption—any interruption—Joy would have willingly hugged Hasp for the chance to escape. The outcast aether sprite may have been an evil toady for Briarhook, but an unexpected kidnapping certainly wouldn’t be dull! She wasn’t sure if her eyes, her back or her hands hurt worse.

Kurt opened the door and stepped inside without so much as a knock. That’s strange. Joy felt a prickle of premonition.

Inq marched into the room, lifting her hand to her eye as the four-armed toad glanced up, brow furrowing in confusion. She spoke before he did, crisp and sharp.

“I demand entrance to the Bailiwick of the Twixt.”

Graus Claude froze. His icy blue eyes glazed over, growing milky like cataracts, his wide mouth open in midbellow. His great jaw yawned with the weight of gravity, unhinging with a tiny clack and opening impossibly wider, lips peeling back from the rows of sharp, pointy teeth. Joy watched in fascinated horror as the giant amphibian’s tongue curled back upon itself, pale pink and gleaming, and adhered to the roof of his mouth.

Beneath the Bailiwick’s tongue were stairs, going down.

“Guard the door,” Inq said without looking at Kurt. He moved to obey. She placed one boot on the edge of the bottom lip and gestured to Joy. “Follow me.”

Joy gaped, attempting to make sense of what was happening, what she was seeing. She knew her eyes, at least, could be liars.

“Are you kidding me?” she asked, looking at Inq, then Kurt. “I mean, are you freaking kidding me?” The Bailiwick showed no awareness of any of them, or, for that matter, anything at all. He didn’t look alive any longer—it was as if he’d become a statue, a piece of furniture, like a wardrobe with its doors thrown open, exposing his insides to the world. Joy waved at his maw. “What did you do to him?”

“I’ve invoked his raison d’être,” Inq said simply. “And I’m entering the Bailiwick, as are you. I want to show you something.”

Joy looked to Kurt. “Is this normal?”

The muscular bodyguard did not so much as twitch. “He is the Bailiwick,” Kurt said, as if that explained everything. Which it didn’t.

Joy pointed behind her. “There is a stairway under his tongue!”

Inq smiled slyly. “Precisely,” she said. “Follow me.”

And she stepped over his bottom lip, which zipped a line of blue fire just behind his teeth.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “It always does that.” Inq winked. “Watch your step!”

And she marched down, down, down into the Bailiwick’s throat.

Joy looked desperately around the room. Kurt stood in front of the office doors, staring ahead, politely averting his eyes. She wondered if Kurt was there to keep people from coming in or to keep her from running out. She edged closer to the gaping maw—widened to the full height of a man—and tentatively placed a foot on the first step. It was solid stone, worn slightly smooth in the center, and was the first of many going down into darkness.

Joy hesitantly shifted her weight, trying not to think too much about her head passing under the frog’s upper lip, stepping into his mouth, under his tongue. The line of blue fire zipped by her feet, changing to ruby red as it passed. Joy stumbled and nearly tripped on the stair. Her hand shot out to steady herself. Her fingers gave under the moist inner cheek.

“Ew,” she muttered and wiped her hand against her jeans.

“Come on,” Inq’s voice coaxed from somewhere down below. “It’s safe.” Inq’s words rose up, unseen. “In fact, it’s probably the safest place in the world.”

“Small comfort,” Joy muttered as she swallowed her fear and took the next step down.

The stairs descended into a dark tunnel with a yellow, misty light at the end. It didn’t smell like a dungeon and didn’t feel like a trap, but the stairway itself felt very old and the air was very still. The passageway brightened as she continued down the steps, growing slightly warmer, friendlier and smelling faintly of grass.

Joy blinked as she walked into a verdant green meadow that spread out to the horizon under a soft, sunny sky. She and Inq stood on the edge of an ancient wood, shaded by towering trees and twisting, leafy vines. The ground smelled loamy and rich and brown. A clear, sparkling brook chuckled over smooth stones. There was a hushed whisper as a breeze tickled the grass and clapped the leaves, but Joy could not feel the air on her skin. Despite what her eyes were telling her, everything felt like a held breath.

Inq squatted next to a patch of periwinkle flowers. She looked truly happy for the first time...ever. It was the look on her face that made Joy feel that it was okay to take those last, few steps into the impossible grove. She crossed the last riser and blinked up at the hazy suggestion of a sun.

“Where are we?” Joy asked. “And don’t say ‘inside the Bailiwick.’ That doesn’t explain any of this.”

“Doesn’t it?” Inq chirped, rising to stand. “The Bailiwick isn’t a title like a bailiff or a duke—it’s a place. The Bailiwick is the comptroller of the space between worlds. Specifically, this space.” She ran her flawless fingers over the tops of the grass. “Imagine this is a pocket sewn inside the Twixt. A little pocket universe, a tiny closet in space and time.”

Joy turned around in a circle. The base of the stair floated behind them with meadow fading out in all directions into an indistinct blur. The horizon was the exact color of the sunlight overhead. It was as if the whole world bowed at the edges and slipped under itself like tucked-in sheets. The slippery perspective made Joy’s head swim. She squeezed her eyes shut momentarily. She could only manage one word:

“Why?”

Inq’s face grew serious. The pink-and-green sparks in her eyes flickered like flames. “To protect a door,” she said. “A door built between worlds—and shortly afterward, we had to use it to protect something else.”

Her eyes flicked over Joy’s shoulder. Joy turned and saw a tall woman standing by a tree. She was dressed in a long, flowing gown belted low on her hips, and her arms were covered in purple-black glyphs, her hair long and black and shining. Her eyes were as old as centuries. And when she smiled, two dimples appeared over a tiny, button chin.

“Hello, Joy,” she said. “My daughter has told me so much about you.”

SIX

JOY STARED AT the tall woman standing on the edge of a forest inside the belly of Graus Claude. Many things slid into place, but too many others slipped away, defying reason and sanity.

“You’re...” Joy began, but wasn’t sure how to finish. “Ink and Inq,” she tried again. “You made them?”

The woman drew her fingers down the bark of a tree. Calligraphy shimmered under her touch. “Yes, but they are their own persons now. Just as I designed them to be.” She gestured to Inq, who hurried forward and tucked herself into the crook of her mother’s arm, resting her heart-shaped face against her shoulder. The family resemblance—if that was what Joy could call it—was unmistakable.

“You’re their mother,” Joy whispered. Inq and Ink shaped themselves to look like her. Joy glanced at Inq. No, she remembered, Inq was the one who shaped them both. She was older. She’d been first. She’d known all along.

Joy swallowed, heart hammering. “Does Ink know?”

Inq shook her head. “No.”

The words echoed in her ears, boring into her brain.

“What do you mean, ‘No’?” Joy snapped. “You can’t tell me you’re hiding Ink’s mother in a pocket universe for his own good!”

“Of course not,” Inq said. “She’s hiding here to save her life.”

Joy found herself strangely unwilling to take another step. She was trapped along the edge of this world in a secret corner of the Twixt, all but feeling her skin bubbling with nerves. She felt lost, caged, betrayed by both her frenemies and by her own, changing body, afraid that any one of her reactions might trigger something new.

“Okay, stop. Just stop.” Joy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Look, I’ve had a long, strange day, but this is beyond too much,” she said, rubbing her hands against her jeans. “We are inside the Bailiwick.”

Inq nodded. “Yes.”

“Why?” Joy crossed her arms. “Why bring me here?”

The woman drifted forward. “I am told that you can help set us free.”

“Oh,” Joy said, as if that explained everything. Which it didn’t. “Okay.” She glanced at Inq. Joy noticed that her eyes were the color of her mother’s sigils—a deep indigo-black. So were Ink’s. A family trait. “Can you elaborate?”

“It’s complicated,” Inq said.

“Really?” Joy said. “Try me.”

Inq’s mother stepped to a nearby laurel tree and folded herself gracefully into its cradle of branches, curled to form a perfect seat. “It started years ago, back when our people and yours began forgetting their obligations and grew increasingly at odds.” She tilted her head back. “Many of our people had been enslaved, tricked into servitude. Retributions were swift and the death toll was rising, birthing a mutual sentiment of distrust and fear.” Joy glanced aside—it was a familiar story throughout history. “So the King and Queen decided to strategically withdraw, taking the bulk of our people out of harm’s way.”

“Wait a minute,” Joy said. “What King and Queen? The Folk are ruled by the Council.”

The statuesque woman turned her head. Unlike Ink and Inq, her eyes looked human, but they still had that cavernous, fathomless quality that she’d given to the Scribes. Joy felt like she was falling into them. “The King and Queen rule over the Twixt, the land which they cleaved from the elemental wild.” Her answer left no room for doubt. “When they chose to leave, they left behind a skeleton crew of loyalists in order to maintain our obligations and uphold our honor, fulfilling our pledge to sustain the magic inherent in the world and look after our own. They created a Council to rule in their stead, to be their voice while they were in exile.” Her smile faded like the sun slipping behind a cloud. “They chose a courier who would visit the door and ferry messages back and forth between worlds, bringing the King and Queen’s wisdom to their Courts.” Her words grew heavy. “The courier would also serve as the gatekeeper, the one who would tell them when it was time to come home.” The woman looked wistful. Her gaze lifted to the branches waving in a tousled breeze that Joy still could not feel.

“Where did they go?” she asked.

“They fashioned a door,” the woman said. “A door between worlds, and escaped to a safe haven on the other side.”

Another world? Joy wanted to ask more, but Inq interrupted her thoughts.

“The Council was supposed to open the door when it was safe to return,” Inq said from her perch in the grass. “Or, if the humans ended up killing all of the Council members, the strongest and wisest of the Folk, then the door would open automatically and the King and Queen would return to avenge their people.” She looked at her mother, fierce with love. “But the courier stopped coming,” she said. “And then there were whispers of a coup—that those who remained here could govern themselves and no longer had need or want for a king and queen.”

“I suspect they were bitter,” Inq’s mother said softly. “They felt abandoned and afraid. It was not easy to stay behind in this world.”

Inq swiped her fingers along the fluffy tops of weeds. “Just so, their loyalty should have been absolute.” She glanced at Joy. “Graus Claude and I decided to hide her inside the Bailiwick, the entrance to the hidden doorway, until we could identify the traitors and end the coup.”

“I don’t understand,” Joy said to the regal woman lounging in her throne of branches. “What does this have to do with you?”

The woman smoothed her dress over her knees. “Of all of my family, I was the only one who chose to remain in the Twixt,” she said. “And while I was not a full member of the Council, I was a convenient figurehead—the youngest descendant of my parents’ rule.”

Joy coughed on her spit. “You’re a princess?” she said. Of course. I’m supposed to help rescue a princess of the lost King and Queen. How perfectly fairy tale.

The tall woman smiled. “In a sense,” she admitted. “I felt that, of all my sisters, I could do more good here.” She gestured with her rune-painted arms. “Ca’cleuth me teer po’ur,” she murmured. “I write to remember.” Her dark eyes—deep, brown eyes—lifted as she gazed at Joy. “When the King and Queen prepared to leave, we were already investigating the possibility of signaturae—binding the magic of our True Names to symbols which could not be said aloud and, thus, would keep us safe from those who would abuse us. I was in the process of creating both Inq and Ink for the purpose of delivering those marks in our stead and thought that it would only be a little while until we were reunited with our people once again.” She caressed the tree bough, leaving a trail of fading cursive, and slid her fingers over new leaves, each one lit up with spring-green script. “I thought that by remaining behind, I could help hasten their return.”

Joy glanced between the two in the moment of stretched-thin silence. “But something happened,” she guessed. “Something went wrong.”

“Yes,” the princess said softly.

“When we discovered that there was a plot against the royal family, I brought her here, in secret, so she could be outside the bounds of the Twixt,” Inq said. “That way, no spell could touch her, let alone find her. No one else would know.” She glanced back up the stairs. “The only ones who came here were the courier and the other members of the Council—those who could locate and open the door between worlds—the traitor had to be among them. The Bailiwick and I thought that her disappearance would lure the culprit out or, at the very least, it would keep her from harm until we identified the conspirators.” Inq’s voice grew hard. “I waited here, certain that I would see the villain for myself, but no one came.” Inq drew her fingers through the water. “When I went back to report to Graus Claude, I returned to find that the coup had ended.”

Joy frowned. “But that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

Inq looked at Joy as if she were an idiot. “There was no coup because suddenly no one remembered the King and Queen—or that there ever was a King and Queen—or nine princesses, or the rest of their people, or a hidden door between worlds. It was as if they’d forgotten everything but the Council!” Her voice hinted at old frustrations and anger. “And, worse than having forgotten, they could not remember. They could not be convinced that the King and Queen had ever existed. I could not convince the Bailiwick of his function, I could not find anyone who remembered the royal family or that there were thousands of our people sequestered somewhere else, in secret. Worst of all, if the traitor had forgotten about it as well, the crime would be wiped as clean as their memory—the conflict was neatly ended.” She glared at Joy with her startling eyes. “I could not risk anyone finding out that I still retained my memories, in case the traitor was still out there.” She looked at her mother. “I am her only eyes and ears outside of this alcove, out in the world. We have been searching for this traitor since before the Dark Ages. The crime itself has been long forgotten, we have no allies and the trail is cold.” Inq stepped closer to Joy. “Now you understand why I cannot risk being silenced or made obsolete or killed for making mistakes.” Her voice was a whisper. “She depends on me.”

Joy thought back to how all of this started—her being labeled a lehman, Ink’s chosen mortal lover, to cover up the fact that Ink had made a mistake in failing to blind her; that they had to keep up the pretense that the Scribes were infallible, able to be relied on to deliver signaturae without flaw or question, so that neither of them would be considered defective and in need of being replaced. Everything Joy had experienced in the Twixt during the past six months was with the single purpose of keeping the three of them alive. Joy looked again at the princess of the Twixt. Not just the three of us—four. As well as thousands more lost behind a forgotten door.

Her head spun with implications.

“Okay, wait, I understand that someone wanted to overthrow the King and Queen after they left with most of the Folk, and that you worried that they might go after your—” Joy gestured at the princess and struggled to use the word “—mom, and then everyone else seemed to have forgotten all about it and can’t be forced to remember. With you so far,” Joy said and took a deep breath. “But I don’t understand how come you weren’t affected or why you’re telling me.”

The princess rose to her feet. “Inq and Ink were not affected because they are not Folk,” she said. “I made them with my own hands, my own magic, my own words—I am a Maker, like my family. My words have power. Everything you see here, every whorl of wood, every stone, every leaf, every drop of water and each grain of sand I have made while I have been imprisoned here.” Joy’s eyes drank in the whole of the pocket world, trying to imagine every detail created by hand. She tried to step off the grass that curled underfoot as if she were accidentally crushing someone’s art.

“Whatever affected the entirety of the Folk left the Scribes untouched.” The princess considered Joy with interest. “Humans were not affected, either—you’ve retained your memories, unlike the rest of the Folk.” She paused, then amended, “Although I imagine that that is also true of those who escaped—the treachery was limited to the confines of this world, the world of the Twixt. It is why we can have this conversation at all,” she added. “Inq said that, being part-human, you would be able to remember.”

Joy frowned. “I don’t know anything about any King and Queen,” she said. “Or any lost Folk, for that matter. This is the first I’ve ever heard of it.”

“Not you,” Inq said. “Your stories—your myths and legends and literature passed down through the ages. I’ve read them. I know that they’re there.” She counted on her flawless fingers, “Genesis, Exodus, Homer, Shakespeare, Spenser, Chaucer, Yeats, Grimm, Oberon and Titania, Zeus and the Titans, Persephone and Hades, Enki and Ereshkigal, Osiris and Isis, Yul-ryeo and Mago, Inti and Mama Kilya, Dagda and Lugh.” She gasped for more breath. “Tam Lin, Olorun, King Arthur and Gwenhwyfar, Seelie and Unseelie fae, the fairy courts, the Snow Queen, Queen Mab, Morgan le Fey—any of this sound familiar?” Inq gestured at the expanse created by the Maker-Princess in her caged closet world. “Humans remember the past in a way the rest of the Folk cannot. It lives in your stories, which means it lives in you. That means that you can help me, you can do something.”

Joy knew exactly what Inq wanted her to do.

“You want me to help you find the traitors,” she said quietly. “And kill them.”

“If it comes to that,” Inq admitted. “Of course, I suggested simply killing everyone on the Council years ago and forcing the door to open,” she said with a smile. “But it’s hidden down here from all but the Council, and we don’t know where it is. Besides,” she added, “Mother didn’t like it.”

“I do not approve of killing innocents, no,” the princess said. “Even if there is a wickedness among them. It was the reason I chose to stay behind in the first place—too many innocents had suffered death on both sides.” She glanced at Joy. “I understand that you and I share this respect for both worlds.” She knelt and drew her hands through the brook, cupping them together, merging twin handfuls of water. “Once our peoples were one—that, too, has been forgotten. This was our world, a shared world.” She let go with a splash. The liquid clung to her fingers and fell like real water, the light sliding and splashing as she shook droplets from her nails. But the next moment, her hands were instantly dry. It was eerie and somehow horribly sad, how unreal and imaginary it all was. “I would like it best if we could identify the traitors, force them to undo that which they wrought, and thereby locate the door to our King and Queen so that the rest of our people can come home.” She opened her hand to Inq, and they linked their fingers together. “I would like to reunite my family, to see my mother and father and sisters again.”

Joy squirmed around the all-too-familiar fantasy, the tug-of-war, love-and-hate dream of her mother and father getting back together, forgiving and forgetting and becoming a family again. Hers could never really be like that, but she understood the longing. But did someone have to die to make it happen? Worse than death—erased from existence as though they’d never been? Joy winced at the memory of falling into the hollow briar patch and realizing what she had done to the Red Knight.

“Why not forget about ousting the traitors and seeking revenge and concentrate on finding and opening this door?” Joy asked. “It’s got to be somewhere in here, right?”

“The courier alone knew its location,” the princess said. “And no one but the Head of the Council knows the courier’s identity, which was chosen in secret in order to protect and balance the Twixt’s many fractal loyalties. Whoever it was abandoned that task or forgot about it long ago. No one aside from myself and Inq has been here since.”

Joy sighed. “But if you could find the door, you could open it.”

The princess shook her head. “The door cannot open until either the Council members unanimously agree to open it—decreeing that it is safe for the others to return—or it will open automatically when all those on the Council have perished, allowing those on the other side to return to have their revenge.”

“Return?” Joy said. “You mean like the Imminent Return?”

The princess smiled. “It is one of the few memories that remain,” she said. “The old saying may have lost all meaning, but the words cannot be undone. Our traditions are endemic and still contain hints of the truth. Whatever happened to erase their memories, it could not undo it all. In our hearts, we know that our King and Queen will come back to us someday.”

“Returning to Earth from somewhere behind a locked, lost door,” Joy said.

The princess touched the glyphs at her breast. “Those are the rules.”

The words made Joy’s blood pound. She was sick of rules! “Whose rules?”

“Theirs—the King’s and Queen’s,” the woman said. “They created the Twixt by making the rules.”

A cold splash shivered down Joy’s spine, her mind suddenly clear. “The King and Queen made the rules?” she asked. “They were the ones who made the rules of the Twixt?”

The princess nodded sagely. “Yes,” she said. “Of course. That is why they are our King and Queen, the greatest Makers, and why all the Twixt must abide by their rules.” She gestured with a graceful hand. “We surmised that the only way the traitors could have conspired a coup was to somehow negate the First Edict, to forget their loyalty to the King and Queen—you cannot be loyal to that which you do not know exists.”

“So find the traitors, find the door, open the door,” Inq said, counting them out on her fingers. “Presto! Instant Imminent Return.”

“But if no one remembers them...” Joy began, then stopped at the expression on the tall woman’s face. It was a look of pain and loss and hope and despair that she remembered during her own Year of Hell, reflected a hundredfold. A wrenching war of What if? and What then? A prickle crawled over her skin, peppery and uncomfortable.

“They will be able to set things right,” the princess said. “They can revise the rules once they return. Only, we must find the way to bring them back.”

But Joy was no longer listening, her attention riveted by that one sentence: They can revise the rules. Hope blossomed, fierce and fiery, blotting out everything else. She wouldn’t have to change. She could keep her body. She could get out of whatever Sol Leander had in store for her, whatever the Twixt was doing to her, whatever was brewing in her veins—it could stop.

If she could find the King and Queen, then they could change the rules.

“Okay,” Joy said softly before she knew it. “I’ll help.” She turned to Inq. “But on two conditions. First, no assassinations.” She couldn’t say “no killing” because even Joy knew not to bind Inq that much. The female Scribe nodded, and the princess looked on with approval. “And second, you have to tell Ink.”

Inq’s face crumpled. “What?”

“You have to tell Ink everything,” Joy insisted. “Tell him everything you’ve told me. No secrets. No loopholes. You have to introduce him to his mother. You have to bring him here and let him see the truth.”

“No,” Inq said, watermarks flying over her skin. “No, Joy—you don’t know what you’re asking.” She looked to her mother with desperate, wide eyes. “He doesn’t know. He’s never known. It’s kept him safe...”

“It’s kept him out,” Joy said. “It’s kept him alone.”

Inq’s face flushed, a swimming montage of watermark glyphs. “No,” she said, looking close to tears. “That’s not true. He’s had me...”

Joy shook her head, adamant. “That’s not enough,” she said. “It’s not enough and you know it. Not when she’s here, now, and he doesn’t know. “

Inq spun angrily away, her hands curled tight into fists. Joy guessed that perhaps this was one of the few things Inq had kept for herself—the identity of their creator, their mother, who depended solely on her daughter to be her one confidante, her link to the larger world. Inq had kept the secret for her mother’s safety, but also for herself, something precious that made her unique, individual, different from Ink. But that was no excuse.

“I mean it, Inq,” Joy said, pushing the point. She thrust out her hand. “Everything. Do we have a deal?”

Inq scrunched up her face, petulant, stubborn. “I get to say how,” she said. “And I get to say when.”

“But it will be soon,” Joy said.

“Soon is a relative term,” Inq said. “But it will be before the Imminent Return.”

It sounded as if that had always been Inq’s intent, but she’d never dared to think it could be this close. Joy mutely shook her outstretched hand. Inq finally took it. “Deal,” she said, giving Joy’s knuckles an extra squeeze, and then she suddenly brightened and beamed at her mother—the transformation was startling. “See? I told you she would agree,” Inq chirped, winking at Joy. “You’re so refreshingly simple.” She smiled and skipped toward the stairs with a spring in her step. “Now come along. Let’s get you up to speed before the Bailiwick’s tongue dries out.”

It was a long moment before Joy figured out she’d been played.

“We’ll return with news,” Inq said to her mother. “And some new company.”

The princess smiled. “I look forward to it. Go, and be safe, both of you.” Inq and Joy left her standing at the edge of the stair as they climbed.

Joy welcomed the familiar burn in her muscles as she followed the sound of Inq’s footsteps, catlike in the dark.

“So you’re blackmailing me to help you find and kill an unknown traitor in order to free your mother, the princess, and reunite the Folk with their King and Queen,” Joy said aloud and shrugged. “You could have just asked.”

Inq laughed, bell-like and genuine. “Now you know why I was so upset that you undid all my hard work when you took on your True Name,” she said. “That glyph armor I made for you was a great piece of work and your best protection against the rest of the Folk, including whoever is the traitor. Now my greatest weapon is both unprepared and unprotected, sworn to abstain from wearing any armor at all—brilliant. We could be up against just about anyone in the Twixt.”

Joy refused to feel badly about the choice she’d made; the sacrifice of her magical armor was a small one compared to giving up Ink or her eyes. “Do you have a list of suspects?” she asked.

“Kurt and I have some theories.”

Joy paused. “Kurt knows?”

“He’s originally human, remember,” Inq said matter-of-factly. “Now he’s mostly human-with-benefits, but, yes, he does remember. And he’s twice as cautious as me.”

Joy snorted. “Only twice?” she said. Inq smirked. “Why don’t you have him kill whoever it is? He’d do anything for you, and you know it.”

“Everything except go against the Council,” Inq said. “It is part of his contractual servitude to the Bailiwick, else he would have killed Aniseed years ago. Besides, we’re not talking about killing someone—you can erase them. I figure that’s got to be the best way to make sure that whatever was done is undone as completely as possible...if they don’t agree to undo it themselves, of course.” Inq said, acknowledging their terms of agreement. “No killing unless strictly necessary.” Joy felt a small pat on her arm. “Thank you for helping us, Joy.”

Inq was haloed in the light at the end of Graus Claude’s tunnel, giving her a strangely benevolent glow. She looked unlike herself, something holy, divine. Joy averted her eyes.

“You were threatening to blab my secret,” Joy muttered. “What choice did I have?” Joy didn’t like having the fact that she’d erased the Red Knight hanging like a Sword of Damocles over her head.

Inq smiled knowingly. “You always have a choice,” she said. “But, knowing what you know, you would’ve said yes, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Joy said, continuing to climb. “Probably.”

Of course, Inq didn’t know that Joy had her own reason for agreeing to find the King and Queen and open their secret door as soon as possible.

Joy was about to change the rules.

Inq stepped gingerly over the edge of Graus Claude’s teeth. Joy followed close behind, carefully keeping her hands away from the walls. She tried to ignore the creepy, freakish feeling as she stepped off of the deep stone stairwell onto the fleshy lower lip. Another ruby-red line of fire zipped past her feet. She shuddered as she hurried out onto the rug—the safe, normal, perfectly ordinary rug. Joy had never been so thankful to stand on a rug in her life.

Kurt stood rigidly at his post like a soldier.

“Take a seat, Joy. Breathe a little,” Inq said. “What is it my brother always says? ‘It only takes a moment?’ Time does funny things when you fold it over twice.”

Inq walked with a self-satisfied strut that carried her across the room, where she stopped briefly to press a hand to Kurt’s cheek. Only his eyes moved, but they spoke volumes as she smiled.

“Be sure she gets out okay,” Inq said. Dropping her hand, she spoke over her shoulder. “I formally withdraw from the Bailiwick.”

Graus Claude’s mighty jaw trembled and began to contract. His tongue detached from the roof and slid like a pink python over his teeth. Kurt crossed the room in swift strides and took Joy by the arm, setting her quickly in her chair. He tapped the tablet, waking the screen, adjusted the keyboard, set the jeweler’s loupe in one set of his master’s slack fingers and strode back to the doorway, grasping both door handles in his hands. Before Joy had a chance to collect her thoughts or speak, he was gone.

The jaw reset with a click. Graus Claude’s eyes faded from milk to ice-blue. He blinked like a yawn and set the eyepiece back near his face. Joy jumped in her seat as Kurt swung the doors open as if in midmotion. Graus Claude rolled a pearl between his fingers and palmed it as Kurt gave a perfunctory bow.

“Yes, Kurt?” Graus Claude said without looking up.

“Apologies for the interruption, sir, but the hour grows late,” he said in his surprisingly soft tenor. “Miss Malone said that she had an appointment this evening.”

Joy nearly dropped her tablet. Her brain scrambled, trying to sort out what was real. Then she remembered: Kurt was human. He knew everything. And he could lie.

“Oh, very well,” Graus Claude said with a huff and set down his jeweler’s loupe. “Ready the car. Miss Malone, I expect that you will commit your notes to memory as I will endeavor to commit my memories to these.” He gestured at the piles with two hands. “Pearls of Wisdom,” he said slyly. “Let them be not before swine.”

“Excuse me?” Joy stammered, still collecting her swirling thoughts.

“Matthew 7:6,” he said with a sigh. “I wonder whether I should abandon all literary references not pertaining to the funny pages.”

Joy stood up quickly, stuffing the tablet and keyboard into her purse. Her fingers shook. She couldn’t even look at Graus Claude without imagining what lay under his tongue. And who. She forced a smile. “When you start quoting Harry Potter, then I’ll be impressed.”

“J.K. Rowling is a visionary of her era,” he said primly.

“Now you’re talking. Gotta go!” She shouldered her purse and nearly ran for the door, but stopped at the threshold. Respect him. Always. “Thank you, Graus Claude.”

His voice rumbled ominously. “You do not have cause to thank me yet, Miss Malone.”

* * *

Joy ran out of the brownstone and down the stairs, looking for the chocolate-caramel Bentley and its nougat-colored wheels. Instead, she saw a young man with sea-colored eyes standing on the edge of the walk glaring up at her through his snowy hair as if she’d done something stupid.

“Are you?” he asked.

Joy wasn’t certain if she should grab her scalpel, bang on the door to get back in or run as fast as she could. Instead she said, “Am I what?”

“Are you truly one of us?” the young aide asked. “One of the Folk? A descendant of mixed blood born with the Sight?”

Joy sighed a tight exhale and adjusted her bag. “Yes,” she said, slightly annoyed. “I am. You were there in the Hall when it happened. You saw.”

The young man nodded, his eyes hooded, suspicious. His cloak of feathers rippled gently in the wind. He glanced up at the brownstone. “I am supposed to follow you,” he said. “And report your actions to my master.”

Joy arched her eyebrows as the Bentley rounded the corner. “Oh?”

He nodded stiffly. “Yes,” he said. “But I do not think it right nor fair to spy on our own, so while I will not disobey a direct order or dishonor my position, I wanted to inform you of it.” His lips thinned as the car slowed. “You deserve to know.”

“Really?” Joy said, mildly curious now that she was fairly certain that he wasn’t about to attack her here on the sidewalk. “Why?”

He stepped away from the curb as the Bentley slid to a stop. “Because if you are one of us, then all Folk are welcome within the Twixt,” he said. “No matter what their origin or circumstance.”

The Bailiwick’s driver stepped out, adjusted his uniform jacket and opened the door for Joy. She took the last steps and paused before getting in, her stomach queasy, her senses alert.

“Why tell me this?” she asked. “I thought you worked for the Tide.”

The tiniest flush colored his face, a creeping pink tingeing his neck and cheeks. “The Tide stands for all of its citizens. It is Sol Leander who wants you to fail,” he said. “He will use any means to achieve that end, and the gala presents him with the perfect opportunity.”

Joy hesitated. “What would happen if I ‘failed’?”

The courtier placed his hand firmly on the door like a wall between them. Joy settled herself on the leather seat and he shut the door with a slam. She heard his last words muffled through the glass. “Mark my words, Joy Malone—do not fail.”

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