“Pika, stay.”
She takes a step toward me. I look at Galinor and Irving for help.
“Maybe she’ll fly off when we get closer to the palace?” Irving suggests.
I walk back, stepping over the exposed tree roots in the trail, and accept Galinor’s help back on the horse.
Will she fly away? What if she’s seen?
“It will be fine,” Galinor says, patting my shoulder like an old man would comfort a child. The gesture irritates me, and we ride in silence.
By mid-morning, we’ll be back, and Galinor will leave. I can’t ask him to help me again. I just can’t.
“You’re quiet,” Galinor finally says.
I shrug.
“Is this about the glasseln or the scoundrel?”
I sigh. “A little of both, I suppose.”
Once again, he sets his hand on my shoulder, but this time he runs it down my arm and back up again. “Pika won’t get close to the palace, I’m sure.”
I nod, and silence envelops us again.
“Stop it,” he says, his voice growing irritated.
Startled, I turn and look at him. “Stop what?”
“You’re brooding. You haven’t stopped talking once in the last few days, and now I can’t get a word out of you.”
We’re approaching the ascent to the last terrace, and the trail widens. Irving nudges his horse forward and matches us. Galinor has taken pity on him, and he’s given Irving the cloak from his pack. The weather is cooling in the mountains, already preparing for autumn, but the day is still warm. Irving must be dying of heat, but he hasn’t complained.
“What did the fairies tell you, Anwen?” Irving asks. “You’ve been very tight-lipped about the whole thing.”
“You would have heard if you hadn’t been so enamored withKiralia,” I say, teasing him in hopes the subject will turn back to him.
“They didn’t give you a changeling stone,” Galinor says.
It’s the first time we’ve spoken about that part of the evening.
“They didn’t have one to give me.”
“You need to go home, Anwen.”
“My father is cursed!” I blurt out, no longer able to keep it to myself.
“What?” Irving asks, and his tone is as disbelieving as mine was. “Baron Millner?”
I toss my hands in the air. “Yes, that would be my father, Irving.”
My response was too testy, and now I feel awful. I mumble an apology.
“What kind of curse?” Galinor asks.
“He changes into something during the day. Brug called it a daylight curse.”
Galinor snorts. “Brug?”
