An alternate universe in which Suren embraces her role as queen of the Court of Teeth, and a seventeen year old girl becomes Jude Duarte's trusted political advisor.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I cross the threshold into the long cobblestone hallway, trailing behind the procession of whispering council members. I'm clearly not the only one concerned about Oak's involvement in the coup, which is concerning, because word spreading of Oak's possible insurgence would be... disastrous.
"That was solid statecraft back there, little miss."
I snap my head to the right, suddenly aware of the imposing form of Grima Mog standing next to me. It's eerie, how stealthy she can be, considering her size.
"Thanks," I say, cautiously. I've known Grima Mog for a long time. She's the one who gave me my shot, so to speak, almost three years go. But my familiarity with her means I know to be wary of flattery. She would never approach me like this unless she wanted something.
"Perhaps," says the redcap, "We should go over the plans for the northern expedition before dinner."
I do not doubt this is a thinly veiled front, but for once, Grima Mog may be a useful ally. Besides, I need whatever resources she has at her disposal.
"Of course," I say, my gaze locking on hers. "Lead the way."
⋅⋆∘✯∘⋆⋅
The Grand General's study is weathered and grandiose. Across the stone walls hang massive oil paintings and shelves of leather-bound books. In the center of the room is a massive dark-wood desk covered by maps of faerie, all marked up meticulously with little wooden figures and red ink. There is a fireplace too, crackling lowly. Its reddish glow mingles with the soft yellow light of the oil lamps and the last violet rays of the setting sun. This is an office fit for my conspirator.
I run my tongue along my teeth. Today, I will have to be the one to say the quiet part out loud.
In exchange for her collaboration, Grima Mog wants deniability. Were anything to go wrong, she plans on telling Jude this was all my suggestion, which can only happen if it is the truth, or a version of it, anyways. I find the charade a little baroque, but I've come here for a reason.
"Whatever we decide to do, it will have to be kept a secret from the royal family," I say, standing before her imperial desk.
There. Now she can cover her ass before the High Queen of Elfhame.
Grima Mog leans back in her massive dark-wood chair, upholstered with red velvet to match the plush carpet underfoot.
"I do not disagree, little miss," she says. I know she is baiting me, to a certain degree. I just need to figure out what buttons to push.
I pace towards a different corner of the room, examining a painting of some long-forgotten battlefield. "I don't think we quite know what we're dealing with here," I say, my expression neutral. "If we want this situation handled, we're going to need intel. Personal intel on the prince."
Grima Mog's voice comes out in a rasped attempt at a purr. "Without the assistance of the Court of Shadows, of course."
Ah. So this is why she asked me here.
I turn to face the General. Her beast-like eyes gleam with something not altogether pleasant.
"Is this why you requested my assistance?"
"One reason of many," Grima Mog says, the black lips of her lion's mouth curling into a smile. "If we wish to gain the boy's trust, we must be shrewd indeed, little miss."
I cannot help but glower. "I should be insulted."
She's right, of course, but she is toying with something I do not care to be reminded of.
"History can be a useful thing," says the General. "Do not think I have forgotten. And do not think he has, either."
"What of Lady Violet?" I ask, dryly. "Last I heard he was drawing up sonnets. "
"Oh, little miss," laughs Grima Mog. "There is so much beneath the surface you have not cared to see."
⋅⋆∘✯∘⋆⋅
That night I dinner, I sport a simple, formfitting black gown with a plunging neckline, my chest adorned with an ornate gold pin. Like any good courtier, I sit at my table of council members and emissaries, laughing and conversing with practiced charm. This dinner is identical to the thousand other banquets I've attended at the palace. Except tonight, I cannot help but notice Oak's seat next to Jude is empty.
