Page 110 of The Blood Queen

“What do you know of Alyth Graham?”

Cecil stares vacantly. “Who? This has nothing to do with your mission. Get to Scotland, infiltrate the court of the Scottish queen, and figure out if an assassination plot is afoot.”

He doesn’t know Alyth. Least he’s not saying he does.

I tap my fingers on my knee. The longer I watch my father, the more he shifts uneasily.

I don’t need him anymore. I don’t fear him anymore.

This new me? I’m in control.

“Let me go, then,” I tell him, my jaw tight. “Off to Scotland.”

* * *

There are glaistigs in England.

I’m an hour from the border between the two countries when I see them, a whole herd, and at first I think they’re deer, but no. I blink through the sunset and settle back in my saddle.

Not the Green Lady but glaistigs all the same. Prancing and racing each other through a stream not far off the road.

They see me. And they must know I see them through whatever glamour they’ve got for normal people, because one—a child by the size—lifts her hand and waves at me.

I wave back.

* * *

The barrier’s gone. No oil-slick sheen across the sky. No magic bubble encasing Scotland.

I ride straight on through into the border town. There’s no attack this time, no flurry of fae creatures disguised as blackbirds. It’s just a peaceful village, no plot between my father and the High Blade and Mary’s husband. If Darnley’s still conniving in this reality, we’re not a part of it.

Alyth’s not here either.

She’s gotta be at Stirling.

She’s gotta be.

* * *

I ride as hard as my horse can manage, camping only long enough to not be exhausted. The closer I draw to Stirling, the heavier the weight that presses on my chest, on my throat.

What if she’s not there? What if she’s never been there? The cost of destroying the High Blade was a life for a life. But Alyth didn’t destroy the High Blade, so she’s alive. She’s alive, and she’s at Stirling, and even if she doesn’t remember me, even if I stumble my way in and collapse at her feet and she’s horrified by a mannerless Englishman begging for her affection, I’ll win her back. I don’t care what state she’s in, so long as she’s alive.

The walls of Stirling fill the horizon along with the dawn sun, and I slow my horse into a trot even though I want to keep galloping. My pulse hammers, drowning out my own thoughts, my own worries as I clatter across the bridge and into the castle complex.

A soldier stops me, asks for my papers. I hand them over, explain my cover, Lord Latimer’s secretary, come for the baptism of the queen’s son. The soldier eyes my papers dubiously—my accent’s throwing him, I know—but he eventually waves me on in.

I dismount outside the stable, limbs shaking, eyes scanning the courtyard, the castle walls. No sign of her.

Yet.

She’s here.

Callum hurries out to greet me. He says something in fast Scots, and I stare blankly at him.

He smiles. “Sorry, sir. I’ll take your horse, yeah?”

Alyth’s alive.