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  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 flip
ped 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.