“When aren’t we?” Sophie mumbled, replaying the conversation with Lady Gisela in her mind. There had to be deeper meanings to her vague warnings and advice.
“I guess all we really need to know,” she said quietly, “for the moment, at least, is whether Keefe is safer where his mom wants him to be, or safer where he’s at?”
“He’s safest when he’s not in the dark about that decision,” Mr. Forkle told her. “And can choose based on knowledge, and not his own misguided reasoning.”
The logic hit home.
“I guess I’ll tell him what his mom said and see what he does,” Sophie decided. “The rest is up to him.”
“Try to make it quick,” Mr. Forkle told her. “We have lots of other things to discuss when you’re done.”
“You want me to tell him now?” Sophie asked
“Why put off the inevitable?”
“Uh, who are you and what have you done with the guy who’s always telling us to be patient?” Tam asked.
A sad smile curled Mr. Forkle’s lips. “Perhaps I’m learning to see the folly in delay. Haste can be dangerous too, of course. But there’s a difference between caution and hesitation. Plus, I need Miss Foster’s mind free of distraction for what’s coming next.”
“What’s coming next?” Sophie asked.
“One thing at a time, Miss Foster. First settle things with Mr. Sencen.”
Sophie sighed, not sure she was ready to have this conversation—especially in front of an audience. But she closed her eyes and transmitted Keefe’s name.
Foster? He responded immediately. What’s wrong? I thought you weren’t talking to me.
I wasn’t, she admitted. Is this a bad time?
Um . . . give me a second.
His mind went silent for a beat—long enough for Sophie to tug out an itchy eyelash.
Okay—I told everyone I had to poop, he said a little too proudly. That should keep them away for a few minutes.
Ugh, TMI.
You realize I’m not actually pooping, right? I mean, I know we’ve shared a lot of things, but I don’t think poop should be one of them—unless it’s sparkly and from an alicorn. Or blasting like a geyser out of a gulon.
Stop talking about poop!
She shook her head, trying to knock those lovely mental images away and regain her focus. I have to show you something, and you might want to sit down for it.
The only way to do that involves a less-than-awesome-smelling toilet—this new hideout is miserable. Everything is sweaty and sticky—and we’re all crammed into this tiny room.
How many of you are there?
Just me, Trix, Alvar, and Umber. Fintan moved everyone else to a different place. And it’s starting to feel like they’re my babysitters—they never let me out of their sight.
That . . . doesn’t sound like a good sign.
She’d expected him to deny it. But his mind dimmed a little, before he changed the subject. So what did you need to tell me?
Right. Brace yourself. This is going to be tough to see. She gathered her concentration and replayed what Lady Gisela had told her word for word.
That . . . complicates things, he mumbled. And it could all be a trick.
It definitely could.
But you think I should do what she said and get out?
It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s not like you listen to me.
The thought had a snap to it, and Sophie could see Keefe’s mind sting. But she wasn’t going to apologize.
I think a better question is, CAN you get out? she asked.
It’ll be rough, he admitted. But my escape plan will still work. If I use it, though, it’ll destroy every single thing I’ve been working toward.
I guess you’ll have to decide what’s most important, then.
His mind seemed to ripple with a sigh. What happens if I leave?
What do you mean?
I mean . . . doesn’t everyone hate me?
Sophie glanced at her friends, each watching her silently from their fancy chairs. You have some serious apologizing to do, she said. But I don’t think any of us can actually hate you—even when we really, really, really want to.
I could’ve done without that third “really.”
Maybe. But you deserve it.
I do. He replayed his mom’s words again before he told her, I’d better get back—but that’s not my decision. I need more time to think.
Think away, Sophie told him. You know where to find me.
“Actually, you won’t be here if Mr. Sencen decides to come home in the next few days,” Mr. Forkle warned after she’d closed down the mental conversation. “That’s why I needed you to focus. I received a scroll this morning—as I’m sure your mother did as well—informing me that the envoy will be retrieving me at five o’clock this evening to bring me to Lumenaria. The Councillors finally agreed that it’s imperative we interrogate Ruy and Brant as soon as possible. So they’re moving up the Peace Summit, starting tonight.”
SEVENTY-FIVE
SOPHIE AND EDALINE’S envoys arrived at Sandor’s house at five o’clock sharp, and Sophie was relieved one of them was a familiar face—Righty, the goblin who’d helped guide her when she’d visited Lumenaria. Apparently, Righty had been assigned as Sophie’s personal guard for the course of the summit, and the other envoy would be guarding Edaline.
Sandor gave both goblins a long list of procedures and instructions—along with a few threats of violence and dismemberment if anything went wrong.
“We’ve been well trained,” Edaline’s guard assured him.
Sophie decided to call her Bunhead. It matched her hairstyle, and her graceful movements as she crossed the room, handing them black tunics, pants, slipperlike shoes, and gloves to change into.
“The simple garb is just until you clear security,” Righty explained. “Once you’re settled into your rooms you’ll find more proper attire for the summit.”
“Will our rooms be near each other?” Edaline asked.
“You’ll have your own double suite,” Bunhead told her.
That was, unfortunately, the only good news. The rest was a whole lot of yuck, starting with the fact that Sophie wasn’t allowed to bring Ella. No jewelry was allowed either, except their registry pendants, so Sophie had to leave behind her Cognate rings, panic switch, and Sucker Punch.
“Be safe,” Grady whispered as he strangle-hugged his wife and daughter. “And here’s hoping this will be a quick summit.”
“What’s the longest one has ever gone?” Sophie asked, regretting the question when Edaline told her, “A little over three months.”
The words kept repeating in Sophie’s mind as she endured the security searches at Lumenaria’s gates—and the dread grew much louder during the lecture on castle rules. The basic gist was: If you aren’t in an assigned meeting or gala, you’ll be locked in your room for your own safety. It was hard to decide what sounded scarier—the locked-in-her-room part, or the gala.
And it could stretch on for months.
Even the walk to her room felt endless. No blindfolds that time, not that it made the journey any clearer, considering how twisty the halls were, and all the identical staircases and doors.
“Your rooms will not have a view,” Bunhead warned. “The Council wanted you in the underground quarters, where the security is easier for us to control.”
“So basically, they’re locking us in the dungeon,” Sophie said.
Righty smiled. “I’m sure you’ll find the accommodations much more pleasant.”
Their rooms were beautiful—marble floors, and walls broken up with intricate tapestries and paintings. Ornate chandeliers cast a warm pink light, and all the furniture was overstuffed and draped in luxurious fabrics. The décor was elegant and tasteful—the colors lush and regal. But the lack of windows still made it feel like a cell.
Their door also had two locks—one to keep anyone from getting in. The other to prevent them from leaving.
“We’ll let you get changed for the introductory dinner,” Bunhead told them. “Knock four quick times when you’re ready to go and we’ll open the door.”
The lock clicked, and Sophie’s misery was sealed when she checked her new wardrobe. Her “day gowns” had so many ruffles and gathers they made Cotillion dresses look plain. And her “evening gowns” had just as many frills—with fun bonuses like sweeping trains and corseted bodices and all kinds of other things that were clearly meant to destroy her.
“Remind me what any of this has to do with negotiating a peace treaty?” Sophie asked as Edaline helped her fasten the hundreds of tiny buttons that secured the silky teal gown she’d chosen. The color was her favorite, and the skirt wasn’t as puffy as a lot of the others. But the drop-waist bodice was so fitted, she wondered how she would sit. And the neckline scooped and squeezed in ways that made her cheeks blush.
“This summit is about more than making King Dimitar sign his name on a piece of paper,” Edaline told her. “It’s about reminding the world of the sheer magnificence of our culture. Displaying our wealth, beauty, and confidence all work to create the ideal impression.”
“Yeah, well, if they wanted me to be confident, they should let me wear shoes I can actually walk in,” Sophie grumbled, holding up her impossibly slender heels.
“I guess you’ll have to settle for looking beautiful—and so grown up! If any of your boys were here . . .”
Edaline didn’t finish the sentence—or name the boys—and for that, Sophie gave her a hug.
“And you understand what’s going to happen at the dinner?” Edaline asked as she knocked to let their guards know they were ready.
Sophie fussed with her teal gloves. “I’m going to try not to cause an interspecies incident when I’m introduced to the other leaders. Then we’re all supposed to eat fancy food in a stuffy room while everyone pretends they’re not secretly wishing they could kill each other.”
Edaline smiled, looping her arm through Sophie’s as they started the long trek to where dinner would be held. “Not everyone hates each other. The animosity exists mostly between the goblins, ogres, and trolls. The dwarves and gnomes are generally content to live and let live, so long as everyone extends that courtesy to them.”
“Then let’s hope we’re seated next to them,” Sophie mumbled. “And that none of the food requires knives.”
“I’m sure it won’t. Did you notice they didn’t even give us any hairpins?”
After seeing the damage Lady Gisela had done with one, Sophie wasn’t surprised.
“Are we going a different direction than the way we came?” Sophie asked as they started up a winding staircase. “I can’t get my bearings.”
“And you won’t,” Bunhead explained. “The paths are intentionally ambiguous to ensure that no one will ever find their way through unless they’ve been trained.”
“Or get really lucky,” Righty added.
“Don’t be nervous,” Edaline told her when they finally reached a set of embossed golden doors. “All you have to do is smile and act natural.”
Sophie felt anything but natural as she took in the splendor of the room. The elves were never shy with their displays of wealth, but this? This was something else entirely. The space had the feel of a moonlit terrace garden, but they were still very much indoors, and every fragile flower, every graceful tree, every cascading vine, and every sweeping balustrade—even the stars winking across the swirled black ceiling—had been intricately carved from jewels or cast from precious metals. It was the perfect marriage of nature and craft—a new level of mastery—and everyone in the room could only stare in wonder.
Well, everyone save for one.
King Dimitar couldn’t have looked more bored as he leaned his gorilla-size body against the trunk of a tree—a Panakes tree, Sophie realized, which made her wish she still wore her Sucker Punch. He wore his usual metal diaper—though the waistline had been rimmed with glittering black jewels, which matched the stones set into his earlobes—and idly traced a clawed finger along the tattoos crowning his bald head.
“A child in a Peace Summit,” he said as Sophie tried to hurry past him. “And yet they criticize my people for training our children to defend themselves.”
“If it were only for defense,” Councillor Alina said, swishing over in an iridescent gown that shifted from green to purple with every motion, “I doubt anyone would have a problem.”
“And yet the greatest defense is a strong offense, isn’t it?” Dimitar countered, smiling to show his pointed teeth.
“Is that what you’d call the warriors you sent to capture my family?” Sophie asked, ignoring the warning squeeze Edaline gave her arm.
King Dimitar straightened, his bulging muscles flexing with the motion. “If I’d planned that mission, your mother would not be standing at your side—though I’m not convinced your family was even the target. Not everything revolves around you, Miss Foster.”
He stalked away, leaving Sophie to drown in the fresh wave of questions.
If Dimitar wasn’t lying about the attackers being unsanctioned rebels—which she was far from ready to believe—who else would they have been after?
Lady Cadence? She was one of the ogres’ most loyal supporters.
“There you are, Miss Foster,” Councillor Bronte said behind her, drawing her back to the present. Sophie turned to find him standing with Councillor Oralie and Councillor Terik, all looking resplendent in their suits, gowns, and capes in the same jeweled tones as their circlets.
Edaline had been right about the elves screaming wealth, power, and confidence. It was like having the prom kings and queens milling around the room.
“Empress Pernille was just telling me she hadn’t had the privilege of meeting you,” Bronte told Sophie. “Perhaps you’d be willing to let us make the introduction?”
Sophie nodded, letting the Councillors lead her away. But her mind was still so stuck on the idea of Lady Cadence being the target that she nearly trampled a small, strange creature that looked like a cross between a sloth, a pot-bellied pig, and a small child, with fuzzy skin, an upturned nose, and a short chubby body dressed in a purple tutu.
“Empress Pernille,” Councillor Oralie said, dipping a graceful curtsy. “Forgive us for not seeing you.”
The creature chirped a reply, and it took Sophie’s Polyglot skills a moment to realize she was listening to the ruler of the trolls.
“I’m so sorry,” Sophie said, fumbling through a curtsy. “I should never be allowed to wear something this huge—it will only end in disaster.”
Empress Pernille blinked her round, yellow eyes. “Rarely do I ever hear an elf address me in my own language—and with such a precise accent.”
Sophie stared at her gloves. “I wish I could take credit. But my ability made the shift unconsciously.”
“Intelligent, talented, and humble—I see why I hear often of your influence,” the Empress said, before turning to Oralie. “Perhaps we could have a word?”
Oralie motioned for the Empress to follow her through an arch lined with cut amethyst flowers, to a more secluded corner of the room.
As soon as Bronte and Terik had wandered away, Sophie whispered to Edaline, “That’s what trolls look like?” She’d seen images of them as fierce beasts with lots of claws and muscles—meanwhile Empress Pernille could’ve easily been mistaken for a Muppet.
“The trolls age in reverse,” Edaline whispered. “Their bodies shrink with time, rather than growing. And their features soften.”
“Does that mean the ancient trolls look like babies?” Sophie asked.
“Not quite that extreme. Sorry, I suppose I should’ve warned you.”
“Anything else I should be prepared for?” Sophie asked.
“I can’t think of anything. Actually, yes I can. King Enki is bald.”
She pointed across the room, and Sophie did a double take.
Dwarves normally had long, scraggly fur and squinty, pointed faci
al features that reminded Sophie of oversize talking moles. But the king looked like a plucked chicken, his textured skin a mottled pattern of peach, brown, and black—which looked extra strange considering his pants were made of soft white fur.
“Is that what happens when dwarves age?” Sophie asked.
“No, it’s a statement,” Edaline said. “The dwarves view it a sign of power and strength for their king to wax himself bare. I’ve never really wanted to know why.”
Sophie did her best not to stare, focusing instead on the king’s heavy crown—a thick ring of carved, opalescent shell. She’d gotten up close and personal once with the giant-sand-crab-like creatures the shell had come from, and still found it strange the king would want any part of its body curled around his head.
He caught her looking and tapped his feet as he offered a bow.
The rest of the introductions were more what Sophie had prepared for. Queen Hylda looked fierce and statuesque in her gleaming golden armor. And a gnome Sophie had seen around Havenfield—now wearing a suit woven from Panakes petals—had been selected to represent his kind, which had no ultimate leader.
“You’re handling yourself very well,” Mr. Forkle told her, emerging from the shadows he’d been lurking in. “Far better than I could’ve ever planned.”
“Is this what you designed me for?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Mr. Forkle smiled. “I designed you to be something new, Miss Foster. Something to get people’s attention. And above all else, to be you.”
The compliments weren’t particularly sappy—but the way he said them turned her throat thick.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“For giving me this life—crazy and confusing as it always is.”
It was Mr. Forkle’s turn to look away, swiping at his eyes. When he turned back to say something else, the words were drowned out by loud fanfare.
All twelve Councillors gathered in the center of the room to announce that it was time for dinner, and Councillor Liora snapped her fingers and made a U-shaped table appear before them, covered in flowers and candles and dome-covered plates at every place setting. The Councillors took the seats in the center, while the other leaders were stationed along the sides. Sophie was relieved to be seated between her mom and Mr. Forkle.
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