Her arms went slack. “What do you mean?”
“She’s gone, Red.”
Red blinked. The room seemed to fade in and out of focus, the edges of things muddied and misty.
Neve. The panic from last night, the storm of emotions Eammon had helped soothe away, came rushing back. She and Eammon would come up with something, she had to believe it, because what else could she do? But now, with Raffe’s tired, worried eyes boring into her, helplessness in his face . . .
Her knees felt watery.
“You came all the way to the Wilderwood to make accusations?” Eammon put a steadying hand on Red’s shoulder, like he could tell she was a breath away from drowning. His jaw was a harsh line in the dim light. “The Queen isn’t here.”
“That’s what I told him,” Fife said darkly. He brandished the soup spoon in Raffe’s direction. “He wouldn’t listen.”
“She’s not in Valleyda, not in Floriane. She’s gone, and the only thing she’s talked of since Red left is getting her back.” Raffe looked at the Wolf’s hand on Red’s shoulder with burning eyes, and a snarl bent his mouth. “Isn’t one sister enough?”
“Raffe.” Her own voice cleared the fog in her head. Red drew herself up under Eammon’s hand. “I promise you, she isn’t here. Tell me what happened.” Her voice shook. “Please.”
Raffe’s eyes tracked from Red to Eammon, the calculation in them clear. “He might have her hidden away.” Distrust sharpened his voice to a razor-edge. “He’s the Wolf, Red, and no matter what he’s told you—”
“I know who he is, Raffe.”
“He isn’t . . .” Raffe stepped forward, mouth pulled tight, but something beyond her caught his attention. Anger bled away to incredulity, then wonder.
Lyra stood in the doorframe, tor drawn, backlit by autumn light that made a corona of her dark curls. Her eyes narrowed at Raffe, mouth somewhere between a smirk and a snarl. “Please continue,” she said, polite as any courtier. “If I want you to stop talking, you’ll know.”
Raffe’s eyes were round as moons. His mouth worked, like he’d forgotten how to form words. Slowly, he raised his fist to his forehead, and it took Red a moment to remember where she’d seen the motion— a traditional greeting, from one Meducian noble to another.
“Plaguebreaker,” Raffe murmured. “You look . . . damn me, you look just like the statue.”
Fife and Eammon darted glances, their faces identical masks of guarded acceptance. Whatever had just occurred to Raffe, it wasn’t a surprise to them. But there was a new tension in their frames, prepared to jump to Lyra’s defense at the slightest provocation.
A beat, and Lyra sheathed her tor. She balled a fist, raised it briefly to her forehead, then crossed her arms. “I didn’t know that story was still told.”
Red’s brow furrowed. Plaguebreaker . . . like the myth of the Plague Stars, a whole constellation winking out at the moment of miraculous healing. And the band of root around Lyra’s arm, and Fife’s answer when she asked what Lyra bargained for: Her story is longer and more noble than mine.
“Not everyone knows it.” Raffe sounded half entranced. “But there are those in Meducia who remember you, who revere you as much as or more than the Kings. The altar is still there, in the cliffs by the harbor. They leave you gold coins and pray for healing from illness.” He shook his head. “My father brought some, once. When I was young. I was sick, and after he prayed, I got better.”
Lyra’s lips twisted, face unreadable. “I doubt I had anything to do with that.”
“Still.” He took a tentative step closer. His head arced toward the floor, like he might bow, then he thought better of it. “How did you do it? How did you stop the plague?”
Lyra’s eyes shone honey brown in the candlelight, arms tightening across her chest. “I bargained,” she said, voice clipped and measured. “My brother . . .” One hitch in her breath, barely noticeable, before she swallowed and went on. “My youngest brother became infected. So I bargained. Bound myself to the Wilderwood in exchange for a cure.”
Raffe’s face was unreadable. He looked from Lyra to Eammon and back, glanced around the Keep. “And you live here,” he said slowly. “With the Wolf. In the Wilderwood.”
“With us.” Fife took a small step forward. The spoon in his hand didn’t look foolish at all anymore.
Lyra shrugged. “There are worse places to be.” A slender brow arched. “And since you’re asking,” she added, “the Queen isn’t here.”
Raffe’s gaze flickered between Lyra and Eammon. His eyes closed, briefly, and the tension in his shoulders went slack, like his anger had been the only strength in his spine. “Then I have no idea where she might be.”
The floor was solid beneath her, but Red felt like she was falling. Eammon’s hand on her shoulder was all that kept her upright, a counterpoint to the chaos in her head. Neve was gone. Red had left her, pulled away by the roots in her bones, and now she was gone. Her throat felt like she’d swallowed needles.
“What happened?” Eammon asked.
Raffe sank to a seat on the bottom step, denting the moss. “No one has seen her in the palace since yesterday morning.” He sounded hoarse, like the words were too heavy for his throat to lift. “Not since the incident in the Shrine. The rumor was that the Second Daughter was there . . .”
“You thought I took her.” Red’s voice was harsh.
Raffe didn’t nod, but the tightening of his clasped hands was a sentencing. “I didn’t . . .” He stopped, started again. “I knew she was doing something that affected the Wilderwood. And I knew—”
“Then why did you leave her?” Red didn’t realize she’d advanced a step until the weight of Eammon’s hand fell away. “If you knew what was happening, how could you leave her?”
“You think it was my choice?” Raffe snapped the word, like he could break it between his teeth. “It wasn’t. The
