“Sit down,” I told Ariadne. She sat, looking apprehensive. I drew in my breath. “Wendell is Folk. He is the monarch of a court in the south of Ireland which we scholars call Silva Lupi. He was overthrown by his stepmother, who has named herself queen and is now attempting to have him assassinated.” Ariadne stared at me. She seemed to be waiting for me to add something, but when I did not, she looked dubiously at Wendell, who was brushing flakes of croissant from his lapel. “I see,” she said.
