The red tent was one of the largest in the camp, square and high enough for a tall fae male to stand in. No voices emerged from it as we came closer. I drew in a deep breath, trying not to feel the nerves itching in my own stomach now, and yelled, ‘Agenor?’ ‘Oh, Em?’ His voice had that absent-minded air to it that suggested he was sitting knee-deep in administrative tasks, mind lost to a labyrinth of ink and parchment. ‘Glad you’re back. Do you have a minute? I’ll quickly finish this and—’ ‘No, that’s fine,’ Rosalind wryly said next to me, in Faerie again. ‘I could come back next week, if that
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