The Queen of Nothing (The Folk of the Air, #3)

by Holly Black

I wonder more what the Bomb said to him. There is a new kind of joy in his face. It lives in the corners of his mouth, where a smile hovers, and in the brightness of his eyes.

“Well, even if the serpent bites off your head,” says Tatterfell, “the rest of you will still look good.” “That’s the spirit,” I tell her.

Taking in my armor and the borrowed sword strapped to my back, she smiles, showing me her blood-reddened teeth. Then she places a hand over her heart. “High Queen.”

“Is this your first battle?” she asks me. I nod. “If fighting breaks out, focus on what’s in front of you. Fight your fight,” she tells me. “Let someone else worry about theirs.”

Through the trees we ride, and I cannot help thinking that when I pictured knighthood, I pictured something like this. Facing down magical monsters, clad in armor, sword at my side. But like so many imaginings, it was absent all the horror.

and if there is something brittle in his eyes, nearly everyone is too awed to notice.

The problem with coming through something terrible and big is that afterward, you’re left feeling all the feelings that you shoved down and pushed away. For many long days, I have been terrified, and now, when I ought to be feeling great, what I want to do is hide under a table in the brugh with Cardan until I can finally convince myself he’s all right. And maybe make out with his face, if he’s feeling up to that.

I grin irrepressibly at Cardan. He smiles back, with a little surprise. It’s possible I don’t smile like that very often.

“We would like our three friends from the Court of Shadows to step forward.” The Ghost, the Bomb, and the Roach walk onto the carpet of white flowers. They are shrouded in cloaks that cover them from head to toe, even covering their faces with thin black netting. Cardan beckons, and pages come forward, carrying pillows. On each is a silver mask, denoting nothing of gender, just a gently blank metal face with something slightly impish about the curve of the mouth. “You who dwell in shadows, I wish for you to stand with us sometimes in the light,” says Cardan. “To each, I give a mask. When you wear it, no one will be able to recall your height or the timbre of your voice. And in that mask, let no one in Elfhame turn you away. Every hearth will be open to you, including mine.”

Whatever punishment I see fit, from execution to exile to a curse, will be considered just—the more so if it’s witty.

I raise a plastic glass. “To family.” “And Faerieland,” says Taryn, raising hers. “And pizza,” says Oak. “And stories,” says Heather. “And new beginnings,” says Vivi. Cardan smiles, his gaze on me. “And scheming great schemes.”