asked as she headed for the door.
“No. Not yet.”
He frowned. “Are you packing, as in, ‘in the beginning stages of getting packed’?”
Joy laughed and grabbed her purse. “I’m on it. Don’t worry.”
“I’m your father,” he said. “It’s my job to worry.”
“Later. Gotta go!”
Joy’s hand was on the doorknob as she spied her brother in the hall. He didn’t stop her or berate her, but he knew where she was going. The silence hung between them, filled with unsaid things. Stef despised the Folk, the “Other Thans,” who had hurt their great-grandmother so long ago, but he loved his little sister, and he knew that she loved Ink. That was probably what made it so hard for him to see them together, and why it was so hard for her to tell him that he was one of them—part-Folk—which was probably why she hadn’t yet.
It was another secret standing between them.
It was amazing how close secrets were to lies.
Joy tried not to think about it as she opened the door, crossed the courtyard and the street, and stood waiting at the corner of Wilkes and Main. She tried not to dwell on it as she watched the vintage car take the turn, and attempted to put it out of her mind as she settled into the buttery leather seats, letting sleep overtake her in its customary way as she slipped from Glendale, North Carolina, to Boston town.
She tried very, very hard, but she felt guilty all the same.
Joy blinked awake as the Bentley slowed to a stop in front of the grand brownstone, and she waited politely for the driver to open her passenger door. Wiping the gunk from her eyes, she scraped her heel against the edge of curb just to convince herself once again that this was real—she’d traveled hundreds of miles in a matter of moments during a spell-induced catnap. She’d never get used to it.
Joy climbed the stone steps and rapped the old-fashioned brass knocker twice. She had her tablet under her arm and a new pair of shoes, but she still felt unprepared for her meeting with Graus Claude.
Kurt opened the door and ushered her in with one white-gloved hand. The fact that the other wasn’t tucked into his jacket over the bulge of his gun made her feel better—what did it say about her that she felt comforted by the fact that this wasn’t one of those times when someone was actively trying to kill her?
Joy stepped into the foyer as the Bentley rolled away in a hush of white-rimmed tires. She followed Kurt as he walked through the cream-colored foyer, down the long hallway toward the great double doors of the Bailiwick’s office.
“Any hint of what I’m in for?” Joy whispered.
Kurt said nothing, only knocked upon the ironwood doors and then opened them both at once. He was in butler mode—silent, efficient, precise, unhelpful. Joy sighed and walked inside.
“Ah, Miss Malone.” Graus Claude got up from his enormous, thronelike chair and stood behind the great mahogany desk. The grandiose amphibian stood eight feet at the shoulder, his hunchback somewhat lessened under a tailored pinstripe suit with extra-wide lapels. All four of his arms ended in crisp cuffs folded back from his manicured claws, and his smile was full of sharp teeth. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured to one of the chairs facing him with two of his hands; the third clicked the wireless mouse and the fourth flipped open a pocket watch on a chain. “We have a lot to go over in a regretfully brief time, so I shall begin my duties as your sponsor in the Twixt with all due haste.” The gentleman toad’s icy blue gaze swept over her. “I would advise you take notes,” he said. “Starting now.”
“Right,” Joy said, flipping her tablet and attaching the keyboard. She placed it on the edge of the desk and clicked open a new document.
“Now then,” the Bailiwick said, lumbering out from behind the desk. “Since you have already accepted your True Name, there is no need to go into a detailed synopsis. Your unique sigil will protect you from undo harm and direct spell manipulation, save from those to whom you give it willingly.” He paused, giving weight to his words. “This is something I do not recommend.” Joy underlined the sentence in her document as he continued. “However, my research indicates that your case falls neatly between two known categories—that of a changeling and that of a halfling.” He threaded two clawed hands together while the others gestured as he spoke. “A changeling is a Folk child, disguised as a human child, who is switched shortly after birth for the human mother to raise out of infancy—” He paused at Joy’s look of horror. “This practice rarely occurs anymore.”
Joy rolled her eyes. “Why? Did somebody finally figure out that it was wrong?”
Graus Claude’s head stilled as his eyes narrowed. “There has not been a birth in the Twixt for over a thousand years. It is considered a sensitive subject.”
Joy blinked. “Oh.”
The Bailiwick smoothed the gold watch chain against his side. “As I was saying,” he continued, “halflings, on the other hand, are the product of a Folk-human pairing.” His palsied shake returned as he circled the stone basin of floating lily pads. “While, technically, you would not be a halfling—I might estimate closer to a two-to-the-sixth-power-ling—if we theorize that those with the Sight are descendants of mixed heritage, then this category would most aptly suit your situation. In fact, it serves our purposes nicely as halflings traditionally make their way back to the Twixt by their own means, like hatchling turtles making their way home to sea.” He gave a solemn nod. “We can use this to explain your unusually dramatic and unanticipated arrival Under the Hill.”
Joy finished typing and looked up at Graus Claude’s expectant expression.
“Okay,” she said. “Great.”
“O-kay,” Graus Claude rumbled and took a deep, bellows breath. “As you know, the Folk are few and thus bloodshed is highly discouraged.” She all but felt the Bailiwick’s stare touch her shoulder, the place where her Grimson’s mark burned. Inq had put it there after Joy had killed the Red Knight; her act of self-defense was only considered acceptable because the assassin had broken the Edict. “Indeed, this is one of the reasons that the Scribes were created—to take on the risks inherent in marking humans claimed by the Folk without putting any of our own people in danger.”
“But Ink and Inq are your people,” Joy said, turning in her chair. She rankled at bigotry in either world. “They are part of the Twixt, too.”
Graus Claude shifted his elephantine feet. His shoes were topped in immaculate peach spats. “Technically, Master Ink and Mistress Inq are not Folk, per se,” the Bailiwick said. “They are homunculi, constructed instruments that attained consciousness over time. While they are, indeed, part of the Twixt, they are not, strictly speaking, part of the Folk. They were made, not born.”
“So it’s okay to put them at risk,” Joy said hotly. “Sort of like stealing babies?”
The Bailiwick sighed. “Miss Malone, this is not an ethical debate. Please, try to stay on topic.” Joy chewed the inside of her cheek and typed The Council Sucks!!! in bold font. Graus Claude either didn’t see it or chose to ignore it as he ambled past. “This paucity of numbers has created a symbiotic network among the Folk, a web of alliances, threats and favors that have ensured the collective safety and status of practically everyone within the Twixt. That network must now adapt to include you.” He
