She picked up the goblet from where he’d dropped it, and he watched as the silver-blue streak vanished from her dark hair . . . and reappeared in his own long locks. “Thank you, my dear,” she said as she removed her cloak. “Do enjoy your long and fruitful life.”

She tossed the cloak over his head, and the icy darkness consumed him.

1

Swords and Sisters

SATURDAY DIED for the fifth time that morning. Her shallow breath gently stirred the dust of the practice field. She got to her feet, shook back the strands of hair that had come loose from her braid, and pushed a larger chunk behind her ear, mixing the sweat and soil there into mud. The one clean thing on her person was the thin band of blue-green fabric wrapped around the wrist of her sword arm, a remnant of the only dress Saturday had ever worn. No matter how disgusting she got, it seemed this magic bracelet was as immune to filth as Saturday was immune to injury.

Shoulders squared, feet apart, and tailbone centered, Saturday lifted the wooden practice sword before her. “Again.”

Velius laughed at her.

Saturday scowled. There wasn’t a speck of dirt on her instructor; no dirt would be brave enough to mar his perfect fey beauty. Nor did he seem fatigued. She hated him a little more for that.

“Let’s take a break,” he said.

“I don’t need a break.”

“I do.”

Lies. He was calling her weak. The insult only made her angrier. “No, you don’t.”

Velius lifted his head to the sky and prayed to yet another god. Temperance, maybe, or Patience. Was there a God of Arguments You’ve Lost Twenty Times Before and Were About to Have Again? If so, Saturday bet on that one.

“If you don’t stop, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“You can’t hurt me,” she reminded him. Humans with preordained destinies tended to be impervious to danger. She’d demonstrated this quality in the spring, when she’d miraculously recovered from an ax blade to the leg. Half a year later, Saturday was beyond ready to stop playing with toy swords and get on with her fate, whatever that may be.

“I can hurt you, though you might heal more quickly than the average human. Exhaustion will still lay you low.”

“If that’s what it takes, then.” Could he please just shut up and come at her already?

“You’re just mad I won’t let you use that damned sword.”

“Not just that, but yes.” Her eyes stung with sweat, her tongue was dry with dust, and her stomach growled more from anger than hunger.

“You need to learn,” said Velius. “You may have chopped down a hundred trees, but you don’t know the first thing about sword fighting.”

“I do when I have ‘that damned sword.’”

“Do you hear yourself? It’s a crutch. That sword is like an addiction with you.”

“It’s not an addiction; it’s a gift,” she shot back. She would have her fight, whether he wanted one or not. “What do you know? You can’t turn your power off, or leave it behind.”

“There are times when I wish I could.” His shoulders fell a little, and Saturday knew she had defeated him. “Fine. Get the sword.”

Her legs took off running at the first word, launching her over the fence and outside the practice area before he’d finished his sentence. She threw open the door to the armory, tossed the silly wooden sword back into place, and buckled on her swordbelt with a triumphant grin.

Erik entered the armory after her and made his way to the shelves of daggers and throwing knives. The king’s personal guardsman scratched his bushy red beard, as if he were taking inventory. He noticed Saturday’s presence out of the corner of his eye.

As soon as the belt buckle was flat into place, Saturday could feel her muscles singing. Her breath came easier. The pain of her bruises lessened. A happy energy flooded her body from head to toe and she felt . . . awake. “I wore him down again,” she boasted to Erik.

“I noticed.”

“You disapprove.”

“Yep.” He picked up a dagger, tested its balance, and then selected another one.

Suddenly Saturday didn’t feel so victorious. Velius may have been the oldest and most talented of her teachers, but Erik was the one she loathed to disappoint. He’d been the childhood friend of her eldest brother, Jack; they’d been sword brothers in the Royal Guard, before Jack had been cursed into the body of a dog and never seen again.

Since her little sister’s recent marriage to the now King of Arilland, Erik had become very much a surrogate eldest brother to Saturday. Of all her siblings, he was the most like Saturday: normal.

Normal.

Saturday had come to hate that word.

All of her other, fey-blessed siblings had been given nameday gifts that complemented their magical powers, which they’d inherited from a grandfather who’d been the Fairy Queen’s consort for a time. Sunday’s journal was a vessel for writing things that came true. Peter’s carving knife could breathe life into his whittlings. Friday’s needle could sew any material known to man. Thursday’s spyglass let her see into the past, present, and future from wherever in the world she happened to be.

But Saturday’s gift from Fairy Godmother Joy? An ax.

A ridiculous present for a baby, Saturday’s gift was nothing more than a plain old ax, a boring tool that lightened Papa’s load in the Wood. And yet, that same ax had chopped down a monstrous, giant-bearing beanstalk and turned into “that damned sword” Velius despised so much.

He might as well have despised Saturday outright. Without her gift, Saturday was just an overly tall girl with overly large hands and an overly loud mouth. She wasn’t even as useful anymore. Since Friday’s needle had healed a goose that laid golden eggs, Papa didn’t have to go into the Wood as often, which meant Saturday and Peter now had days off. Who had ever heard of days off? Saturday used this idle time to come to the Royal Guards’ training grounds to be yelled at and told how lazy she was. It’s not like she had anything else to do.

Blessedly, Erik said nothing more, so Saturday hurried back to the practice area, where Velius stood waiting for her. His dark, lithe form leaned against the fence as he chatted to someone in a very large hat and pile of white skirts who had no business muddying herself in the red clay and muck of the training grounds.

Monday. Of course.

Saturday’s estranged eldest sister had visited the palace in Arilland for the series of balls held by the royal family and then stayed to witness the marriage of their youngest sister, Sunday, to Prince Rumbold. But instead of returning to some faraway castle in some faraway land the moment the bouquet was thrown, Monday had chosen to stay in residence with Sunday.

Personally, Saturday felt that Arilland had lately suffered from an abundance of royalty. (As Saturday suffered from an abundance of sisters, she knew what that was like.) Queens turning into geese, giant kings falling from the sky, frog princes, and princess-sisters. Saturday’s goal was swordsmanship decent enough to get her hired on the first caravan out of this magic-drenched insanity.

“Good afternoon, sister.” Monday’s voice was butter and honey on warm bread.

“What are you doing here?” asked Saturday. Monday held one of the wooden practice swords, more as a walking stick than a weapon.

“I’ve come to see my sister’s infamous sparring,” Monday answered politely.

“Verbal sparring or physical sparring?” asked Velius.

The corner of Monday’s lips turned up, revealing a slight dimple. “Whichever upsets you more, cousin.”

Saturday was suddenly very pleased to see her sister.

“Gentlemen, might I have a word with my sister in private?”

Velius bowed to Monday, as did Erik, who had magically appeared in the practice area to bask in Monday’s glow. He wasn’t the only one. Saturday looked around the field. Every guard, to a man, was staring at the princess.