“The salvation of the realm,” Will answered. He squeezed Kit’s elbow and felt Kit lean against him –not so much relaxing as seeking comfort and perhaps warmth, despite the way he almost flinched away from Will’s steadying touch. The air above ground was colder than in the tunnels, and Kit shivered violently. Will remembered the blood on his foot.

“Please,” Kit said wearily through the chatter of his teeth. Let us pass, my lord.”

Salisbury glanced from Kit to Will and back again, sparing his final glance for Murchaud. Tom and Ben were silent, tall pillars on either side of the poets and the Prince.

“If we’re all nominally on the side that does not look forward to a Promethean conquest of England and the Church,” Will said, lifting his chin, “I must agree with Sir Christopher. You misjudged Baines and Poley, my lord, and it is only through the bravery of these men behind me that the King and the crown were saved tonight.”

“Misjudged?”

Will smiled. He imagined it wasn’t a pleasant one, and thought the glance Kit angled him was proud and amused. “This raven on my shoulder is the last raven at the Tower, my lord. All the rest are dead.”

He wished he’d seen Salisbury take that short, ragged step back under circumstances where he could appreciate the victory. “Where are Baines and Poley?”

Will gathered his thoughts, but Kit beat him to the answer. “Poley is dead,” he said. Will admired the lack of apparent relish in his voice, and then blinked, startled, when he saw the golden earring wink in the shadows under Kit’s tangled hair. I’LL be damned–“Baines has perhaps gone to join Catesby and Fawkes and their friends. I can’t say–”

“Fawkes is in custody,” Salisbury said, smoothing the front of his robes. The silence that followed was all but thick enough for Will to lean into. The harness of the fey horses creaked with their breathing; the eyes of the Faerie riders rested on himself, on Kit, on Murchaud. “Catesby and his bravos will follow before dusk, I warrant. We know his movements well, and their plot is ended, the gunpowder seized, the kingdom quite safe.”

“Quite safe from explosions,” Tom Walsingham supplied, with a sideways glance at Will. Will nodded, sneaking his hand into his pocket to rub the iron nail in its silken pouch. “Safe from sorcery?”

“Sorcery–”

“Scoffs a man with the Queen of Faerie at his back and a magician close enough to spit in his eye?” Kit said softly. He glanced at Will.

Will picked up the cue as smoothly as Burbage might have, and continued. “The astrologer Dee would tell you the same. ‘Tis a night for the fall of kingdoms, Robert.”

Will could see Salisbury’s shock at his use of his Christian name, the ripple that spread through the guardsmen at his back. He bit his lips to keep from laughing at the casual way Kit pushed forward, all but disregarding Salisbury, moving toward the Fae. Will kept to Kit’s elbow, grateful when Murchaud came along on the other side, and Tom and Ben stayed with them as if drilled.

Kit limped heavily now, and Will kept a hand under his elbow to support him, limping himself. Murchaud shot them a sideways glance, and seemed as if he might move closer. And then bit his lip, nodded, and looked away. Will was surprised to find himself grateful for the Elf‑knight’s looming presence.

It was the Puck who came to greet them, his lop ears lolling like his pony’s, with the clop of unshod hooves on stone. Will took a breath in relief when Kit didn’t shrug off his steadying hand, instead seeming to lean harder. “I see you are forgiven, Master Goodfellow,” he said.

Aye,” Puck answered, his ears laid flat down the nape of his neck. “Art thou?”

Will squeezed Kit’s arm, sensing some unspoken context. He glanced up at Kit, who frowned. “Thou art the one who can answer that, Master Goodfellow.”

The Puck glanced from Kit to Will to Salisbury, sideways at Murchaud, and then over his shoulder at the silent, solemn Queens. “Yes,” he said softly. “I suppose I am. Your steed is ready, Sir Poet.”

“As long as it’s not white,” Kit answered, and followed where Puck led, toward the rear of the Fae guard. Salisbury stamped off in the opposite direction and stood, conferring with one of the yeomen.

Will hung back a little, with a glance to Murchaud. “Where are we going?

“Damned if I know,” the Elf‑knight answered. “I suspect it will involve hunting Richard Baines to ground, but nevertheless we should ask the Mebd.” With a single glance to see that Tom and Ben were following, he went to pay court on his Queen, taking Will’s elbow as Will had been holding Kit’s. Salisbury, still off to one side, didn’t manage to intercept them and take precedence; Ben and Tom moved to block his attempt. There’ll be Hell to pay over that.

The raven on Will’s shoulder twisted its head to look back at the soldiers, ruffling its damaged wing as if the cold air pained it. “There’ll be Hell to pay no matter what,” Murchaud commented quietly, and smiled when Will raised an eyebrow at him. “You were thinking out loud, Master Poet.”

“Ah – ” Will raised his eyes to the impassive, alabaster masks of two women who had never looked so much like sisters as they did at this moment, for all the Mebd rode sidesaddle, swathed in layers of color‑shifting silk, and Morgan wore those damned riding breeches that had once so discomfited Will.

“Master Shakespeare,” Morgan said musically, patting a stray strand of hair back into her pearl‑braided chignon. “It appears thou hast a thing which doth belong to me.” She raised a hand imperiously, fingers belled loosely into a fist, and her eyes were not on Will’s but on the raven’s black ones.

Will told himself that the raven could not smirk.“He doesn’t leave the Tower,” Will said. “His life is England’s, now.” The poet rubbed his beard. Ice crystals were forming between the spiral hairs; they dusted his breast when he lowered his hand.

Morgan left hers upraised, her head tilted as if she, herself, were some strange new sort of raptor. The Mebd, still silent, turned only her head to regard her sister, her pale lips twitching toward a smile. The long, woven braids of her hair slid like a fisherman’s weighted net around her shoulders.

Morgan did not return her sister’s glance. “What wouldst thou see done with him?”

“I’d see him ensconced with Sir Walter, I think. The brave captain can see to his safety, can any man–and is conveniently unable to leave the Tower.”

“I shall reclaim the bird sooner or later, sweet William.”

“Aye,” Will said. “But not until ravens flock these grounds again. Do we have an agreement, my lady?”

She bit her lip, ignoring the Mebd’s arch amusement. “He’s hidden from me for a thousand years, ” Morgan le Fey said at last, acquiescing. Her hand slid gracefully down to rest on her thigh, cupped inward, palm open. “A few more days mean nothing.”

Will looked at the raven. The raven looked at Will. Their silent regard was interrupted by the measured clop of hooves.

Kit’s horse wasn’t white at all, Will saw with relief, but a sorrel gelding so red he gleamed like wet blood even by the cold fey light that surrounded them. His saddle and bridle were leather, even redder, a saber sheathed on the harness by Kit’s left hand. A white blaze graced the animal’s nose, dripping so low he seemed to drink it, and Kit’s free hand rose again and again to stroke the coarse blond mane back from the crest.

The fond gentleness of Kit’s touch contrasted harshly with the expression he turned on Morgan. Murchaud took a half step forward. Will shot a hand sideways and gripped his sleeve, staggering with the force it took to stop the Prince’s movement.

“Will–” Tom said behind him, and Will shook his head just enough to make his hair brush against his collar.

“‘Tis his to play out, Tom,” Will said under his breath. Ben grunted on Murchaud’s far side, but stayed steady as if planted. “Stand fast, and be ready for whatever might befall.”