Part Second: The Hart Rampant: Prologue, Part 2

Prologue: The Garden and the Serpent, Continued

In all, though, the year Lucius spent as a page at Court was among the laziest, easiest, most pleasant years of his life. There were beautiful women everywhere he looked. The scenery was magnificent, the castle was dreamingly lovely, and the weather could not have been more pleasant. He could perform magic wherever he wanted and would never have to hide it. Not only that, but he could ride as far as he wanted in any direction and still not have to hide it. The meals were so exotic, varied, and delicious, with wine served with every course including breakfast, that he had to exert some self-discipline to maintain his usual trimness and not be drunk by lunchtime.

In the mornings, he would go to Buckminster Swain's library and perform whatever research or clerical duties Swain required of him. As Swain was an absentminded, unexacting taskmaster, whom Lucius sensed probably would have been just as happy to work alone, his job was easy enough. Most of the time, he could just read whatever appealed to him. For the first few months, this was anything to do with the creation of a True Name.

In the afternoon, your average courtier sought some kind of physical activity. Any of the Tithe pages could have undertaken some sword or bow training with the Fianna, but Lucius was put off by how accomplished all of the Faery native-borns already seemed to be, and he didn't want to join a beginning class with thirteen- and fourteen-year-old pages. Lucius preferred pursuits in which his natural superiority would effortlessly assert itself, and he would have had to work far too hard for far too long to rival any of the Fianna. Thus, he preferred to stick to athletic pursuits favoured by noble courtiers – in the afternoons, he could go swimming in any one of several nearby ponds and small lakes, or hiking in the woods and fields, or ride out on one of the horses in the King's stables, or join Corvus Greenwood for the occasional round of falconry.

But the sport that became his favourite were the mounted hunts.

Occasionally, Gwydion would call for hunters to rid his lands of a fierce beast that was making a pest of itself among the crops or threatening the peasantry. This was an ancient practice; there were tapestries depicting hunters after boar, bear, lion, elephant, even a dragon – all throughout the castle. One morning in early April, Gwydion announced that a family of black bears had taken up residence on the castle grounds, and had been plundering the beehives, orchards, and vineyards, then called for a hunt to get rid of the pests. This sounded exciting – Lucius volunteered immediately.

Emily, Jak, Corvus, Bill, Victoria, Traltivere, the Robinetts, and both courtiers and Fianna assembled in the courtyard, armed with crossbows and swords, and mounted on fast horses. The scene was everything he could have imagined – Faery knights in shining mail, with swords strapped over their backs and carved bows in their hands, silver horns blowing. He was armed with a lethal little crossbow from the King's armoury and twenty wickedly sharp bolts.

That hunt was one of the most exhilarating experiences of his young life. There were three bears, a mother and her twin yearling cubs, and they had turned out to be monsters, larger even than Bill Blake. Bill swiftly wounded the largest of them, the mother, with an arrow to the chest – but she had staggered forward and knocked him off his horse with a blow from her giant paw. Bill recovered, quick as the cat he was, drew his sword, and took her with one efficient slash to the throat. He was hurt, though – the mother bear's punch had broken one of his lower ribs, and slaying her had taken all the energy he had. He fell to one knee, clutching at his side, and seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty drawing breath.

The larger yearling bayed with indignation as his mother went down and charged the injured pooka. Emily screamed a warning to Bill and got off a shot at the creature's chest, but not a lethal one – archery would never be her strong suit. But she slowed him long enough for Corvus to pull his mount alongside and, extending his sword, spear the beast's heart with a hard downward blow. The yearling fell dead almost silently.

Most thrilling of all – the smallest of them had charged Lucius, rising up to swat at his mount with its paws. He abandoned the sport crossbow in favour of the surety of his wand – "Avada Kedavra!" The bear fell heavily forward – he had killed it instantly.

What was almost as satisfying as his success in the hunt was the ritual that followed. The hunters dismounted, knelt beside their fallen prey, and said what sounded like prayers in a language Lucius didn't know. Buckminster Swain would later tell him that it was customary to thank the gods sacred to one's quarry for the sacrifice of one of their children, and that the language spoken was Old Arcadian, the ancient native tongue of the Faerielands. After the prayer, one by one, the hunters who had gotten in the killing blows were "blooded" in tribute – anointed with the blue, blue blood of their slain quarry. All of these traditions were sacred – Bill stopped to observe the rite and receive his due tribute even through the pain of his injury.

When it came to Lucius's turn, Emily Swain approached him, looking like some young pagan goddess of the hunt in her mail and sword, soaked her fingers in blood, and lightly drew them across his fair, fair cheek. Perhaps it was the scent of the blood, or the adrenalin still running through his veins, or something about the girl touching his face – but that moment, that touch, was more sexually charged than the overt advances he had received from many another woman.

The hunting party was fêted with a grand feast that evening, after their return. An hour's treatment from one of the castle physicians had healed Bill Blake to good as new – he joined Lucius and Corvus in downing much robust red wine and congratulating each other. Bear steak, much tenderised and marinated, also proved to be surprisingly tasty. Later that month, he found the tanned skin of the bear he had killed draped over his bed – a trophy of the hunt, given to him by the King.

Lucius brought that bearskin home with him and still had it in front of the fire in his bedroom some decades later.

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Much as he loved hunting, and enjoyed sampling all the best drink, cuisine, and sport the Faerielands had to offer, during his first months at Court, the goal that became most pressing to Lucius Malfoy, even more important than creating his own True Name – was to be the first man to bed Buckminster Swain's daughter.

She had interested him on his first day at Court, after she won her duel against that foppish courtier; the brazen way she flirted with him and had instantly annexed him into her social circle was also attractive. But now, after the hunt, there was enough sexual tension between them to keep him restless and awake at night.

Lucius knew that this attraction was mutual; the amount of time she spent seeking out his company, either alone or by inviting him to join her friends in some activity, was clear indication of that. Now, he was openly pursuing her. He would invariably happen to be half-dressed when she arrived to ask him down to breakfast or to go out with her friends of an evening, just to see her staring at him. He also never lost the opportunity to flirt with her, using the most enticing and provocative banter he was capable of. She flirted back shamelessly – apparently no one had drilled a tremendous amount of upper-class British modesty into this young lady. She met his compliments and invitations with provocations of her own, sometimes couched in language so allusive and cloaked in metaphor than it only occurred to him some minutes later that, when she had been speaking of bumbling bears on their ceaseless search for honeycombs, she had been not only totally aware of his flirtations, but teasing him about them in the most ribald way.

Very often, after an evening spent carousing in the Vintner's Quarter, or listening to a bard or musician perform in a tavern, or some other evening's sport, they would end up in some dark corner together, and she would end up in his lap, kissing him until he could feel his hair prickle. The sensation of her, sprawled over his thighs, her breast against his under the slippery warmth of her silk dress – aroused him until he could have laid her on the wooden table and had her then and there. But persuading her to let him take their mutual desire to the next step – the one where he artfully removed both her clothes and his own, laid her on his bed, and then plied all of his well-honed amatory skills to their mutual satisfaction – was proving to be more difficult than he thought.

But Milady Emily, it appeared, was a very self-willed young woman, and Lucius Malfoy was not the only man at Court with an eye to become her lover. Bill and Victoria both found occasion to warn him to be careful of Jayson Robinett, who was rumoured to have a quite a temper. (Lucius only smirked at such warnings, as being Abraxas Malfoy's son left him somewhat jaded regarding the potential fury of some eighteen-year-old boy.) The satyr obviously believed himself to have a prior claim on her, but Emily herself only tolerated Robinett like she might a petulant younger brother.

While she only put up with Robinett, she was paying innumerable small attentions to Lucius. She went out one Saturday and gathered wild rose blossoms until she had two heavy baskets full – and took them down to the perfumer's row, where she traded the raw materials to a friend of her mother's for finished goods – sachets for her drawers, and vials of essences, including some amber oil for Lucius. "I thought this smelled like you," she said, putting a dab on his wrist.

Lucius thanked her for her present, which was extremely well-chosen – when warmed on his skin, it was like a honeyed version of his own scent. Then he chided her, softened with many small caresses, for spending half a day working to earn something for herself that he could have easily bought for her. She wouldn't be scolded though, because she didn't see the logic of what he was saying.

"Where's the fun in just buying things?" she asked. "If I had done that, then where would the Peaseblossoms get their flowers for the enfleurage trays? And what would I have to do on Saturday morning?"

"Oh, I don't know... you could always come to my room and talk to me."

"You could always come picking roses with me – we could talk while doing that."

The luxurious, overwrought hothouse atmosphere of romance that pervaded the lives of the young people at Court that spring only intensified as the nights grew warmer and spring gave way to summer. As April drew to a close, Lucius Malfoy's lust for Emily Swain was only one of many amorous complications playing out in the castle; the entire Court seemed afire with secret intrigues and passionate glances.

All of it was leading up to May First, which the Faeries regarded as their highest holy day – a feast they called by a variety of reverently pronounced names. May Day, May's Eve, Beltene, Bealltainn. They also called it by a phrase he knew, that set off pangs of deep recognition in him – Walpurgis Night.

But mostly, they called it Beltane.

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The Court observed May Day with a grand feast and ball that began early in the afternoon. The courtiers had gone all out in their evening dress – all around him swirled otherworldly, rapturously beautiful creatures of perfumed silk and glitter. Lucius himself looked classically handsome in white silk and black velvet with high black boots, and knew it.

Gwydion's chefs produced another luxuriant meal – cockles in garlicky butter to start, sinfully rich asparagus-cream soup, tender spring vegetables in herbs and wine, wild mushroom soufflé, oysters in champagne cream sauce, melting foie gras paired with a delicate honey mead, pears baked with brandy for dessert. Lucius had to limit himself to only a taste of each vintage so as not to pass out by the sixth course again.

During the feast, many of the artistically inclined at Court put on performances. Aliane Floriano sang arias from the Italian Second-World opera canon, and Faerie ballads. Varick Skúlason played his violin, both Faery airs and music from home. Lucius was no musical authority, but he would not deny the other two pages were extremely talented and put on virtuoso performances. Then one of the Muggle pages got up, the freckled man Lucius had noticed at the welcome banquet, and performed a monologue, some endless thing about Queen Mab bringing dreams in a chariot with traces of spider's web. Lucius assumed it was Shakespeare – in his experience, whenever someone performed a long, impenetrably complex dramatic speech in a very animated fashion, it was usually Shakespeare – but apparently everyone here was enjoying it. He smiled in the right places, as was proper, but privately, he was still furious that there were Muggles at Court at all. They infested every part of his world, and he didn't see why they had to come here as well. If he had had his way, he would have banished every Muggle from Court – make that the whole of the Faerielands – permanently. He did not applaud when the Muggle actor finished his performance.

After the feast, musicians began to play, and the courtiers swirled out onto the marble floor. Lucius soon found himself much sought after as a dance partner by the women of the Court – as he was used to being the one who sought them out at dances, it was a not unpleasant surprise. Then, at sundown, the sound of drums and faraway music was heard in the forest. The young courtiers strained over the balconies overlooking the trees and cheered amongst themselves when bonfires began to appear among the trees in the distance. The sight of the yellow dots of firelight winking in the distance seemed to fill everyone with giggling excitement.

The dancing didn't continue for very much longer after evening fell. Gwydion, who had been on the floor with his Queen almost all night, seemed to be spending more and more time gazing at his wife – until Lucius was amazed to see those two elderly sovereigns embroiled in a very long, passionate kiss as they danced. Shortly after that song had ended, the King and Queen bid their Court a fond farewell and retired early, their arms around each other's waists. Not long after that, most of the older people followed suit, turning soft eyes on their spouses. Lucius had never seen elderly and middle-aged people grin so much and so amorously.

Buckminster Swain turned to Emily as the ball was winding down, put both hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. "So we won't see you back till late?"

Emily grinned. "Probably."

"Have a good time." His dark head fell onto his daughter's shoulder with a miserable little groan. "Oh, sweetheart, I wish your mother was here."

"I know she misses you too, Da," Emily said, patting him. "She'll be back soon, Da... "

Swain laughed. "I know. May the Goddess bless and keep you this night." He pronounced the words reverentially and embraced her.

The younger courtiers then scattered to their rooms with the promise to meet in front of the castle in a half-hour's time. Emily stopped long enough to tell Lucius the time for the meet. "Gatehouse courtyard at half past the hour. Bring something to drink. And wear something you don't mind getting dirty!" Then she disappeared down the long hall with a group of giggling female friends.

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There was a small crowd assembled in the dark courtyard when Lucius arrived with Jak Dhayalan, both of them dressed in plain, rustic clothing and boots, both carrying bottles of wine. All fourteen Tithe pages were there, and many of the Fianna squires. Everyone was milling about laughing, arms around each other, with lanterns, bottles, and earthenware goblets in their hands.

Emily Swain and William Blake were talking intensely off to one side as they approached – "You think she likes me? What did she say?"

"Come on, Bill, Mary's always staring at you. She thinks you're a hero, after that hunt. Just ask her to dance when we get there... Oh, there you are, Lucius." Emily came up to him, smiling broadly, and towing the anxious tiger pooka, who kept darting glances at the female pooka from their squire training class. Emily wore an insubstantial black dress that left a long drift of leg, arm, and bosom bare, with a short, dark red cloak thrown over her shoulders. Unbound, careless blonde hair to her waist, eyes deeply dilated with the wine and darkness. She put an arm around Lucius's shoulders and kissed his cheek in greeting, like she usually did, but he thought she lingered over it tonight.

"Well then, are we all ready?" Corvus Greenwood's voice called. "Then on, to the fires!"

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The merry group headed toward the forest. Soon the trees closed over their heads, and they found their way by dim pools of lantern light. The dark seemed alive with conspiratorial whispers and laughter and wild music that was growing louder.

The air was full of hushed gossip and speculation – William Blake was still worrying aloud to Emily as to whether a girl named Mary would want to dance with him. Lucius passed two women talking together, whose identities he couldn't make out in the dark, and his attention was caught when he heard mention of himself:

"Maybe I'll see if I can drag Emily's friend off into the night... "

"Which one? Bill?"

Giggles. "I think Mary's got dibs on Bill, if she ever finds her tongue. But that wizard companion of hers, fair as the sun, he's pretty."

"Oh, I know of whom you speak – Luscious Man-Toy, I think is his name?"

More giggling – the girls passed quickly through the trees. Lucius felt his cheeks burning – he still was occasionally shocked at the conspicuously free way Faery women talked. Their ribald gossip about him reminded him of the way he and some of his friends in Slytherin sometimes discussed girls from other Houses, and it was both titillating and disturbing to find himself being spoken of in exactly the same manner.

A moment later, he heard more voices in the night, raised in a heated quarrel.

"I said no, Jayson – leave me in peace. Are you my King, who would seek to rule me like this? Are you my husband? I'll not be ordered and commanded – lay hold of me again and I'll knock you down, sworn companion from childhood or not," Emily's furious voice was saying.

Then Bill's voice, low, with a growl in it – "He's had too much wine. Steifan, take your brother back up to the castle, he shouldn't be out this night. Come on, Em, I won't let him ruin May's Eve for you."

By the dim light of a lantern, Lucius saw Bill's towering figure emerge from the trees a moment later, holding a scowling Emily against his side. She was muttering some very eloquent Arcadian profanity.

"Bill? What's going on?" Lucius asked, approaching the pair.

"It's nothing, Luce. Come on, we're almost there." Emily scooted forward and linked her arm through his.

"Is someone annoying you? Do I need to have him killed?" Lucius asked her, only half-facetiously.

She slanted an appreciative look up at him. "No. Don't worry – if it ever comes to that, I'll just kill the little bastard myself and be done with it," she said with a sarcastic laugh. Emily was drawing him along with her at a quick pace – the sound of heavy drumbeats was now loud enough to be felt. In another moment they arrived at a firelit clearing in the trees.

The scene before them was like some Boschean panorama of earthly delights, of free-flowing wine and revelry. Dancers were moving in a frenzy around the fire, singing songs in a language Lucius didn't know. Apparently this event departed even more from the usual cotillion customs he knew, as there was no pretence of choosing partners – everyone simply moved together, dancing with everyone else around them, both men and women. Everyone seemed to be throwing their shoes and cloaks aside, and several men had discarded their shirts. He had never seen such a roiling mass of whirling exuberance in his life, dancing on its hooves, paws, and bare feet. Those who were not dancing were passing bottles of wine and mead amongst themselves, holding their goblets aloft and cheering the dancers on.

A group of drummers were energetically pounding an infectious cadence on every sort of drum, from wide kettledrums to paddled bodhrans. Accompanying them were a dozen musicians playing fiddle, lute, pipes, flutes, whistles. Lucius recognised Varick Skúlason among the fiddle players, sawing away at a furious pace and grinning madly. A small group of screaming, swooning girls were clustered around him, transfixed by his playing – Orpheus in a crowd of maenads. All intent on winning his favour, the lucky bastard. But Varick gently repudiated all of their advances. "No, I'm sorry, you're all very nice, but I love my fiancée. Hildigunnur and I are getting married as soon as I get home." That just made the girls swoon over him all the more, but he didn't make one move to take advantage.

Lucius rolled his eyes at that – he was getting married when he got home, but he would be damned if that was going to stop him from sowing some wild oats.

Emily still seemed put out by whatever had gone on between her and Jayson Robinett, so Bill Blake decided to cheer her up. "Come on – bet you can't do this!" He got up and turned a handspring on the grass – surprisingly nimbly for such a giant creature.

"That's nothing!" Emily got up and turned a quicker one, her black dress flying up to reveal black ruffled bloomers beneath her skirts. Then Bill countered with three cartwheels – and Emily turned three cartwheels – first one-handed, then the last no-handed. Then they tumbled onto the grass together, the slender faun coming to rest on the great tiger's fuzzy chest. He rubbed his whiskery jowls against her cheek and neck until she was shrieking with laughter. One could tell this was a game they had played hundreds of times before.

Then Emily spotted Mary, the female tiger pooka whom Bill fancied, looking wistfully at him across the clearing. She pulled Bill into the dancing crowd – and a moment later she, Corvus, Eithne, and Victoria had contrived to push the two young pookas together for a dance – no small feat, given that they were manoeuvring some combined six hundred pounds of great, reasoning cat into a romantic clinch. Their juggling met with remarkably little resistance, however, and not long after, Mary lightly nipped Bill on the shoulder and then ran off – and Bill yowled an admiring Damn and ran after her, down toward the river.

A small crowd had gathered around a lone dancer in the throng; Lucius recognised Dakarai Shumwe in the centre of it, dancing, her hips in a frenzied rhythm, her arms moving like the flapping wings of a raptor bird. A young satyr Lucius had met at Court – Euan Doggins's nephew Colin – let out a howl and joined her, mimicking her movements, duelling her in the circle. Their dance had grew more and more provocative, like two wild creatures courting. They circled each other more and more closely until the girl put her arms around Colin's sweating shoulders and he swooped in to kiss her – and the other dancers howled their approval. Then Colin wrapped his arms around her hips and whirled her high into the air, and Dakarai threw her head and arms up and let out a lilting cry – Aiyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyi – which was taken up by the other celebrants.

The musicians were playing like they were possessed, faster and faster. Couples were pairing off now, and the dancing was growing even more tempestuous. His mother would have said they writhed like damned souls in perdition – but the wine was fair turning Lucius's head; his heart racing with the drumbeats, the pound of feet on the ground, the singing.

Then a girl's warm arms circled his neck in a lissome, silky hug. "Happy Beltane, silly wizard," Emily Swain's voice breathed in his ear – and then she kissed him lusciously. She tasted like honey mead and red wine. Lucius tried to wrap his arms around her, prolong that kiss – but she darted away toward the trees.

At the forest's edge, she turned and looked at him... and that look promised more that he could have possibly imagined. He could practically smell the oestrogen, the lubrication, the lust. It was coming off her coy, flirtatious posture, her deep, randy gaze into his eyes, like nothing else could have possibly expressed, or offered. Some primitive part of his mind, quite apart from any sensibilities refined at Malfeasant, recognised an unmistakable show of sexual receptivity from a maddeningly desirable female – and at that moment, he would have chased her to the ends of the Earth, or at least to the boundaries of the Third Kingdom. He broke from the crowd and followed her under the canopy of the trees. She was far ahead of him, her insubstantial form nearly lost in starlit darkness. This far from the bonfire, in a world lit only by fire and Faery light, the stars were brilliant.

Lucius had grown up hearing of how his ancestors had styled themselves the Knights of Walpurgis, hierophants whose power waxed most potent on the feast of Walpurgisnacht. A kind of recognition thrummed in his head at the scene before him, racial memory perhaps, of drums and torches in the dark, warm-limbed, wanton girls. A warrior armed with a long knife besting a stag in single combat, then being crowned with its bloody skin and antlers in tribute.

But this was Arcadia, and no one would be hunting deer this evening; no, the fauns would celebrating tonight. His hunter's blood was roused, but by a very different quarry.

High, silvery girl's laughter just ahead of him. She crossed a clearing, hurdled a fence. Then there was a little half-timbered building in front of him, someone's hay shed, covered with blue lilies in bloom. His fair prey disappeared through a doorway, up a flight of stairs. He raced up the steps to the loft, saw the girl's silhouette against the starry window.

Then he was clutching her back hard against his chest, devouring the nape of her neck. He had her undressed in a second, finally revealing the body that had been making him restless in bed, the pale, long-leggedness of her, half-illuminated in silvery light. And she, shameless little wanton that she was, tore his clothes off with the same abandon. He pushed her onto her back on the hay, covered her body with his own, her thighs falling open around his hips. He had to remind himself – she's a virgin, try to be gentle – but the way she seized a handful of his loose hair and kissed him was hardly virginal, and the way she clutched him, muscular thighs squeezing his hips like... oh God... he was trying to hold himself back from just forcing himself on her without preamble. But then her body was arching up to his... little gasping cries in his ear... there was no way he could have stopped now, now that she finally wanted him.

He moaned and thrust full length inside her, encountering no resistance, no fear, no pain – she was ready for him, welcoming, wet and smooth. For one long endless moment, her hands stroked down over his shoulders, over his arms, over the long muscles of his back. Then their bodies began to move together in the timeless rhythms of human lust... or rather, the timeless lust of human and Faerie. He was expecting her to be very wild – dragging her nails down his back, yowling fit to shake the rafters – but was instead surprised by the tenderness of the way she held him and touched him. Ohhhhh yes, this was good, this was wonderful – pure, unselfconscious physical bliss. She surged beneath him and up onto him as buoyantly as a dolphin playing in the waves.

He could have stayed there forever, just on the edge of orgasm. It was easy to lose track of time and coast on the sustained arousal of their young, strong bodies, listening to her soft cries beneath him. After an endless, but breathlessly short time... she let out a hoarse little gasp, arms locking around him... he was whispering, Come on, love... come for me... he tried to hold back, but the sensation of her orgasm, that rippling grip on him, was pushing him over the edge too, and he couldn't stop himself from flooding her foreign, other, delectable belly with his own climax.

When he was spent and gasping afterward, something in him was shocked, endlessly titillated, that this virgin girl could simply choose her first lover and run off into the woods with him like this. The fact that it had happened without shame or fear, without elaborate ceremonies of marriage, without toilettes with white lingerie that took an endless coy time to prepare in locked bathrooms, amazed him. There would be no furtive gossip about her previous sexual experience by in-laws later, no fetishistic importance attached to the first piercing of her hymen, no sense of something lost... here, it was all about experience gained. She had now joined the ranks of the initiated – sexual pleasure was another accomplishment that she had mastered. I'll be your practice sword, my Lady, he thought, threading his fingers through her damp hair and smiling wickedly into the fragrant hay.

Perhaps now they would tattoo another scarlet band on her arm, above her squire's insignia.

And yet this night, what they were doing... in this utterly strange land, this was a religious ritual. He knew from his reading in Buckminster Swain's library that his role tonight was the part of their Goddess's consort. When he lay with this girl, it was sacred to her and to her people. Perhaps the couples that came together tonight were already married or in love; or perhaps they would fall in love, get married, have children after the revel tonight. But what was sacred was the pleasure, the lust, the joy that came from having one's desires fulfilled. Now he understood the joking going on in the castle about how everyone was always in a good mood after Beltane. He knew he would be.

Yes, Lucius thought, gathering the pliant body of the girl beneath him closer into his arms, he liked it here. What an excellent place to lie low while he waited for the Aurors' investigations to die down again. He knew his parents and the Blacks would carry on the wedding preparations while he whiled away the time in this delightful exile. Narcissa Black would wait – he was already impressed with her patience.

But this Faery girl was as different from his beautiful fiancée as it was possible for a woman to be – while Narcissa reminded him of a porcelain sculpture of a rose, delicate and perfectly shaded, a precious thing kept behind glass, Emily was more like a fresh rose, whose petals and fragrance he could crush into his face. Even her sweat smelled sweet – he buried his face in her damp neck, breathing a scent like the verbena water on his mother's vanity.

He appreciated both objets d'art and rare blooms. He could see himself collecting both when he was patriarch at Malfeasant.

But now he was distracted by her tiny nipple hardening under his fingers, so he bent down and wrapped his lips around it. She moaned softly, both arms cradling his blond head. He slid gently out of her, substituted his hand for his cock, one expert fingertip finding her clitoris and delicately thrumming on it, keeping her primed for him. When he was hard again, he sank luxuriously between those slender thighs, into the tight heat between them.

No, he wasn't going to give her up. The arousal was building, the base of his cock tensing, his testicles clenching. He was going to own this fickle little dance-away slut, make her crawl to him begging to be used at his whim. He had pursued her and won her, and the possessive instinct of a Malfoy, once roused, was powerful. After he was married, he was going to keep her somewhere for himself, like his father did with his London mistresses, and make her love it.

Then all rational thought fled from his consciousness as he lost himself entirely in the sensations of sex. When he fell asleep later, with her arms around him, his rest was entirely untroubled.

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Rain had begun falling sometime during the early evening and through the night – one of those glorious summer showers that was scarcely more than a vaporous sprinkling, just a few refreshing degrees below blood temperature. When they emerged from the hay shed the morning after Beltane, Emily immediately ran out into the mown hayfield beside their little hayshed and jumped into one of the puddles, bits of cut green grass sticking to her slim white feet and ankles. Seeing her larking about in the warm rain, her wet silk dress clinging to her body like something out of a Degas watercolour, made Lucius run after her, lay her down on the cool, wet grass, and make love to her again – and she clung to him like an oyster to its shell. Oh, Lucius... yes, love... you're wonderful... harder... yes...

By the time they sneaked back into the castle by the kitchen entrance, both were thoroughly soaked, grass-stained and muddy, and full of barely suppressed giggles. The kitchen staff had seen dozens of glowing young couples do the same all that morning – had probably recently come from similar activities themselves – so they barely looked up from their preparations for tea.

She left him at the door of his room, after pressing him against the door for another long, hot, muddy kiss.

"Don't go," he said, pulling her back by the hand after she made to move off down the hall.

"Lucius, I want to go take a bath and then a nap," she said. "I'm tired. Wet. Cold. Hay on my clothes. Can't you see?"

"A bath and a nap sounds lovely," he said, pulling her against his chest. "And I've got both a tub and a bed in my room."

"And what should I put on after?" she asked, a little peevishly, and slid out of his grasp. "Meet me at tea in the forenoon, though?" she called back as she moved off down the hall.

"All right then," he said, leaning backward against his door and watching her move off.

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Emily's mercurial mood had passed by the time she met Lucius for tea that afternoon – she seemed much restored after bathing and sleep. Her greeting consisted only of a demure kiss on the cheek, but under the table, her hand was lingering possessively on his knee. Now she was telling him something about the players down at the New Moon Theatre in a bubbly, excited voice.

"Kevin's rehearsing in Theseus and Hippolyta down at the New Moon – that's one of Shakespeare's three plays that the Muggles and wizards don't know about until they come here, so he's terrifically excited. Want to come down and watch the rehearsals with us today?" Her fingers were entwining with his under the table.

Lucius could not imagine being terribly excited over the plays authored by Shakespeare that were readily available in the Wizarding world, so he was unmoved by the idea of there suddenly being three more of them to wade through. "I can't imagine why I would want to watch some Muggle rehearse for a play. It's bad enough that they're allowed to share meals with us," he said as a joking aside to her.

Emily froze for a moment, then blinked several times down at her plate. "He's really very good," she said quietly.

Lucius laughed. "What's very good for a Muggle? Not forgetting his lines at every entrance?"

"Actually, now that he's created his own True Name and can use Glamours and Obscurantis, he's as good as any other apprentice in the company. Better than some, actually," Emily said, very casually. Of course she knew that Lucius himself was still unable to create his own True Name, even with both Swain and Emily tutoring him and any number of quiet hours available in the library. The fact that he still could not do magic without his wand, while three of the Muggle pages had already created True Names, suddenly seemed to hang like an unspoken reproach between them.

"Bully for him," Lucius said with a slight sneer, pouring himself another glass of champagne. "Why don't you forget about these rehearsals and spent the day with me instead?" Under the table, he ran a caressing hand down her thigh.

"I promised I'd go," she said shortly.

When Lucius turned back to Emily a second later, he realised... something was different. She wasn't meeting his eyes, she wasn't touching him, and she wasn't smiling at him. She finished breakfast without another word, then left somewhat abruptly. Lucius followed her down the hall and wrapped his arm around her waist, bending down to stare into her eyes. She glanced up at him, for a second – then kissed him gently on the cheek.

"Fine, go ahead and watch the rehearsal if you want to," he whispered, with the air of making a great concession. "But come to my room tonight and sleep with me."

"I have to meet my mother tomorrow – she'll be back here in the morning," she said. "Sorry."

By that evening, Lucius was absolutely aware that after that single idyllic night, he had somehow fallen out of Emily's favour as a lover. It seemed to him that in the elemental, lightning-quick way of very young women, her affection for him had flashed white-hot for a moment, and then was gone.

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Emily had even less time to spend with him after her mother returned from an extended advisory session in the Sixth Kingdom with King Armus. Armus was a young, inexperienced monarch, whose father had died when he was only nineteen years old, and he ruled the largest and most populous Kingdom in the whole of Arcadia. Thus, he and his First Knight spent a great deal of time asking Lady Elaine's advice, and that of the other eight sovereigns, regarding matters of his nation's security.

On the day Lady Elaine was due to arrive, Lucius waited in the main courtyard with the Royal Family, Buckminster, and Emily, curious to meet the woman credited with keeping the Third Kingdom safe time and again, and who even his own father grudgingly admitted was stunning. When Lady Elaine rode into the courtyard, in armour, with a sword strapped over her back and riding a loose-limbed black charger, accompanied by a retinue of six knights – Lucius took a very long look, and suddenly had an excellent idea of why Buckminster Swain had left his homeland behind.

Gwydion threw another grand welcome banquet to honour his First Knight's return, which was attended by the entire Court. Elaine appeared on her husband's arm in a long, utterly plain gown of parchment-coloured silk, and Buckminster could not have looked happier if he had been King himself. Elaine trailed elegantly up to Emily and Lucius during the cocktail hour before dinner.

"So," she said sternly, as her gaze lit on her daughter, "what's this I hear about some frivolous little duel with Traltivere on your first day back from school, before the whole Court?"

"Well, I... I won," Emily said, looking abashed.

"Of course you won – do you have any idea who your mother is?" Lady Elaine said with mock severity. Emily looked up at her, and they both laughed.

"But don't think you're not in disgrace, young lady – you know how I feel about duelling over trifles. You're a journeyman squire and he doesn't even hold rank, so you could have declined his challenge and just made an apology, and you know it. But no, you thought it was more fun to embarrass Traltivere, didn't you?"

Emily looked abashed again. "He deserved it!"

"I'm sure he did, but what are you going to do if there's a real matter of honour at stake sometime? Treat it like a big joke? Duelling is a serious matter – if you ever want to be a knight, you have to treat it as such."

"I'm sorry, Mum," Emily said very quietly and seriously. "I won't do it again, promise."

"And I'm told you've been neglecting your archery practice, as always," Lady Elaine said with an impatient raise of her perfect brows.

"All right, I'll put in some extra practice," Emily said.

Elaine's expression softened. "Good. Let's get in a few bouts together, say, tomorrow night? I want you to show me how you defeated Traltivere."

Lucius and much of Emily's squire class turned out to watch the training session between Lady Elaine and her daughter the next evening. Lucius had been impressed while watching Emily take on her cousin Corvus, but the calibre of bladework between Elaine and Emily was truly glorious, heart-shaking, heroic. What he saw that evening was to leave a lasting impression on him for years.

He could see Elaine visibly pushing her daughter to a higher level of skill and discipline as they progressed. While Elaine was an affectionate parent, she was clearly not inclined to be indulgent – the bratty, narcissistic side of Emily, which Buckminster Swain tended to turn a fond, blind eye toward, disappeared around her mother. Now, the gambolling girl was outgrown, and someone else emerged – and that someone else, with her air of cold competence and lethal efficiency made Lucius Malfoy breathe shallowly and sweat testosterone until he felt light-headed.

What he would give to have that at his command.

Lucius watched those two combatants for hours, feeling every heartbeat pounding thrillingly in his temples. He thought about what it would be like to be a young king, like the ruler of the Sixth Kingdom, who was exactly his age – and have armies of his own, with warriors like the ones before him to do his bidding. He wouldn't need to call anyone else Master then.

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Spring gave way to Midsummer, which was celebrated with more feasting and revelry. The bonfires that accompanied Beltane were replaced by a spate of weddings, and there seemed to be a sudden craze amongst unmarried people for having their tarot cards read and scrying in water for glimpses of their true loves. Lucius never saw Emily peering into any silver bowls of water, however. She still treated him like her very good friend, but had much less time to spend with him now that her mother was insisting on extra archery practice.

Buckminster Swain's behaviour toward him changed not a bit after Beltane – either he didn't know that his Tithe candidate had spent that night with his daughter, or he just wasn't concerned about it, which Lucius found astonishing. Most of the parents of daughters he knew back in England would have demanded that he immediately marry the girl under similar circumstances, had they known about them. Lucius concluded that she probably hadn't told either of her parents what had happened.

As for Emily herself, she was now spending her free evenings sitting up late drinking wine with that blonde, green-eyed Muggle Titheswoman, Catherine Orson, and listening to her talk about her pre-med University classes and her studies with Fianna medical officers. She was also spending quite a lot of time with Kevin Patrick, that freckled Muggle actor. Lucius took note of him at dinner one evening – he was a blue-eyed, dark-haired fellow, not tall, but reasonably handsome. He very casually asked a few people some questions about Kevin, and heard that he was an American from New Mexico and that he also spent a great deal of time in sword combat training sessions with the Fianna pages, who apparently held him in some regard.

Later that month, the King and Queen, the Swain family, and many courtiers went to the gala opening of the Muggle's play at the New Moon Theatre, where the King kept a lavish royal box. Emily went to opening night in another helplessly gossamer black frock, bringing armfuls of fresh-gathered roses for the players. Lucius declined to attend, preferring to spend the evening carousing in the Vintner's Quarter with Jak Dhayalan.

"So is he your new best friend, that Muggle?" Lucius asked Emily over breakfast the next morning.

Emily looked at him and laughed. "Silly wizard – don't you notice anything? He's mad for that other Muggle page, that blonde girl from California, who writes. They've been together since they met in front of the Avesbury portal – they've hardly been out of each other's laps since Beltane." And that reminded her, she said – after breakfast she was going up to the Californian Muggle girl's room to look at the next chapter of her book. Lucius glanced back down at his own plate with a deep scowl.

It wasn't as though he didn't have opportunities to console himself, however. That same evening, he rode down to the Vintner's Quarter alone and had a glorious drunk of orangeflower brandy – during which he struck up a flirtation with a travelling tradeswoman, a bosomy brunette satyress of about forty, who was more than happy to avail herself of his attentions in her hotel bedroom. That satyress was not the only female Faerie who appreciated his blond good looks and randy inclinations – in the months that followed, he found himself the recipient of a great deal of attention from women in the castle, and without. He was entertained not only in the beds of Court ladies, but in the fields, in the forests, now and then in inn bedrooms, and had a series of extremely memorable encounters with a naiad, or water nymph, who was the guardian of a volcanic hot spring in the hills above the castle.

But when he saw Emily Swain training with the other Fianna squires, or flitting about playing the beloved bratling at Court, making up to everyone and anyone on whom her fancy lighted – Faerie, wizard, and Muggle alike – he still relished his memory of forcing her onto the hay and satiating himself.

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Midsummer gave way to August and the harvest festival of Lughnasadh. Suddenly, Lucius's year was half over, and he had still not created his own True Name. He had given up his hopes of another night with Emily, and as such their friendship had cooled somewhat, although he enjoyed making casual mention of his other amours to her in social conversation.

Some of the other Tithe pages were not having such an unproductive time of it – Eithne Brennan showed everyone a draft of her latest project, a dramatic poem, one afternoon after lunch. Her subject matter was a battle that had taken place some sixty years before: the First Defence of Rivendale, considered the first great military triumph of Lady Elaine Greenbarrow Swain, Emily's mother. The narrative verse read like a ripping adventure yarn – it was thrilling to read, and would be even better spoken by a skilled bard. After she had polished her work, Morgaine had promised to perform it, Eithne told everyone, sounding terribly excited at the prospect.

After lunch, everyone had scattered to their various pursuits. Lucius elected to take a walk around the castle grounds and shortly came upon Emily, sitting cross-legged on a sunny bench with a book.

"Quite a story, that one about your mother," he said by means of striking up a conversation, sitting next to her on the stone bench. "Is it true that she wiped out the entire invading force of Baalorites?"

"Well, she didn't do it single-handedly," Emily laughed, looking up from her reading and marking her place. "But she assumed command that day after Lithwick Greenwood was killed – he was First Knight before her. And she was the one who killed the Baalorites' prince during the battle."

"Good work," he said. "Do you think I could persuade her to do the same with all the Muggles in Wiltshire? There's just too damn many of them these days."

"I think that's pretty unlikely," Emily said sarcastically. "Especially since Mum is half Muggle herself."

Lucius stared at her in hard disbelief. "Your mother – the great Lady Elaine – is half Muggle?" he asked, almost spluttering.

"Yes, my grandmother was a Muggle Titheswoman. She was at Court in 1910, your time," Emily said matter-of-factly. "And she created her own True Name after she'd been here for four months, and she married Prince Tristan, Gwydion's youngest brother, after she'd been here for ten. So really, when you think about it, her pedigree is maybe... almost as good as yours, Lucius."

Lucius turned a very flinty look at her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, in my opinion – you do take this anti-Muggle stance a bit far," Emily said in what Lucius thought was a very airy and superior tone. "What has your average Muggle ever done to you?"

"Obviously, you didn't pay too much attention in your History of Magic classes," Lucius said. "Muggles have oppressed the Wizarding community to such an extent that they've driven us entirely underground. Do you have any idea what they did to us in the fifteenth century?"

"Lucius... if you had read any history other than the history of magic, you'd know that if you go back far enough, everyone has fought everyone else just about everywhere. Look at your people – the English have fought with the Scots, the French, the Irish, the Spanish, the Americans, the Germans, the Italians, the Japanese – and now, just about all of that is over, and everyone's trading with each other. Here – pookas and trolls used to fight each other, nixies used to fight everybody, and trolls, pixies, pookas, changelings, and sluagh all at one point used to be persecuted underclasses. But now, we're all allied against the Orcs, and they haven't taken any of our territory in five hundred years. There are fauns, satyrs, pixies, pooka, sluagh, and trolls sitting on thrones now. So what's the point of carrying a grudge?"

"Muggles used to burn my people at the stake, you know," Lucius snapped. "Just because we did magic and they can't."

Emily looked at him as though he was being thick, and she was too patient and polite to call him on it. "First of all, wizardkind is our people – my father is a wizard. Second, some Muggles can do Faery magic. And third, in the Inquisition, Muggles were killing Faeries, and wizards, and other Muggles, so their hostility wasn't directed entirely at wizards. Besides, after wizards came up with the Flame-Freezing Charm, getting burned at the stake became an amusing pastime, as I recall – Wendelin the Weird, and all that. And fourth, wizards were burning and torturing Faeries during the Plague years, before the Inquisition ever even started, you know." She was counting off all her points on her fingers as she made her argument, like a schoolgirl in class.

"Wizards used to burn Faeries at the stake during the Plague?" Lucius asked the question as if that were the most improbable thing he had ever heard.

Emily crossed her arms in front of her chest. "That's not all they did. Iron torture devices were at one point awfully popular, too."

"Funny – I didn't hear anything about that in History of Magic class," Lucius said contentiously. If Professor Binns hadn't said it, of course it was suspect.

Emily again looked at him as though he was being thick, and her patience and politeness were wearing thin. "Let me introduce you to a little truism about history I heard from my father – the winner of any conflict gets to write down what happened. So of course Wizarding textbooks are going to gloss over it. You see, wizards and witches are red-blooded humans too, you know, and they got bubonic plague same as the Muggles did. But Faeries didn't get it, because we don't get human diseases. So in the thirteen-hundreds, plague was the leading cause of death for wizards – while the leading cause of death for Faeries at the same time, however, was angry mobs of wizards demanding the cure."

"Did they have the cure?" he asked, unconvinced.

"No, they didn't," she snapped. "They just didn't have the kind of physiology that could get infected with plague. Lots of other creatures – horses, cows, dragons, Puffskeins, Kneazles – can't get it either. Torturing a Faerie for the cure for plague makes about as much sense as torturing a cat for it. Just because you can't get it doesn't mean that you know how to cure it."

"I still don't believe you're not exaggerating this," Lucius said, turning stiffly away from her. "One or two isolated incidents in some little village somewhere doesn't mean there was ever some kind of war between wizards and Faeries."

"There was never a war because there wasn't a big enough European Faery population to fight one – we don't increase our numbers very fast, and there's a lot of time between generations. And I'm not talking about an isolated incident – persecution by wizards was so widespread that there was a sudden mass exodus of Faeries back to the Kingdoms, because people decided they'd rather deal with fighting Orcs than wizards. Orcs didn't have Iron Maidens and Unforgivable Curses, so they looked a whole lot better by comparison. The Fae who stayed behind went underground and hid, same as wizards do from Muggles now."

"How could Faeries go underground from wizards? We do magic too, you know," he reminded her in a waspish tone.

"Don't underestimate a Faerie's ability to hide when she wants to," she told him warningly. "We have tons of spells for misdirecting enemies – before we started getting attacked by all these Orcs and wizards and Muggles, most of our magic was all about curing disease and talking to animals and plants and such. Then the pixie tribes created Obscurantis and Deceivre back during the very first Orc wars in the beginning of the First Age. That's also when the Descorder and A Rebours curses came into use too. We picked up Glamours from some witches and wizards in Wales back in the thirteenth century – your people didn't really trust Glamours, but they caught on like wildfire amongst us, to such an extent that most people still call it Faery Glamour."

"Well, that's all very interesting," Lucius said, very coldly and sarcastically. "Though I'm still wondering why I've never heard any of it before?"

"Oh, by the Mother, Lucius – it's common knowledge, at least here. Ask my father. Ask any Druid. Ask any Bard. And while you're at it, go ask any Wizarding History of Magic professor about Faeries in the fourteenth century and see if he doesn't blush and get all evasive about it."

"I don't see how my History of Magic teacher could blush, as he was a ghost," Lucius snapped.

"Bully for him then," Emily retorted. "And what kind of mark did you get in his class, may I ask?"

"Oh, all right!" Lucius shouted at her. "What the bloody hell is your point then, if you have one? That all wizards are all a lot of murdering, Imperialist scum? That Muggles are better than we are, and Faeries are all perfect?"

"No, I didn't say that," Emily said, but in a gentler tone. "You just always act as though all Muggles are beneath you, and I just wanted to remind you that it's not just Muggles who are afraid of what's different than they are. Just about every people has been both oppressed and oppressor at some point in their history. It's just never a good idea to hate some whole group on general principles!"

"You just haven't lived in the Second World long enough," he said, in a bitter rage. "Do you think it's easy, knowing that there's a huge population of people who are utterly ignorant and violent, and afraid of my kind, and used to hunt us and kill us? And that they're right outside my door, getting closer and more populous all the time? Don't you think it feels oppressive to only be able to do magic in certain places, because if I do anything where a Muggle might see it, I'll get fined and maybe arrested, and the Obliviators will come out and interfere with us? Don't you think I hate having to sneak around like a criminal and live in a hidden house, work in an underground building, go to an Unplottable school – just because I was born a wizard? Don't you think I'm afraid that someday some mob is going to find us and burn me and my family, and destroy everything we have?"

She was regarding him with a cool, unconvinced expression, arms folded over her chest and one eyebrow raised in a questioning arch – for about one second, Lucius was reminded of his sour little cousin Severus, from one of the poorer branches of the family. He wanted to hit the girl in front of him, wanted to slap her until he saw blood and tears – but he didn't dare, as he knew this young soldier would probably break his arm if he tried it, and because she had powerful family here, and he did not. Instead, he turned away from her, let his shoulders droop, and his voice break – and as he intended, Emily dropped her challenging stance, sat down next to him, and tried to comfort him.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, putting her arm around his shoulders. "I was being too harsh. It was hard for me too, when I was at Beauxbatons. I was so used to doing magic out in the open, and suddenly I couldn't do that anymore. During my first year, you wouldn't believe how often I got detention for near misses with Muggles."

"I don't really hate anyone... I'm just scared," he said, in a small, vulnerable voice, because he knew that was exactly what she wanted to hear. He was rewarded with being enfolded in her arms and the feeling of her head on his shoulder. He very gently twined his own arms around her waist.

"I figured that was what was really going on," she said, very softly and understandingly. "I don't think you're murdering scum. Would I have dragged you away from that Beltane fire if I thought that of you?"

"No... I guess not," he said, his arms tightening around her waist. He was about to let his lips sink softly into hers – when a satirical voice cut through his deliciously intimate moment.

"Aww, what is it, Tink? Is Pan in trouble?" came Jayson Robinett's voice from behind them. The sulky young satyr crouched between an arch of trees a few paces away, leering at them. His loose linen shirt was open over his muscled whipcord of a chest, and his feet were bare and flecked with mud beneath his linen trousers.

Emily pulled away from Lucius and was up in a second, her dark eyes flashing dangerously. "Fuck directly off, Jayson. Go find some she-ass who thinks you have more wit than a shite dropping, and follow her around, all right?"

"That's our Emily – just love those wizards and their long hard wands, don't you?" snarled the dark boy. "No doubt my Lady Electra looks upon you from Tartarus and is proud."

"Oh, that's rich – seeing as how you're not half the Faerie my father is with a True Name," Emily retorted.

The satyr's handsome face crumpled. "Oh, take your wand-waver, and be hanged to you, if the merit of a True-Born son is so lost on you. And on your dam, now that I think of it. And on her sire, now that I think further." In another second, he had gone to his goat-footed form and bounded away into the trees.

Emily said, turning back to Lucius with a sarcastic smile. "There you go, Luce – all the proof you need that not all Faeries are perfect. He's had it in for me ever since Beltane, the ruddy great arse." She hunkered down beside him and nudged him with her shoulder. "Are you hungry? All this argument gives me an empty stomach. So, let's hit together and make peace, and be off for tea straight after, all right?"

They shared a comfortable laugh as they started back up toward the castle, but she skipped away when Lucius tried to put his arm around her.

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Perhaps it was Lucius's distraction over this evanescent female behaviour that kept him from noticing what was lying in wait for him as he opened Swain's library and went inside one morning in December. Or perhaps he was simply no match for six nixies who took him by surprise, who had all learned Obscurantis from childhood. All he knew was that he opened the library and went inside – and then someone he never saw lurking in the hallway brought something very heavy down on the back of his head.

He was only unconscious for a few minutes – when he woke up, the back of his head ached so badly he felt nauseous. He sat up – to see six slender men and women, with long mothlike wings folded behind them and in poor homespun clothing, flinging books and manuscripts in one great pile in the centre of the room. A woman was smashing glass cases and pulling out delicate ancient illuminated manuscripts, heedless of their fragility. Someone had left an open pail near his head – Lucius smelled kerosene.

He reached for his wand, but the woman smashing cases was too quick. She stretched out a hand toward him and said "Piacháin!" – then silently spoke a word. He fell, conscious but totally immobilised, on his side, and such was only able to watch helplessly as they continued to throw books on the great pile. Their purpose became clear – they were going to burn the library and all its collected works. Stale terror rolled over him as he wondered if they would leave him here, in this helpless state, after the fire started.

Suddenly he heard someone's footsteps in the doorway, someone's black boots in front of his face – Buckminster Swain had walked in the door.

Screeches arose from the six vandals. "Blasphemer!" screamed the woman who had immobilised Lucius. "You hoard Her mysteries for yourself!"

"Ironblooded, round-eared human filth – how dare you presume to know our Mother's secrets," a man snarled, throwing a book aside and treading on it.

Swain only shook his head sadly, then stretched out his open hand. "IMMOBILIUS," his voice thundered. Then he silently spoke a word – and all six of the nixie vandals instantly fell like stones to the ground. He bent over Lucius, laying both hands on his assistant's shoulders – "Ennervate" – and then silently spoke a word again. "Are you all right, son?" he asked, in great concern.

Lucius sat up and stared at Swain, dazed and blinking. Incoherently, he thought that his father had been right – Buckminster Swain was a gentle man... but you didn't want to make him angry.

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The six nixie miscreants turned out to be anti-writing extremists from the Seventh Kingdom, members of a sect who believed that information should never be committed to permanent mediums, and that the Faery people should not be studied or quantified. They were not repentant for what they did, and would not give the King their word that they would never try to destroy Buckminster Swain's library again.

In response, Gwydion laid Geases of Anathema upon them, speaking a curse of banishment backed by the True Name of a King, so that they could never again set foot on his lands. Then they were taken to the boundaries of the Third Kingdom by two units of Fianna soldiers and given over into the custody of the Seventh Kingdom's Fianna. Bill Blake and his girlfriend Mary Kottir had been amongst the soldiers who escorted the convicts out, and they told Lucius and Emily and a small group of others about it in hushed, awed voices over bottles of wine on the terrace. As the Anathema began to take effect, the six criminals found the whole of the Third Kingdom conspiring against them at every moment – tree branches whipping out to scratch, insects seeking them out for bites and stings, the ground lashing at their feet, food withering and turning foul in their hands. As they lifted off to fly away, they had been unable to fly back over Gwydion's lands, as the very currents of air blew against them and sickened them with vertigo.

After the attack, the King's Physician had attended to Lucius, entirely healing him of the severe concussion by that evening. But he was still furious about having been attacked and his inability to retaliate in kind. Emily tried to comfort him as best she could, but if Lucius had had his way, he would have had all six of the guilty parties flayed alive, or worse.

Buckminster Swain was also not himself for several days after the attack, and his black mood did not abate when the Anathema was pronounced upon the vandals. There was no sense of jubilation in triumphing over his enemies in him – Lucius sensed it was better to leave the man alone. Emily spent a lot of time with her father in the week following, copying his notes, bringing him meals at his desk, asking him questions about his work, and paying him innumerable other tiny, fond attentions.

A day or two later, Emily and Lucius were sitting on a bench overlooking the great first courtyard by the guardhouse when a winged figure appeared above their heads and made a rapid descent to the flagstones. When the velvety wings were furled, they saw that they belonged to a slender woman in blackened armour, wearing a black plastron embroidered with a device of yellow and orange striped moths.

"Who's that?" Lucius asked.

"Seventh Kingdom Fianna," Emily said, leaning close to him. "See the insignia on her cowl?"

"Halt, soldier, declare your business," rang the voices from the guardhouse, in rather testy tones. Ever since the attempted arson in the library, the castle guard had been rather uptight about anything in the shape of a nixie.

"Lady Tera Le Motte, bearing a message from Her Majesty Queen Mab of the Seventh Kingdom, to King Gwydion of the Third," the flying warrior said, standing at attention and saluting smartly.

"Shite, that's Mab's First Knight," Emily whispered as a guard went to meet Lady Le Motte and escorted her up toward the castle doors.

"What do you think that's all about?" Lucius asked.

"Unless I miss my guess, Mab is sending some communication to Gwydion about the nixie attack. I'd imagine she's reporting on the sentence she handed down, offering to investigate their sect, and apologising. They were her subjects, you know."

"Do you think she knew what they were up to?" Lucius asked. "Really."

"Really, no, I don't think she knew about it," Emily said. "Gwydion and Mab are old friends. He's about as progressive as they come, and she's the most conservative monarch we've got, so yes, they don't see eye to eye on a lot of things. But she would never condone an attack on his castle, that's just ridiculous."

"Why is that ridiculous?" Lucius asked testily. "It sounds like they'd be natural enemies, then."

"Nonetheless, they aren't," Emily retorted. "The Seventh Kingdom is our ally, and they need our military aid against the Fir Bolg. Mab's not stupid enough to provoke us. She's also not as forgiving as Gwydion – they're no doubt getting a lot worse than just banishment from her. For an attack on another sovereign's citadel, especially when that sovereign is a major military ally – they'll be lucky if she doesn't have them all beheaded."

"Good, I hope she does," Lucius said coolly. "Let me know when it happens, so I can watch it. I think I'll throw a party after."

"What fun that would be," Emily said, with a dark little laugh, leaning companionably on his shoulder.

Fond as he was of the girl, and much as he would have given to have her in his bed that night, her failure to realise how very seriously he meant much of what he said was just annoying.

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The King threw another grand banquet for the Tithe pages on their last day at Court. Again, the meal, wine, and entertainment were marvellous, and there was a great deal of crying and hugging going on between some people. The Muggle actor performed again – but unlike his first monologue, he had learned to enhance this piece with Faery Glamour, so that when Prospero calmed the raging storm he had conjured to wreck the ship, one actually heard the thunder, and felt the winds die down, and smelled the salt air. Aliane sang some haunting ballads she had been taught by bards at Court, and through the use of auditory Glamour, was now able to harmonise with herself. Varick's rendition of several Arcadian folk songs rounded out the evening's entertainment. Since Beltane, Varick had become something of a celebrity at Court for his spirited violin, and he did not disappoint his public that evening.

Despite the festive send-off, Lucius was feeling quite dispirited the next morning as he finished packing his trunks. There was a soft knock on his door late in the morning, and Emily peeked into his room. " 'Morning, Lucius. All done packing?"

"Yes, just about. Is it time to go?"

"Nearly." She flopped down on his stripped bed. "It'll only be the four of you going back today. Dakarai, Laurent, and Eithne are all staying here."

"Really, why's that?" Lucius asked, fitting one of his silver razors back into its case.

"Dakarai's marrying Colin next summer – she thinks she'll have been admitted to the Apothecaries' Guild by then. Laurent wants to stay with his family and learn some Faery medicine. Eithne wants to keep working with Morgaine for another year or so, but I think Corvus might have asked her to stay, too. Kevin's staying on for another season at the New Moon, though, and then he's moving to California to live with Nica. But some people need to get home right away – Catherine needs to get back so she can start applying to medical schools. Varick wants to go home, too – he really misses Hildigunnur. And Aliane is going to audition for the Theatro Municipal in Rio, this March."

It was really absurd the way she talked about the Muggle pages in the same breath with the wizard pages, as if the two were somehow equals. "Won't Dakarai's and Eithne's families have something to say about that?" Lucius asked.

"Well, Dakarai's won't, as she's an orphan. She loves it here though, and she and Colin love each other. And Eithne's family are old, old Celts-Irish – they would probably be happier to have a Fae nobleman for a son-in-law than a Windsor prince," Emily said a little sharply. There was an admiring tone in her voice when she spoke of Eithne's old, old Celts-Irish family, which was the first time he had heard her express admiration for a human bloodline, now that he thought of it. Certainly she had never said anything of the sort regarding the Malfoys, or her own pure-blooded ancestry.

Despite his annoyance, he sat down next to her on his bed. Then very deliberately lifted her face to his and kissed her. She didn't push him away, but there was no answering passion in her response. She turned away from him and laid her head on his shoulder.

"Why won't you kiss me?" he whispered. "You'll probably never see me again."

"I'll miss you," she said softly, putting her arms around his neck in another of those warm, silky, maddening embraces, which, like the others she had given him since Beltane, were always over before he wanted them to be.

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Both Emily and Buckminster Swain saw Lucius down to the carriage in the courtyard to say their farewells. Emily said a fond enough good-bye and hugged him, which was again over too soon, then ran off to gush over Aliane and Varick.

Lucius very politely offered Swain his hand, but he just laughed, and gave him a very fatherly hug. He lingered for a moment at Lucius's side after letting him go, then whispered, in the kindest, most tactful voice possible: "She's just... very young, son. I'm sorry," and rested his hand for a extra moment on the younger man's shoulder. "Good-bye for now – come visit as often as you like. Give our fondest regards to your family." Finally he stepped back, and Lucius got into the carriage. Euan Doggins slapped the reins down on the mare's back, and they started the journey back to the End of the World.

Lucius was infuriated by Swain's parting words to him – he had no idea that anyone knew about his brief liaison with Emily – and now realised that Swain thought to console him for his daughter's fleeting interest. So... he had known all along what happened between them at Beltane, and now he was assuming that he, Lucius Malfoy, was the injured party... ? How dare that bastard assume such about him – he wanted to go back and inform Swain that he had been conspiring to deflower his precious daughter from his first day at Court, that he had an exquisite fiancée at home just waiting for him to come back and marry her, and next to Narcissa Black, his skinny, arrogant, Muggle-loving, one-quarter-Mudblood tomboy of a daughter was a very poor second choice indeed. He also had any number of hot, eager amusements panting for him besides, both here and in the bloody Second World.

But then Lucius remembered that the English common law he read in Theopilius Solon's office, that treated a young woman like the property of her father or husband, had absolutely no sway in the Faerielands and never had. As such, he had committed no transgression against his host by spending Beltane night with his daughter because there was no taboo against it – the girl had freely chosen him, and he had accepted. There was not even any social stigma in what they had done – such affairs had nigh on sacramental status here. She had not been in oestrus that night, so there could be no negative consequences to come from it other than hurt feelings. Miss Swain had merely romanced him, had him once, and declined a repeat performance. Her father, seeing his continued interest in her unreciprocated afterward, had thought to assuage a bruise to his ego as he embarked for home.

Lucius thought that he should be relieved that he had had his pleasure with so little repercussion resulting from it – but it was surprising how unfulfilling that was to him. At home, had the same occurred, the end result would have been far messier and potentially expensive, yet at the same time, ultimately more satisfying.

As he rode back to the Inn at the End of the World to await the opening of the portal the next day, he was eager to get back to his world. He wanted to see what the other of... his followers had been doing in his absence. The Dark Lord had expressed an interest in Lucius's cousin Severus, the Potions prodigy, once the little brat finished at Hogwarts... in Lucius's absence, Bellatrix had undertaken to start bringing him into the fold. Lucius was eager to see what she had made of that task, although he knew the boy to be so fascinated by the Dark Arts that he would probably beg to be initiated once they were through with him. Also, the others had been gathering information on the Boneses, the Potters, the Longbottoms, the Prewetts, the McKinnons, Dorcas Meadowes, Alastor Moody, and of course that thorn of an Albus Dumbledore... Felina should be married to Evan now, which hopefully would put a temporary end to her complaints.

During the ride east, he studied young Varick Skúlason, who was quivering with eagerness at the thought of seeing his beloved Hildigunnur so very soon. He observed the young man keenly, remembering his attitude for when he had to greet Narcissa.

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When Emily Swain attended Lucius Malfoy's wedding, in October of 1979, eight months after his return, she had none of the sulky, half-insulting congratulations that some of his previous amusements, like Felina Rosier and Bellatrix Black, did. She wafted up to him and Narcissa in the receiving line at the reception, in a silvery green spidersilk frock, and kissed him with the unconcerned warmth of a sunbeam. "Lucius! Love and blessings upon both of you! Your wife is gorgeous!" Then she turned to Narcissa, resplendent in her wedding robes of silver tissue and lace, and kissed her too. "Hello! You're gorgeous!"

"Thank you," Narcissa said with a becoming blush.

Emily turned back to Lucius. "You two look beautiful together. I hope we all get to dance at the reception." And then she passed, oh tra la la la la, and Lucius introduced his new bride to her parents, the noted anthropologist Buckminster Swain and his wife, Lady Elaine Greenbarrow Swain.

Emily still had her habit of giving everyone hugs and kisses the way other people gave tips then – the sort of habit only pretty, sweet-faced things in their teen years can get away with; she had given it up somewhat by her twenties. At the reception, she spent nearly the entire time dancing, with anyone who wanted to dance – so naturally, she was never introduced to Lucius's cousin Severus, just shy of his nineteenth birthday, who sat on the sidelines or the terrace drinking brandy, occasionally talking to Evan Rosier, and looking horribly bored by everything.

That night, Lucius took his fair, fair bride up to their lavishly appointed suite of rooms at Malfeasant, and she took two hours to prepare an elaborate toilette involving much perfume and maquillage, white lingerie, and a trailing white silk robe. When Narcissa emerged from the bathroom, looking pale and nervous, he kissed her and made much of her until she relaxed, then seated her in front of her mirrored vanity and unbound her long blonde hair until it hung loose, silhouetting her perfect body like Danäe in her shower of gold. Then, he hung his wedding gift, a necklace of blue-white diamonds, around her throat, which made her shiver with pleasure.

Finally he made love to his new wife on the priceless antique bedstead, on white silk sheets strewn with red rose petals. He was very gentle, and used every sensitive technique in his extensive repertoire to rouse desire in her inexperienced body, but he still hurt her when he consummated the marriage. Afterward, she shrank against him, crying softly, and he had to take the better part of an hour in soothing and comforting her. Perhaps Narcissa's body, like that of the True Princess from the story, was just so delicate that even the loving touch of a new husband was enough to injure it, like the presence of a pea through innumerable featherbeds. Or perhaps Narcissa believed that the loss of a lady's virginity should be accompanied by pain and sorrow and felt it for that reason.

Just before she slept, Narcissa hoped aloud that they would have a son soon. Lucius kissed her and said that he hoped so too.

When his new bride was dozing at his side, he picked up some of the bruised red rose petals that lay strewn all over their bed sheets, and crushed a fragrant handful of them to his lips.

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Author's Note: The song Euan Doggins sings on the way to Greenbarrow Castle is the poem "The Road to Fairyland" by Ernest Thomas Seton. ~ GS