“When he came to me, your father was already dying,” the Headmistress said. “He told me he had been fatally poisoned and that your mother had already succumbed to the same poison. He knew he didn’t have long to live, but he wanted to provide for his baby daughter—for you—before his inevitable death.”
“So they’re dead. Both dead.” I had only known that I was adopted a few short weeks, but already I had begun to wonder about my birth parents. I had even fantasized about meeting them and finding out why they had given me up.
That was never going to happen now.
“I’m so sorry, Emma,” Headmistress Nightworthy said gently, surprising me by using my first name. “I know this can’t be easy for you to hear.”
“Can you at least tell me who they were? My parents?” I asked numbly.
I wasn’t even surprised when she shook her head.
“I’m afraid your father declined to give me any information other than your name when he set up your trust. He seemed to think that knowing who he and your mother were would put you in danger.”
“I don’t see how being ignorant of who I really am is any less dangerous than not knowing,” I said bitterly. “I might be half troll for all I know.”
“Your father did not strike me as the type who would be attracted to a troll,” the Headmistress said dryly. “He was a strikingly handsome man—even for a Fae—with golden hair and eyes very like your own.”
“He must have come from the Summer Court,” I muttered. “But who was my mother and where did she come from?”
“Alas, I was not given that information.” Headmistress Nightworthy shook her head. “I wish I could tell you anything at all besides what I already have, but you now know as much as I do.” She spread her hands.
“What should I do now, then?” I asked, feeling bewildered and dejected.
“I’m afraid you must prepare yourself to enter the Realm,” the Headmistress said soberly. “I do not think Miss Starchild was making an idle threat and her mother, Lady Starchild, truly is high in the Fae Summer Court.”
I felt like I was going to be sick.
“But what will they do to me?”
“They will judge you,” the Headmistress said. “You must tell the truth, just as you have told me. If the trial is just and fair, they will see that you are not to blame.”
“But what if they’re not just and fair?” I demanded. “What then?”
“I have heard that the Queen of the Summer Court is bound by her own law to see both sides of every case,” the Headmistress said firmly. “As long as she is acting as your judge, your trial should be fair.”
And with that, I had to be satisfied. I could see that the Nocturne Headmistress didn’t have anything else to tell me. So I asked permission to be excused and went back to class—which was almost over by that time.
I was hoping against hope that Morganna’s threat was an idle one, or that I would at least have some time to prepare myself before the summons to the Fae Realm came. But neither one of my hopes came true.
I got the summons in the middle of the Dining Hall at lunch that very day.
73
“Wow, you really have had a shitty morning, Emmers,” Avery said sympathetically, when I finished telling everyone at our table exactly what had happened. “And I mean that literally as well as figuratively.”
“You’re not kidding,” I said glumly. “First I get into it with Morganna, then I find out that my real parents are both dead—though I still don’t know who they were—and now I have to worry about getting a summons to appear at a trial in the Fae Realm.”
“It really sucks,” Megan agreed, nodding. “But maybe you’ll have a little time to prepare before the trial.”
“Guess again,” Griffin murmured and nodded his head at something behind me.
Turning, I saw four miniature fairies all dressed in what appeared to be flower petals—which reminded me of Tinker Bell, my favorite fairy from when I was a kid—flying towards me. Each of them was supporting a corner of a large parchment scroll that looked like a movie prop from a film about the Middle Ages.
Beside me, Bran gripped my knee under the table.
“Nixies,” he muttered. “Be very, very still, Emma.”
“He’s right—no sudden movements,” Lachlan agreed from my other side.
I frowned. None of the tiny fairies was taller than my hand—what were they so afraid of?
Then a fifth fairy—this one dressed in the royal purple petals of an Iris—flew right up to me.
“Are you the Fae who styles herself as ‘Emma Plunkett’?” she asked me. (Or was it a he? It was kind of hard to tell because the little fairies were so androgynously beautiful.
“Um, yes,” I said nervously, my voice going high and uncertain. “Who are you?”
“I am Chrisanther, head of Her Majesty’s Messengers. I have been sent to deliver a message to you, Emma Plunkett.”
“What…what message?” I faltered.
“Ahem…” The tiny Chrisanther flew back to the scroll and gestured to the other messenger fairies. They unrolled the scroll, hovering in place with it, their tiny diaphanous wings fluttering so quickly I could only see blurs where they were. Then Chrisanther began to read in a high, piping voice.
“Emma Plunkett: whereas you have caused grievous bodily harm and wanton destruction to a member in good standing of Queen Elia’s Court and whereas you are completely unrepentant of your sins and crimes, you are hereby summoned to the Summer Court immediately to be tried, convicted, and punished for your acts of barbaric evil. At once.”
“What?” Megan exclaimed. “But Emma didn’t do anything wrong!”
“She was just defending herself from that bitch, Morganna!” Avery put in. He glared at the head Nixie. “And it sounds to me like you’re not even offering her a fair trial!”
The tiny fairy flew right up and got in Avery’s face.
“She will come with us now by order of Her Majesty Elia, Queen of the Summer Court!” he (or she) declared.
Then the Nixie bared an amazing array of tiny, needle sharp teeth, and bit Avery on the cheek.
“Ow!” Avery gasped, jerking away and swatting at the tiny fairy. Chrisanther flew away, but he took a hunk of flesh with him.
I looked at Avery’s face in dismay—there was a tiny perfect bite mark about the size and shape of a nickel on his right cheekbone, just under his eye. Crimson blood was already streaming down his face.
The bite reminded me of a type of shark I’d done a report on in elementary school, called a Cookie Cutter shark. It earned its name because the perfect, tiny little bites it takes out of its prey, which are so neat and uniform they look like they were carved out by a cookie cutter.
But I wasn’t the only one upset at Avery’s injury. Saint, who was sitting right beside his roommate, roared in anger.
“You dare!” His voice was deeper than normal and his eyes were suddenly burning coals. He was about to lunge forward when Avery put a hand on his arm.
“No, roomie—it’s all right!”