Page 75 of A Court of Hearts and Hunger
In the years since he and the others hurt me, I have become someone more powerful, more confident, and more loved than they can ever imagine.
Perhaps that should put me beyond the desire for revenge.
It does not.
I bend, grasp Ushur around the waist, and lift him high. His fingers are half-grown already, repairing themselves from my blow.
But he won’t be needing them anymore.
Drawing back my arm, I fling him as far as I can.
He crashes to the ground near a trio of Heartless, and they dive onto him instantly.
I’m shrinking smaller, but I’m tall enough and dominant enough that the crowd parts for me as I stride toward the gate. The Court Manager is staring at me through the bars, peering out from between two of his guards.
“Let me in,” I say. “I bring amusements for the Queen, pleasures and entertainment unheard of in these lands, until now.”
“You’re dangerous,” he protests.
“Not to the Unseelie of this city. Only to the Heartless. And that spell was a brief one I can’t repeat.”
It’s a lie, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“I’m called Sugarplum,” I add, noting the recognition on his face at the name. “Ah, you’ve heard of me. Good. Then you know my magic is mild, entertaining—no threat to the Illustrious Queen.”
“What about the man you threw?” he asks.
“An old enemy of mine. Surely you would not deny me a moment’s vengeance, after I saved so many lives. The Unseelie celebrate the glory of vengeance, do they not? Or so I recall from my former engagements at the Dread Court.”
I lift my hand, and with a ripple of my fingers, sweets begin to tumble onto the crowd. Chocolate riven with threads of lava-hot spice, bitter gumdrops with sweet, warm, blood-flavored centers, translucent black lollipops flecked with tiny eyeballs that burst between the teeth.
None of it has any special effect, and none of it can fill the belly, but the taste is what matters—and the wonder of it. My ability to produce such things solely from my own innate energy is rare in Faerie. I’m an oddity. And there’s nothing the Unseelie love more than that.
Maybe the sweets convince the manager, or the vague memory of the Imbolc revel, or my wide smile, or the wink I offer him through the bars. Maybe it’s Ygraine’s hat, which, by virtue of her magic, stayed on my head throughout my physical changes and the brief battle. For whatever reason, The Court Manager nods, and gestures for the gate to be opened.
“Only Sugarplum—no one else,” he warns. “Anyone trying to force their way in will be destroyed instantly.”
The guards around him lift their hands in unison, globes of fiery green magic shimmering between their palms. The threat is real, and the Unseelie around me pull back reluctantly. They don’t attempt to force their way in as the gate is opened a crack and I squeeze through.
There are more Heartless in the forest, and the camp outside the walls has been trampled and wrecked. I don’t envy those who must attempt to salvage what remains while trying to survive.
“Won’t you let the rest of them in?” I ask the Manager, once I’m safely through the gate.
He shakes his tusked head. “It is against the Queen’s wishes. Only those with supplies or entertainment to offer may enter this city.”
But he does send a group of soldiers out to help with the defense of the camp. And while my bag of spells is being examined, he allows a few more entertainers to pass the gates.
The Diviners don’t remove anything from my bag, because the cakes inside look perfectly harmless. The growth spell and the shrinking spell counterbalance each other, making the cakes’ magic practically indetectable. All the other spells in my satchel are mild and unremarkable.
I yield my knives to the guards. I hate to lose them, but I knew it would happen. I can commission a new pair when Clara and I make it back home.
As I’m escorted to a carriage with a handful of other entertainers, I glance back at the crowd milling beyond the gate. I hope I cleared out enough of the Heartless to keep the refugees from being overrun and eaten before dawn. If not, there will be even more Heartless to swell the ranks of the horde.
22
For the next hour I focus on the Queen, noting how her face moves, the pull of her muscles for different expressions, the tiny flickers that betray subtle emotion. She’s more complex than I expected. Not grotesque and coarse like the Rat King, but refined, intelligent, and quietly lethal. She doesn’t seem overtly interested in sex, though several couples throughout the court are openly fucking. Maybe she has already taken her fill of personal pleasure this evening.
Another half hour passes, during which a messenger comes and murmurs in the Queen’s ear. I wish I knew what he said—it seems to displease her.
