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­wasn’t getting out until Maeve allowed her.
    Th e Queen of the Fae remained silent, her long fi ngers moon-­white and folded in the lap of her violet gown, a white barn owl perched on the back of her chair. She didn’t bother with a crown, and Celaena supposed she didn’t need one. Every creature on earth would know who she was—­what she was—­even if they ­were blind and deaf. Maeve, the face of a thousand legends . . . and nightmares. Epics and poems and songs had been written about her, so many that some even believed she was just a myth. But ­here was the dream—­the nightmare—­made fl esh.
    Th is could work to your advantage. You can get the answers you need right ­here, right now. Go back to Adarlan in a matter of days. Just—­breathe.
    Breathing, as it turned out, was rather hard when the queen who had been known to drive men to madness for amusement was observing every fl icker of her throat. Th at owl perched on Maeve’s chair— Fae or true beast? —­was watching her, too. Its talons ­were curled around the back of the chair, digging into the wood.
    It was somewhat absurd, though—­Maeve holding court in this half-­rotted o ffi ce, at a desk stained with the Wyrd knew what. Gods, the fact that Maeve was seated at a desk . She should be in some ethereal glen, surrounded by bobbing will-­o’-­the-­wisps and maidens dancing to lutes and harps, reading the wheeling stars like they ­were poetry. Not ­here.
    Celaena bowed low. She supposed she should have gotten on her knees, but—­she already smelled awful, and her face was likely still torn and bruised from her brawling in Varese. As Celaena ­rose, Maeve remained smiling faintly. A spider with a fl y in its web.
    â€œI suppose that with a proper bath, you’ll look a good deal like your mother.”
    No exchanging pleasantries, then. Maeve was going right for the throat. She could handle it. She could ignore the pain and terror to get what she wanted. So Celaena smiled just as faintly and said, “Had I known who I would be meeting, I might have begged my escort for time to freshen up.”
    She didn’t feel bad for one heartbeat about throwing Rowan to the lions.
    Maeve’s obsidian eyes fl icked to Rowan, who still leaned against the door. She could have sworn there was approval in the Fae Queen’s smile. As if the grueling travel were a part of this plan, too. But why? Why get her o ff -­kilter?
    â€œI’m afraid I must bear the blame for the pressing pace,” Maeve said. “ Th ough I suppose he could have bothered to at least fi nd you a pool to bathe in along the way.” Th e Queen of Faedom li ft ed an elegant hand, gesturing to the warrior. “Prince Rowan—”
    Prince . She swallowed the urge to turn to him.
    â€œâ€”is from my sister Mora’s bloodline. He is my nephew of sorts, and a member of my ­house­hold. An extremely distant relation of yours; there is some ancient ancestry linking you.”
    Another move to get her on uneven footing. “You don’t say.”
    Perhaps that ­wasn’t the best reply. She should probably be on the fl oor, groveling for answers. And she had a feeling she’d likely get to that point very, very soon. But . . .
    â€œYou must be wondering why it is I asked Prince Rowan to bring you ­here,” Maeve mused.
    For Nehemia, she’d play this game. Celaena bit her tongue hard enough to keep her gods-­damned smart-­ass mouth shut.
    Maeve placed her white hands on the desk. “I have been waiting a long, long while to meet you. And as I do not leave these lands, I could not see you. Not with my eyes, at least.” Th e queen’s long nails gleamed in the light.
    Th ere ­were legends whispered over fi res about the other skin Maeve wore. No one had lived to tell anything beyond shadows and claws and a darkness to