Page 42 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

It was not an improvement.

The Red Ladies appeared on the narrow ledge, Tudor-style gowns the color of blood and a red ribbon tied around each of their throats. They wore no veils like the other ghostly ladies that wandered England: the White Ladies who stole memories, the Gray Ladies who stole joy. No, the Red Ladies wanted their victims to see their anger.

They were not simply spirits who haunted or wailed their sorrow. They had been murdered, marched into a village square or up a tower hill, and beheaded.

And they held a grudge.

Pippa could not blame them. Though she did want to remind them she was not the one who had cut their heads off.

There was no time. There was only running.

To be caught by a Red Lady was to have your sight or your voice stolen, your sense of hearing. Not ideal when one was teetering in midair.

As Pippa ran, faces appeared in the mirrors. A lady with mossy antlers, a trio of goblins, a satyr wearing nothing but ivy leaves. They winked in and out of the glass, watching from the comfort of their own halls. A Jenny Greenteeth grinned from the bottom of a pond, her teeth sharp and deadly. There was blood in the water.

The thing about being a Librarian was that it involved a surprising amount of calisthenics. Stacks of books were heavy, especially when carted up and down narrow, crooked steps or rolling ladders. It had made Pippa strong and given her a good sense of balance. Something that never failed to surprise those who were not Librarians.

Today, it helped.

Maybe not enough, but it still helped.

Roman was strong enough to pitch a Red Lady off the winding stairs. But that was not an option, because Red Ladies did not fall. They floated. They appeared; they disappeared.

They took.

And they took Roman’s sight first.

He grunted, pitching backward to the security of the stones at his back. He swung his axe and nearly took out Hellebore, who ducked with a curse.

The Red Lady was more interested in Pippa.

Splendid, she thought. Just what I need.

The ribbon around the Red Lady’s throat was the same as the one Pippa wore, the one Lachlan had tied around her himself.

It did not feel like a coincidence.

It felt like a message. A clue.

You know your knot magic, don’t you?

Don’t lose this.

She could be mistaken. But how much worse could things get? At the moment, trying something, however vague, was better than nothing. But how did one pull a ribbon from a spirit? Especially one that appeared to be keeping their head attached. It felt rude.

Being murdered felt ruder.

The Red Lady brushed her hand over Pippa’s hair, cold and unsettling. Pippa’s throat went tight, prickling with invisible thorns. When she opened her mouth to shout her theory to the others, nothing came out.

The Red Lady had taken her voice.

Pippa’s throat spasmed in protest. She darted down the next step, the Red Lady at her heels. Velvet and rubies glinted. The air was too hot and then too cold.

Hellebore slipped over the edge in front of her, catching herself by her fingertips at the last second, dangling like overripe fruit. A Red Lady smiled and crouched to touch her brow, softly, almost tenderly.

Hellebore’s eyes went white, from iris to pupil, lid to lid. She choked on a curse. There was a bruise on her cheek, blood under her fingernails. The Red Lady continued her descent, focused now on Ennis. The Fae watched them avidly, shouting and clapping from the mirrors. Coins changed hands, as did acorns and dried flowers and seeds.

Pipps wanted to smash each mirror to bits.