4

  Out on a cold, windy beach, at the foot of a towering cliff:

  Grey, white-maned waves attacked and retreated; rumbling, crashing, hissing. The icy wind keened a shrill note as it hurled frozen spray and scattered the clouds. The sun was out, high and remote as a god… but that was the best thing that Honey could say.

  ‘Alone’ was familiar. ‘Abandoned’, just how it was, before she’d been taken in by the Constellate House, then chosen as Princess Genevera’s friend. Honey Burke had lost both of her parents early. She was quick, brave and sharp-witted; a half-elven child from Low Town, accustomed to hardship and danger. She’d been in trouble before and faced it all down with a homemade knife and more than one girl’s worth of courage. The situation was bad…

  …but crying didn’t help anything. Honey pushed golden-brown hair from her eyes, scrubbing tears away with the back of one hand. The sea didn’t have any answers. Nor did the sky, but something crazy-big had just happened.

  She’d experienced a sudden jolt and a physical shift, sweeping her out of the palace to elsewhere and other-when. See, the last thing that Honey recalled was helping Genna test an escape plan, out in the formal garden. They’d timed the kitchen door-to-service gate route down to the flicker, recording results and comparing. The river tunnel would have been next.

  Only, now she was here, months later, trapped on a cold, rocky beach with an overturned boat, some fishing nets and a wounded dog. Honey’s heart knew him, even if memory hadn’t caught up. Skipper. The dog’s name was ‘Skipper’, according to the leather and mithral collar he wore. A big, shaggy, black-and-white mutt with a broken right foreleg. He’d limped closer to Honey over the stoney shore, wagging his tail and whimpering hopefully, rubbing his head on the ground. (Or trying to.)

  Someone had locked Skipper into a horrible, spiky muzzle, its rusted points digging into the dog’s head on all sides. He could not get the thing loose by himself.

  “Shh, shh,” she soothed him, humming the Song that Takes Away Pain. “S’ alright, Skip. I’m here. I got ya.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Question was, who had her? Honey’s faerie pockets were now so full that she had trouble moving, not having manna enough to drag such a hoard through the ether. Not her stuff. It was… that sudden wealth and the dog belonged to…

  “His Lordship,” she whispered, nearly recalling the person she’d come to care for and trust. Nearly. He was only a ghost. A turned-round-the-corner, just-left-the-room presence. No image, no voice, no distinct memories. Just the bruise of a stolen friend.

  The loss hurt, but pain made the girl angry rather than scared. Gen wouldn’t falter, and neither would Honey. Plus, His Lordship was never afraid. The girl recalled hearing that, if nothing much else.

  Clues? Skipper’s condition and her own scraped, painful neck, which felt as if someone had tried to choke her. She’d been attacked, Honey thought. Spelled unconscious, then yanked from the palace and out to a distant shore. Somehow, she’d gained the bequest of a powerful elf-lord, including his journal. The leather book was magic, but it opened at Honey’s touch. Might have contained important clues, but Honey couldn’t read script. Only thieves’ cant and basic runes.

  Clear as the shore and that massive cliff, though, something had happened. Something terrible. Honey’s job was to figure out what, how, and who. The principles of detection.

  Thinking hard, the girl worked at that awful muzzle with stiff, freezing fingers. Skipper whined and tried to lick her hand, but he couldn't open his mouth without gashing himself to the bone.

  “Hang on, Muttly,” she grunted. “Almost… got… it…”

  The muzzle fastened at the back of his head with a lock, but Honey was clever, and a properly wielded cloak pin made a fine tool. She bent close to the lock as she worked, listening, twisting the cloak pin this way and that. Then something went snik.

  Instead of fully opening, the muzzle got stuck halfway. It turned savage red-hot, then, searing Skipper’s fur and the girl’s small hands. The pain was intense, but she was a Low Towner; knew that screaming aloud would betray her location and summon the guard.

  Half-blinded by smoke and agony, deafened by Skipper's wild howl, Honey dragged the muzzle off the dog's head, though that blistering metal burnt through his hair and stuck to her fingers. It continued heating, turning white and then starting to melt. Slowed by her overstuffed faerie pockets, she staggered down to the ocean, plunging that burning-hot deathtrap into the surf.

  It spattered and hissed, flinging steam. A wave knocked her flat, sucking pebbles and sand out of under her feet. Honey went down, tumbling over and over. Then someone seized hold of the wounded girl, who didn’t scream, didn’t cry. Twisting, she tried to kick and punch her assailant, but the water slowed all her blows and robbed them of power.

  What she could do though, was invoke her last preset, creating a really loud BOOM!

  A dome of seawater rose from the ocean’s surface, just as red-golden “seek me” flares began crossing the sky. But on this stretch of beach, there was no one to see them. Not even a dog.