Her name is Tatterfell, and she’s a servant in Madoc’s household, stuck here until she works off her debt to him. “The tournament is still four nights away,” the creature says. Her black eyes meet mine in the claw-footed mirror on my dressing table. The imp’s fingers are long, her nails sharp. I sit on a cushion as an imp braids my hair back from my face. In Faerie, there are no fish sticks, no ketchup, no television. Jude and her sisters wept the whole way to Faerieland. Before she could, the tall man swung her and then Taryn across the saddle, handling them like baggage rather than children. Jude wanted to throw her arms around its neck and press her wet face into its silky mane. A black horse was nibbling the grass of the lawn when they went outside.
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