Through the mirror she came like twilight, inexorable, but elegant and graceful in a way that hurt the human eye, dressed in dark silks that contrasted with ivory fair skin and a long mane that could be white or flaxen-blonde, depending on lighting and desire. Her face was smooth, ageless; only those willow green eyes remained unaltered.

“No artist can stay away from her fans for long,” she said. Smiled, and there was witchcraft in her aspect.

With a delicately stitched slipper, she nudged the fallen one in the ribs. “Did you need to give him so much?” she asked Goodman. “Such frail creatures. This is going to be an awkward business, is it not?”

“Always is.” Henna folded her arms, vaguely disapproving. “We advised you this was a bad idea but—” As the other woman’s gaze sharpened, shards of jade ice, she trailed off, instinctively backing off a step. “Well. Now it’s simply a matter of damage control, isn’t it? We’ve got to bring your children back to the Winter Lands.”

“Yes, that’s quite a poser,” said Goodman in his whistling reed voice. “Been a long while since there were Fey walking the world, ignorant of their origins. Not since that business with Thomas the Rhymer, if I recall correctly.”

“And you always do,” the black queen acknowledged. “That oaf Shakespeare, if he’d been sober when he visited our Court, he would have known you were the historian, not the jester. He mixed you up with that fool Geoffrey.”

“He’s still a fool,” Henna declared. “Courting yet another girl who doesn’t want him.”

Puck nodded. “We were right to exile him, although I do wonder that he isn’t clever enough to realize that he never seems to die. Just…wanders off to the next life. But I suppose that’s why he wasn’t a very good fool, almost a complete lack of personal imagination, though he was a damn fine listener.”

“I don’t want to know about Geoffrey,” said Herself. “What’re we going to do about this situation?”

Goodman seemed to consider for a moment, while Henna was reserving her idea, in case his was rejected. If hers found favor where his failed, then she’d gain some ground in the court hierarchy. “Suggestion,” he said, at length. “We give the stupid one,” and he too nudged the somnolent detective in the ribs, none too gently, “Instructions, a message to deliver…inviting your heirs to join you here. Once here, we share a special toast and convey them back to the Winter Lands.”

Looking as if she’d been sucking lemons from some netherworld orchard, Henna nodded her agreement. “It’s a sound plan. Workable.”

The black queen paced the length of the room, long artist’s fingers moving a single piece on a marble pedestal chessboard with an expression of ironic amusement. “Do it,” she told them.

Henna whispered. Goodman gestured. And with that, the man on the floor roused, blinking with all the charm of an unearthed mole. “What the hell—”

Patiently, she waited for him to assemble something like self-possession, although the brute would never be anything like mannered. “I’m Mrs. Winters,” she said, extending a slim, lily-pale hand.

He shook it, seeming dazed. “Ah, Christ…I’m not usually such an easy drunk. I’ve been looking for you. Your kids…” Still blinking, he seemed to give her a once-over that would’ve been profoundly insulting, if she didn’t already have a use for him. “Shit, you don’t look nearly old enough—”

“Yes, I know.” Her smile gained layers. Edges, like her sharp white teeth. “Give them a message for me. They’re to meet me here tomorrow night…with the grandchildren.”

His expression flickered, uncertainty, like he smelled something unsavory but she knew he had to report back regardless. “Okay, I guess. This wasn’t as bad as I thought it was gonna be.” The man sounded almost disappointed he hadn’t discovered her body in a cupboard, such a greasy little soul.

Discreetly, she wiped her palm on the black silk of her flowing skirt. “Take care of yourself, Mr. Hughes. Our paths shall not cross again.”

Henna and Goodman showed him from the room like the bodyguards they were, and without whom she wasn’t supposed to go wandering the mortal realm. Mr. Winters was furious; she was supposed to follow him back when he ‘died’; they’d been playing at being humans to settle some bet she could no longer recall. They hadn’t counted on the pretense becoming so real she’d forget who she was and where she belonged. Belief is its own magic, you see, and as she believed herself human, she aged. Would’ve died, and that, for the land of the Fey, would’ve been quite a chaotic thing. Not because she was so beloved but because she was Eternal—and when forever ceases to be…well.

Not to mention all the jockeying for position, all the hard chasing Mr. Winters would’ve been forced to endure from various nymphs, sprites, and fairies. Altogether not an acceptable situation whatsoever, and so Puck began sending her dreams, quite delightful ones. For his odd manner, he had quite an artistic bent. She appreciated him.

Glancing around, she saw all the vaguely autobiographical paintings, the wildness, the fey glimpses. “Should these stay?” she asked idly.

Henna smiled. “Even you would be hard-pressed to remove them, your majesty.”

The black queen inclined her head, acknowledging as much. “Status?”

And Goodman knew his cue, although it had been many mortal years since he’d given her such a report. “Two new nymphs this year, your highness, and a new satyr. You’re going to be delighted with him. He was a musician before the Change.”

“Then there’s only one task that remains here in this place,” she said, cool as crystal. “I want my bard back. Find me Taliesin. Do whatever's necessary.”

"At once, your majesty."

In a scented swirl of neroli and ylang ylang, Titania drifted out, flicking a graceful fingertip at the chessboard in passing.

A pawn clattered to the floor.