Sylvia looked back and forth between us. She never got our sense of humor.

“So,” Pater said, “do we have a plan?”

“Syl?” I asked. “Can you peek in on her, or is she going to notice?”

Sylvia closed her eyes for a second.

“She’s busy. I can’t get close. Something’s very not right with that one,” Sylvia explained.

“Right,” Pater said. “We need a plan. Preferably one that keeps us, the last three Guardians I know of, from all dying in vain at the hands of an insane elf.”

I smiled at him. “I have a plan. You won’t like it, though.”

Pater’s intuition is one of his gifts. At a time like this, it could also be considered a curse.

“The entire royal family is dead, aren’t they? Dead, or in her grasp, probably dead feeding daemons. So she’s the closest thing Xanadu has to a ruler right now.”

He was extrapolating well.

“But you were Regent during the last succession, weren’t you, Martin? And you haven’t laid claim to anything since, have you?”

I smiled. He had it. So did Sylvia.

“The Laurel.”