The empty lots outside the asylum walls were full of mortal garbage—syringes, plastic bags, greasy food wrappers, and other urban effluvia—but they were also free earth, and Robin leaned against Pepperbuckle under an anemic maple lifting its green buds in defiance of wasteland. Her fingertips found the scab on the back of her head; but for chance, Ilara would have dashed her brains out. The plague made fullbloods strong before it killed them, and Robin thought it very likely the Feathersalt was infected. Leaving Court had not saved her, after all. She was also poisoned by Puck’s curved blade. There were enough stories about the wracking Goodfellow’s poison would cause its victims to assure Robin the Feathersalt’s end was not in doubt, and the only thing to worry about was whether or not she’d manage to strike at Summer before plague or poison felled her. Still… Summer was old, and powerful, and crafty. She might find a way to take the knife from Ilara, and Unwinter would have to step lively to evade the consequences of those snow-white hands holding a weapon that could kill the Queen… or Unwinter himself, come to think of it.
