he queen is dead.

Joan Sands had expected Twelfth Night to go smoothly. She and her twin brother, James, would celebrate their birthday over a lovely morning meal with their family then spend the rest of the day at court with the King’s Men. In the afternoon she’d help him and the rest of the players prepare for their royal performance. They’d pack up and end the evening eating royal delights, until Master Shakespeare and Master Burbage got drunk enough to take each other for an indecent turn on the dance floor. The day followed that exact pattern from the first time she’d attended the Feast of the Epiphany celebrations with the King’s Men four years ago and every time since.

She’d been a fool to think the mayhem and bloodshed of last November wouldn’t ripple chaos through this day and the royal court.

The queen is dead, and an imposter sits on her throne.

The breaking of the Pact between the Fae and the children of the Orisha released chaos upon mortal London. The only person with the knowledge of its sealing – Joan’s godfather, Baba Ben – rotted in the Tower of London. Joan had killed Auberon, depriving the worst of the Fae of their leader; and Titanea, the Fae queen, had been killed by the explosion that decimated the House of Lords.

Or so they’d believed.

The quiet of the last two months seemed to prove they’d averted a greater crisis. But what did it mean now that Titanea was alive and wearing the face of the mortal queen of England?

More than that, she was the mastermind behind the broken Pact. She’d had Baba Ben arrested and imprisoned in the Tower of London. She’d orchestrated the explosion that had killed the true Queen Anne and so many others.