A Red Rose Chain

SEVEN

THE SKY WAS A bruised purple as we stepped through Arden’s portal and onto the red brick esplanade outside the castle and ruling seat of the Kingdom of Silences. The blackberry flower and redwood smell of her magic clung to our clothing, announcing us as hers more clearly than a herald ever could.

I glanced up. There were at least six moons visible: we were in the Summerlands, standing on the fae side of the knowe. Evergreens pressed in on us from all directions, creating a verdant barrier between our small party and whatever lay beyond the castle. We moved closer together without saying anything about it. Our position had us totally exposed—any archer who wanted to appear on the castle wall and put an elf-shot arrow through our hearts would have been able to do so without making any real effort.

“Points for ‘I can design an imposing front door,’ no points for ‘people will want to use it,’” I said. “Where the hell is everyone?”

“Did the Queen tell them we were coming?” asked May. “Maybe we should have called ahead.”

Tybalt snorted.

We had all taken advantage of Arden’s changing rooms, although some of us had taken it farther than others. Tybalt, Walther, and Quentin were dressed like something from a production of The Tempest, in tight trousers, linen shirts, and vests. Their styles didn’t quite synch up—Tybalt was more swashbuckler, Quentin more courtier, and Walther a strange sort of combination between scholar and undertaker—but they made a pretty picture, taken as a group. May was wearing jeans and a Golden Gate Park sweatshirt. And I . . . well, I had brushed my hair. That was all the concession they were getting out of me, at least for now.

Arden had provided a small cart for our bags, and had thrown in several trunks of what May assured me were very nice outfits, accompanied by even nicer cosmetics, accessories, and shoes. The look of relief on Arden’s face when May had explained that she was acting as my lady’s maid had been almost insulting. Spike was riding atop our piled suitcases, paws tucked underneath its body, seeming perfectly content.

The evergreens rustled, but no one appeared. I gave Walther a sidelong look. “Any of this look familiar to you?”

“Yes,” he said, shaking his head. “There was no need for a road before. I suppose there isn’t need for one now, either. We’re being watched, you know.”

“Swell,” I muttered. Of the three races that hold most of the thrones in Faerie, only the Daoine Sidhe ever bother to walk anywhere. Tuatha de Dannan can teleport. Tylwyth Teg can fly, given a bundle of yarrow twigs and the space to push off. I gave the brick esplanade a more critical look. It was broad enough that even young Tylwyth Teg would have been able to use it as a landing strip, and the underbrush surrounding the edges of the area contained an unusually large amount of yarrow for the region and the climate.

Walther followed my gaze and shook his head. “They didn’t even bother to replant our gardens,” he said, open bitterness in his voice. “Why should they? We were never coming back.”

“Yeah, well. Surprise.” I planted my hands on my hips, turned my attention to the door, and said—loudly and clearly, but without yelling—“I am Sir October Christine Daye, Knight of Lost Words, sworn to the service of Duke Sylvester Torquill of Shadowed Hills, here in the name of Arden Windermere, Queen in the Mists. I claim the hospitality of your home for myself and my company, who have traveled with me to negotiate a cessation of hostilities between our lands.”

Silence fell. Somewhere in the distant pines, an owl hooted once before getting with the program and shutting up. I tapped my foot against the brick.

“You declared war on us, remember?” I called. “That means we get to take our three-day window to try to fix it. Now let us in. I’m allergic to fresh air and moonlight.”

Tybalt snorted again, this time sounding almost painfully amused. I glanced at him, raising one eyebrow in challenge. He shook his head, fighting to swallow his smirk. That was a good thing, in its way. If he was busy laughing at me, he wasn’t worrying about my imminent demise.

I resumed glaring at the castle. Seconds ticked by, and my frustration grew. Finally, I threw up my hands, and demanded, “Well?”

The great wooden doors began to swing inward.

It was a slow process, so slow that at first I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. But the crack of light that appeared between them grew wider and wider, until glimpses of the wide, open air courtyard on the other side became apparent. The red brick of the esplanade continued beyond the gates. We would have a level surface on which to pull our little wagon. Bully for us.

It took almost five minutes for the doors to fully open. We didn’t move during the process; instead, by silent agreement, we waited to see what would happen next. I was expecting the King’s guard, maybe accompanied by his seneschal, to appear and tell us that we weren’t welcome—that, or show us to our rooms. It all depended on whether or not they accepted that I had the right to claim their hospitality.

But the doors opened, revealing the deserted courtyard. There was a fountain at the center, made of gold, with stylized Sidhe bodies and stags caught in eternal, faceless dance. The statues were featureless enough that they could have belonged to any of the ruling races, but the yarrow branches etched into the stone around the fountain’s edge made it clear that the installation had been originally commissioned by one of the Tylwyth Teg. The walls of the courtyard had been scrubbed as clean as it was possible for granite to be, and there were no tapestries or pennants hanging there, leaving the fountain as the only decoration. It made the little water feature seem sad, almost, like it was trying too hard to brighten a space that was far too large for it to illuminate alone.

Spike leaped from the wagon and trotted over to stand next to my feet, rattling its thorns in a timbre that I recognized as frustration.

“Yeah, I’m feeling pretty jerked around, too,” I said. “Come on, guys. Let’s walk into the big creepy castle and see if we get attacked by something. Doesn’t that sound like fun? I think it sounds like fun.” I began to walk.

“She’s your fiancée,” said May. There was a small rumbling sound as she and Quentin began pulling the cart over the bricks. Maybe having them do the pulling was a little unfair, given that Tybalt and Walther had their hands free, but there was a method to my madness. Quentin was my squire: I didn’t want him being looked at as anything else. And when a knight has a squire, that squire can expect to be put to work doing whatever irritating or unpleasant jobs the knight isn’t in the mood for. May was my Fetch, but she was here as my lady’s maid, and it made sense that if two people were needed to do the pulling, she would be the second one. I’d probably hear about this from both of them later. In the moment, they understood as well as I did how important it was for things to appear normal.

Well. As normal as it was possible for anything about our little group to appear.

We walked through the open, unwelcoming castle doors and into the courtyard. There were no visible doors on this level, apart from the one we’d entered through. I shot Walther a hard look, and he shrugged helplessly. It’s not uncommon for the people in charge to design their strongholds in a way that makes it clear that they make the rules, that anything you do is dependent on their kindnesses. The Mists has always had a lot of Daoine Sidhe in positions of power, in part due to meddling from their Firstborn. As I looked around what was essentially a room with no windows and only one door, I found myself faintly grateful that Evening had been so inclined to stick her nose in. At least Daoine Sidhe had to walk everywhere, and hence built strongholds that were useful to the rest of us.

Except for the part where Evening had been indirectly responsible for me being turned into a fish, and had actually caused the death—however temporary—of one of my greatest allies, I could almost forget that she wasn’t actually my friend.

The doors slammed shut behind us. May and Walther both jumped. I didn’t. Neither did Quentin or Tybalt. That said something sort of sad about the situations we tended to find ourselves in.

“Nice fountain,” I said, still speaking louder than was my norm. “I know that if I had a fountain this great, I’d totally set up a whole courtyard just to show it off. Look, the way I see it, one of two things is happening right now. Either you’re getting ready to ambush us, in which case you’d better do it fast, or you’re not going to like the results. Or you’ve got a really messed-up way of showing hospitality. One more time: I am Sir October Daye, I am here on behalf of Queen Windermere in the Mists, and you are beginning to piss me off.”

The scent of meadowsweet and wine vinegar tinted the air, and a portal opened in the wall on the other side of the fountain. The room on the other side was all polished hardwood and velvet, and I only saw it for an instant before bodies began pouring through the opening.

First came the guards. Eight of them, all wearing the deep pine green and silver livery of Silences. They split, four taking each side as they placed themselves between us and the portal. Then came the courtiers, three this time, two women and a man, a Tylwyth Teg and two Daoine Sidhe, and again, all wearing the colors of Silences, although their tunics were finer and their outfits were accessorized by incredibly silly looking floppy hats.

One of the courtiers produced a scroll from inside her doublet, unrolled it, and read, “By the grace of Oberon, His Majesty, King Rhys of Silences.”

Years of courtly etiquette drilled into me by Etienne, and even more years of silently following my mother through the Courts of the Mists, kept me from rolling my eyes or otherwise doing something to offend the king we had come to visit. Instead, I dropped into a deep and proper bow, bent double at the waist, knees bent, one leg extended so that my thigh muscles began almost immediately to ache. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Walther and Tybalt matching the gesture, their own bows only slightly modified by the variances in custom and region. Tybalt’s bow was shallower than mine, since it would have been inappropriate for him to show too much obeisance to a ruler of the Divided Courts. Walther’s bow included an elaborate hand gesture that I had never seen before.

I couldn’t see Quentin and May from my position, but I had faith that they would be demonstrating the appropriate amount of humility. I had to trust them. If I didn’t, we were already lost.

“You may rise,” said an unfamiliar male voice, tenor and calm, like its owner had never encountered anything that needed to disturb him.

I straightened up, and got my first look at the King of Silences.

He was taller than I expected, with the glossy black hair and olive skin common among the Tuatha de Dannan. He wore that hair cropped short in a style that was almost disconcertingly modern, given his current surroundings, and which did nothing to conceal the sharp points of his ears. His eyes were the color of slightly tarnished pennies, with bolts of molten-looking copper surrounded by streaky verdigris. He was handsome, I had to give him that, but he looked more like a businessman playing dress up than he did a king, even wearing a fur-lined cloak that reached all the way to the floor. Even with a crown resting on his head.

Spike rattled its thorns and hissed, too quietly for anyone to hear it but me. I took the sound for the warning it was, and I said nothing at all.

The King of Silences appeared to take this as a sign of respect. He smiled, a cold expression that did not reach his eyes. “My friends from the South,” he said. “How kind of you to travel hence and see whether our disagreements might be settled like civilized people, instead of clawed from one another’s flesh like animals.” His gaze flicked, ever so briefly, to Tybalt at the end of his statement.

My shoulders tightened. I forced my expression to remain neutral as I said, “Queen Arden Windermere in the Mists, daughter and heir to King Gilad Windermere in the Mists, recognized in her claim to the throne by High King Aethlin Sollys of the Westlands, sends her regards, and hopes we will be able to lay this matter to rest before any further harm is done to her people.”

“No harm has been done to her people, as she has no people to claim,” responded King Rhys, without missing a beat. “The throne she sits is not her own. If she wishes to settle this dispute with no loss of life or damage to property, she will admit her crime, step aside, and allow the true Queen of the Mists to retake what is rightfully hers.”

“See, that’s what we’re here to talk about,” I said, struggling to keep my voice as genial as I could. “We call upon the hospitality of your home.”

“And so you shall have it. We follow the rules set down by Oberon in all his wisdom here in Silences. For three days, you will be honored guests here in my Kingdom. No hands will be raised against you, and we will see to your safety even at the risk of our own. When that time is done, we will part either as friends or as foes, to be determined by your actions while you stand within my walls. Do you agree to comport yourselves as guests, and raise no hands to me or mine?”

“Save in self-defense,” I said.

“Then the bargain is struck.” King Rhys looked from me to my companions. “Who travels with you? I would know whom I welcome into my keep.”

“These are my friends and companions,” I said. “The Daoine Sidhe is my squire, Quentin. He’s kind of slow on the uptake sometimes, but he’s pretty, so we put up with him. The woman next to him is my half-sister, May.” Technically true. She was born of my blood and the flesh of the night-haunt she had been. No one could say that we weren’t blood relatives, just like no one could say that she had been carried or delivered by my mother. Faerie makes everything complicated.

“I see,” said King Rhys. “And the others?”

“Walther Davies of the Mists, my lord,” said Walther. “I am Sir Daye’s alchemist, and travel at her command.”

“King Tybalt of the Court of Dreaming Cats,” said Tybalt. “A war in the Mists would of necessity inconvenience my people. I am here to observe, and, should such a war become inevitable, to return home and prepare the Court of Cats for what has been brought down upon our heads.”

King Rhys narrowed his eyes, studying Tybalt. I had to admire the artistry of the moment, even as it made me squirm. By going last, Tybalt had prevented the King of Silences from spending too much time dwelling on Walther. If Lowri had been able to recognize him as related to the rightful royal family, there was a chance the King who’d replaced them could have done the same . . . if he hadn’t been immediately confronted with a rival monarch that he technically had no power over. It was nicely done. And it was scaring the hell out of me.

King Rhys could deny Tybalt his hospitality, saying that a knight didn’t have the right to claim a King of Cats as a traveling companion. Or he could deny me my hospitality and give it to Tybalt instead, which would mean we had made the entire journey for nothing, since Tybalt didn’t have the authority to negotiate a peace on Arden’s behalf.

Finally, King Rhys said, “I see. We have never hosted a monarch of your Court here; I hope you will not take offense if my people don’t know exactly the right etiquette for treating with you.”

“Tell them not to pull my tail or kick me, and I will respond in kind,” said Tybalt mildly.

“As you say,” said King Rhys, with another broad, chilly smile. He stepped to one side. His guards did the same, falling back so that their backs were to the courtyard wall. It was an eerily synchronized motion. I wondered how much time they had spent practicing to make sure that their footsteps would be perfectly in unison. I just as quickly decided to stop wondering about that. It couldn’t do anything good for my sanity.

“Welcome to Silences,” said King Rhys, gesturing to the portal.

There wasn’t really anything we could do at that point. Refusing his invitation would have been rude, and we didn’t have anywhere else to go. With another, much shorter bow, I began walking around the fountain toward the portal.

Walther stepped close enough that he could murmur, “Ever been to Disneyland?”

“No,” I replied, as quietly as I could. “Why?”

“Because this guy learned everything he knows about crowd control from the Haunted Mansion.”

I gave him a puzzled look. He laughed, and kept on walking.

Walking through King Rhys’ portal was like stepping through a soap bubble formed entirely of someone else’s magic. The urge to hold my breath was great, but I forced it aside and breathed in instead, trying to learn whatever I could about the man whose demesne we were now inside. He was pure Tuatha de Dannan, that much was clear: I could pick up nothing else from his heritage, or from the meadowsweet and wine vinegar traceries of his spell. He was also casting unaided—the magic was entirely his, and he had sustained the portal for the entire process of determining our purpose in his lands. He was strong. Not as strong as Chelsea, maybe, but strong enough to hold his Kingdom.

We came out of the portal in the lushly appointed ballroom we had glimpsed before, our feet and the wheels of our wagon clattering against the polished wooden floor. The dais in front of us held a single central throne, decorated in the same style as the fountain in the courtyard. Walther tensed beside me. Whatever else King Rhys had done since becoming King, and however blameless he may or may not have been in what had happened, he was sitting on the throne that had belonged to the original ruling family. I couldn’t even imagine how that had to feel.

There was no matching queen’s throne. Either Rhys was unmarried, or he had chosen to rule alone. There were two smaller chairs, carved from rich pine and detailed with gold leaf, that were probably intended for use by visiting nobility or dignitaries important enough to share the dais with him.

As my companions and I fell into a loose semicircle, Walther to my left, Tybalt to my right, and May and Quentin fanning out to hold up the ends, Rhys walked past us, mounted the dais, and settled in his throne. He braced one elbow on the armrest, slouching into a position as carefully calculated as the motions of his guards. As for the guards themselves, they took up places around the edges of the room, while his three attending courtiers moved to stand near, but not on, the dais.

“My staff has been notified that you’ll need to be housed and fed for the next little while,” he said. “I assume you’ll wish to have adjoining rooms for your squire and your lady’s maid, Sir Daye?” His eyes raked over my hair, mouth pursing in a way that made it clear he found everything about my appearance to be wanting.

“Yes, if it please your Majesty,” I said, with a quick dip of my head. “I would also like my alchemist to be housed as near to me as possible. He is . . . useful, in certain regards.” Let him think I was addicted to sleep tonics. Let him think I was sleeping with Walther. I didn’t care, as long as he didn’t try to separate us from each other. I might not have been very good at courtly manners, but I was smart enough to know that winding up in opposite wings would be bad for everyone’s health.

“Indeed,” said Rhys. “As for the King of Cats, we will have to arrange a room suitable for such a luminary, as I would not want to give accidental offense—”

“Then I am not rude in interjecting to tell you that no such arrangement will be necessary, nor would it be welcome if undertaken,” said Tybalt, cutting smoothly into the rhythm of the King’s speech. Rhys looked nonplussed, but not as angry as he would have been if I had tried the same trick. Tybalt reached out and set a hand gently upon my wrist, so that his fingers traced the line of my pulse. It was nothing as blatant as putting an arm around me or as crass as kissing me in front of a rival monarch, but it was more than enough to get the point across.

Rhys’ eyebrows rose. “I see,” he said, giving me another assessing look. My lack of cosmetics and clearly unstyled hair was being put into a new light: among the nobility of the Divided Courts, Cait Sidhe have a reputation for being bestial and little better than changelings. If I was screwing the King of Cats, it made sense that I’d be a little unkempt—never mind that Tybalt looked like he could appear on the cover of a magazine without changing anything but the shape of his pupils.

“Sir Daye is my betrothed, and as such, I choose to cleave to her as much as I may,” said Tybalt, a dangerous note coming into his voice. It was clear he knew how King Rhys was judging me, and just as clear that he didn’t approve. “I’ll understand if you cannot place us in the same room, as we are yet unwed, but I will be close to her, or know the reasons why.”

“I see.” Rhys sat up straighter. “I’ll instruct my seneschal appropriately. I’m sorry we didn’t have rooms ready for you. My counterpart to the South did not tell me she was sending an emissary to argue on her behalf, perhaps because she knows she has no authority to do so. But no matter.” He waved the hand that wasn’t supporting his head before any of us could object to his continual characterization of Arden as the usurper in this equation. “You’ll be shown to your rooms. My court slumbers, in the main—I was woken to receive you—and you will be summoned again when it’s time for our first formal meal of the night.”

“I thought you had to tell your seneschal about our rooming arrangement?” I said, slowly.

“His Majesty has just informed me,” said one of the courtiers. She stepped forward, offering a shallow bow in our direction. She had the golden hair and blue eyes characteristic of the Tylwyth Teg, and her expression was so composed as to be virtually blank, a perfect mask betraying nothing of her feelings. “My name is Marlis. I am standing seneschal to this court. Please allow me to escort you.”

“Sure thing.” I turned back to Rhys, bowing one more time in his direction. “We appreciate your hospitality, and will not abuse it.”

“See that you don’t,” he said. “Marlis, you will return here when you have them settled. I must speak to you.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Marlis. She gestured toward a doorway on the other side of the hall. “You will follow me.”

It wasn’t a request. She walked, and after the rest of our group had made their quick, final bows, we followed.

Marlis’ entire stride changed as soon as we were in the hall, going from tight and reserved to open, wide, with a heel-first way of striking the floor that made it clear she’d been trained in some pretty serious kick-your-ass techniques. She didn’t say a word until we reached the first stairway. A basket of yarrow twigs was hung over the newel post. She began grabbing out handfuls and tying them into quick wreaths, which she tossed to May and Quentin.

“Here,” she said briskly. “Put these on the wheels of your wagon, and be quick about it. His Majesty doesn’t like things cluttering up the hall.”

That certainly explained the lack of knickknacks and portraits: aside from the velvet draperies in the throne room, the knowe seemed to be entirely undecorated. “Is this an extension of that whole ‘flying on yarrow branches’ trick I’ve seen some Tylwyth Teg do?” I asked. “I didn’t know you could use it on things other than yourselves.”

“Some of us have to work for what we receive in this world, miss,” said Marlis. “Some of us have to find ways of making that work easier.” She looked back to May and Quentin. Seeing that they had looped the wreaths over the hubs of both wagon wheels, she raised her hand and chanted a quick phrase in Welsh. The smell of ice and milfoil rose in the air around the wagon, which began to lift away from the ground.

May let go of her handle. Quentin did the same, releasing the wagon barely a second before Spike made a mighty leap and landed squarely in the middle of our luggage. It rode there, chirping jubilantly, as the wagon floated up to the top of the stairs and settled on the landing.

“Roller coasters for rose goblins,” I said, as mildly as I could. The smell of Marlis’ magic was still lingering in the air. I sniffed it, shooting Walther a sidelong look. His magic smelled of ice and common yarrow. Hers was ice and milfoil—otherwise known as fernleaf yarrow. With magical signatures that similar, there was no way they weren’t related, and yet she hadn’t looked at him any more critically than she’d looked at the rest of us. Something was going on here, and I didn’t like not knowing what it was.

“This way,” said Marlis, and followed our wagon’s trail up the stairs. The rest of us were close behind her, with me in the lead and Tybalt bringing up the rear. He’d be able to defend against any surprise attacks that way. Not that I was actually expecting King Rhys to go for us this soon—if he’d been planning an immediate double cross, I doubted that he would have let us past the front gates. It’s much easier to get rid of unwanted guests when you can say, honestly, that they never set foot inside your knowe. Besides, there was a lot of forest in Silences. That meant a lot of places to hide the bodies.

The upstairs hall was as stark and unornamented as the downstairs. The walls lacked the filigree and carving I was accustomed to in most noble knowes. Walther looked faintly sickened when he glanced at the places where the walls met the ceiling and floor, which probably meant that there had been decorative carvings here, once. Why Rhys would have had those removed while leaving the fountain and throne was anybody’s guess.

We walked through a pair of tall double doors and into a wider hallway. This one had a plush carpet patterned in pine green and rose red covering the floor, instantly muffling our footsteps. The doors swung shut behind us. Marlis kept walking, until we were halfway down the hall, where she stopped at a door set into a particularly ornate frame. It was carved with pine boughs and roses, and looked almost ridiculously out of place against its austere surroundings.

“The visitor’s suite is through here,” she said. “I apologize if it is finer than you’re accustomed to, but you left us little choice, with the size of your party. The main room is yours to do with as you like. I suggest your lady’s maid be given the room off the master bedroom, as King Rhys insists upon certain standards at his court functions.” There was an oddly pleading note to that sentence, like she was telling us more than she was strictly allowed.

“Cool,” I said. “Is there anything else we need to know?”

If I’d been hoping for more rule bending from her, I was going to be disappointed. Marlis shook her head. “No, miss,” she said. “Simply come when you are called, and communicate your situation clearly and without prejudice. I think you will find King Rhys to be a generous and compassionate ruler, and you will soon come to understand the reasons for his indignation.”

“Let’s hope,” I said.

“I must to my lord. If you would excuse me?” Marlis offered a quick, shallow bow, barely enough not to be insulting, before she turned and hurried back the way she’d come.

The five of us watched her go, not saying a word. Then I turned to the door and pushed it open, revealing a receiving room easily the size of my first apartment. “At least he’s not being stingy with the space,” I said, stepping inside.

He wasn’t being stingy with the furnishings, either. All the clutter that wasn’t evident in the hall had apparently been crammed into the quarters for visiting diplomats, creating a dizzying maze of couches, end tables, and decorative shelves stacked high with vases, decorative statuary, and knickknacks I didn’t have a name for. It would have been attractive, if any effort at all had been made to coordinate the things that filled the room. As it was, I felt like I was visiting the Hollywood idea of an antique barn.

Walther and Tybalt pulled the wagon with our things inside while May and Quentin brought up the rear. Walther looked around, sighed, and said, “I was wondering where all this stuff went. It’s not like he could sell it, and destroying the possessions of the royal family of Silences would have just been tacky.” He didn’t sound surprised. More resigned, like this was exactly what he’d been expecting.

“See, I thought conquering someone else’s Kingdom was tacky,” said May. “Getting rid of their stuff afterward is just good housekeeping.” She squeezed around the wagon to begin opening the doors that radiated off the room like the spokes of a wheel.

“What are the odds we’re being spied on?” I asked.

“High,” said Walther.

“Absolutely we’re being spied on,” said Quentin.

“There’s no one but us physically present right now, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t listening charms,” said May, opening another door. “I mean, they may not have had time to set them, since we surprised them and all, but they could have enchantments primed to activate as someone crosses the threshold.”

I paused. Sometimes it was easy to forget about May’s weird radar, since it came up rarely and wasn’t exactly an active magic. Still, it was good to have the confirmation. “All right. Assume listening charms. Let’s go to our rooms and get ready for what’s ahead.” And figure out a way to find and deactivate anything that was monitoring us. If we were going to plan strategies, we needed to do it in private.

Walther opened his briefcase and took out a notepad, scribbling something before ripping off the top sheet and sticking it to Spike’s back. The rose goblin took its new status as a message board in stride, chirping amiably before wandering over to rub against my ankles.

“Found the master bedroom,” called May. “It looks like there’s only one sub-room. Quentin can have it. I’m happier when I don’t have to listen to you snore.” Meaning she’d be happier knowing that she was in the exterior ring of rooms, since she was indestructible and Quentin wasn’t.

“Got it,” I said, resolutely not looking at the note Walther had stuck to my rose goblin.

It only took us a few minutes to get the suitcases into the appropriate rooms. Their owners followed them, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Walther looked faintly sick; May looked grim. When the door to the master bedroom shut, it was with me, Tybalt, Quentin, and Spike inside.

The bedroom was as opulently decorated as the front room, with a bed large enough to hold six, and a wardrobe that should by all rights have contained a doorway to Narnia, or at least the deeper lands of Faerie. A small door on one wall led to a much less fancy room, with a single narrow bed where Quentin would be expected to sleep. I almost envied him that simplicity. I was so far out of my depth that I was worried about drowning without going anywhere near the water.

Spike rubbed against my ankles again. I bent to pluck Walther’s note from its spines. Unfolding the piece of paper, I read quickly. Then I closed my eyes and held it out for Quentin and Tybalt to see.

Marlis is my sister, read the note. Be cautious.

“Well,” said Tybalt, tone gone tight and careful. “Isn’t this going to be fun?”

I didn’t have an answer for that.