Chimes at Midnight

SIX

WE EXCUSED OURSELVES AFTER THAT. Once it had fully sunk in that the woman who had banished me wasn’t the legitimate ruler of the Mists, there was really nowhere else for the conversation to go. Dean needed some time with his parents. We needed to go home and reassure May and Jazz that we hadn’t been arrested, deported, or worse.

It was another quiet drive. We were nearly back to the house before Quentin asked, “Toby? Are we really going to overthrow the Queen of the Mists?”

Tybalt looked at me out of the corner of his eye, clearly interested in my answer. I took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before letting it out and nodding. “I don’t know. But I’m going to try.”

“Who would you put on the throne?” asked Tybalt mildly.

“See, there’s the stumper. She has no kids, and even if she did, they wouldn’t have a legitimate claim, since she doesn’t have a legitimate claim. She was able to take the throne because there was no known heir. The Windermere line died with King Gilad. I guess that means she’d be as valid a Queen as anyone, if she could get the High King to confirm her as the start of a new royal line, but she’s been on the throne so long . . .”

“If she knew she wasn’t King Gilad’s heir, and she took the throne anyway, that’s treason,” said Quentin. “We could tell the High King now.”

“If we can prove she wasn’t Gilad’s heir, sure,” I said, feeling even more daunted by the scope of this potentially treasonous notion. In the mortal world, contesting someone’s claim to a throne after a century had passed might have seemed excessive. In Faerie, it was likely to be filed under “guess it’s Tuesday.” “But we need something more concrete than the word of the changeling she’s just banished if we want the High King to take this seriously. If we make a false accusation, we won’t live to make a true one.”

“So we find proof,” said Quentin.

“I do enjoy a challenge,” said Tybalt.

We were quiet for the rest of the drive home. Cagney and Lacey—my half-Siamese cats—were sitting in the kitchen window when we pulled into the driveway. They looked at us disapprovingly as we got out of the car. “You’d think dating a King of Cats would get them to cut me a little slack,” I said.

Quentin snorted. “Are you kidding? The cats probably think you’re a social climber.”

“Something like that,” said Tybalt.

“I hate you both,” I said, walking to the back door. I unlocked it, pushing it open and calling, “It’s us. Where is everybody?”

“We’re in the dining room!” May called back.

We found them sitting at the dining room table. May was cutting pictures out of a magazine. Jazz was armed with a hot glue gun, a plaster unicorn head, and a box of artificial gems in various colors and sizes. I stopped in the doorway. “Do I want to know?”

“It helps us stay calm,” said Jazz, hot gluing a bright purple teardrop to the unicorn’s cheek.

“How did it go?” asked May.

“The Luidaeg told me to talk to people who’d known King Gilad before he died,” I said. “So we went to Goldengreen to talk to the Lordens.”

“And?” prompted May.

“Dianda and Patrick were happy to talk to us about King Gilad,” I said. “The trouble is, that just made things worse.”

May frowned. “How could they make things worse than ‘we have a goblin fruit problem and I’ve been banished from the Kingdom’? Is the Undersea being attacked by giant squid?”

“I think the giant squid thing is pretty much normal for them, but no. According to Dianda, the Queen of the Mists isn’t King Gilad Windermere’s daughter. Which means she’s not legitimately our Queen; she’s been holding a throne that wasn’t hers for all these years, and no one did anything about it.”

“Which goes a long way toward explaining her policies regarding the Undersea,” noted Tybalt. “Most of the nobility on land was behind her, or was mysteriously absent. I doubt our sea-going cousins would have been so accommodating.”

Jazz yelped. I turned. She was sucking the side of her thumb. “Sorry,” she said, voice muffled by her hand. “I got distracted listening to you and hot glued myself to my unicorn.”

“Right. See, this is why I don’t think anyone in this house should be allowed to use power tools.” I shook my head. “Anyway, now we need to figure out how to prove that Dianda is right about the Queen. And we have to do it all in three days, since otherwise I’m going to be committing treason by correspondence course.”

“We all are,” said May. I blinked at her. She laughed, a little wearily. “Do you honestly think Jazz and I will be staying if you go? Oh, and Quentin? He may be fostered to Shadowed Hills, but he’s your squire. He goes where you do, unless you decide to leave him behind.”

“Which you’re not going to do,” said Quentin quickly.

“I have a Court to tend to,” said Tybalt. My heart sank a little, even though I had already known that would be his answer. Then, to my surprise, he continued, “It will take me some time to hand my duties off to Raj. When that is done, I will find you.”

I turned to stare at him. “What . . . ?”

“I am a cat, October. I have a sense of duty, because I am also a man, but no cat can be held down by duty forever. Eventually, we must go where we wish to be, not where we are told.” Tybalt smiled slightly at the expression on my face. “A simple banishment is not enough to see you quit of me, little fish.”

“Is it just me, or is getting hot in here?” asked May, causing Jazz to break into a peal of laughter. I wrinkled my nose at her, but I was secretly relieved. I would have either thrown myself at him or blushed myself to death in a few more seconds, and neither of those was a great option.

“You are all evil.” I slicked the wisps of hair that had escaped their net of ribbons back from my face with both hands, releasing the illusion that had been making me look human in the same gesture. “Okay. We have three problems. If the Queen of the Mists isn’t supposed to be in charge, who is? How do we find them? And how do we depose a sitting monarch who has her very own private army?”

“Remember when our biggest problem was ‘who turned the laundry pink’?” asked May. Then she sighed. “Yeah. Me neither.”

“Your guess is as good as mine on all of these topics,” said Tybalt. “Even in my misspent youth, I never attempted to depose a monarch of the Divided Courts. Only my father, and I doubt our means of succession would hold in the Courts of Oberon.”

“Probably not, but . . .” I paused. “Maybe we don’t need to guess about any of this.”

“What?” said May.

“What?” echoed Jazz and Quentin.

“Li Qin has a Library card.” I dug my phone out of my jacket pocket. “Maybe she can get me a temporary pass or something.”

Tybalt blinked. “That is a surprisingly thoughtful, nonviolent solution.”

I stuck my tongue out at him as I scrolled through my contact list, finally locating the entry for Li Qin Zhou, current acting regent of Dreamer’s Glass. She was the widow of Countess January O’Leary of Tamed Lightning, and the adoptive mother of Countess April O’Leary, also of Tamed Lightning. She was also the only person I knew who might be able to get me into the local Library.

The phone rang twice before Li Qin picked up, with a cheerful, “October! I wasn’t expecting to hear from you today. Has Treasa turned up?”

“Not as such, no.” Duchess Treasa Riordan was technically the regent of Dreamer’s Glass. It was a real pity she’d gone and gotten herself stranded in Annwn, leaving Li Qin to mind her fiefdom. And by “real pity,” I mean “too bad she didn’t do it sooner.” “I need to ask for a favor.”

“Anything. I owe you.”

“Yeah, you do, but you might want to hear what I need before you agree to it. Can you get me a Library pass?”

There was a pause before Li Qin asked, “May I know why you need one?”

“Stuff. Important stuff. I’m not going to burn the place down or anything, I just need to look a few things up, and the Library seems like the best starting point.”

There was a longer pause. Then Li Qin said, “I know when you’re not telling me everything.”

“Fine. The Queen just exiled me from the Kingdom. I have three days to get out. I’m sure you’ll hear about it in short order, since neither Dreamer’s Glass nor Tamed Lightning were on the list of places it’s okay for me to go and hide. I need to get into the Library to find out whether there’s anything I can do to keep myself here.”

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place? The Librarian owes me a few favors, and I suppose it’s time I collect. I just . . . have you ever used a Library before?”

“Not in the fae sense,” I said.

“All right. I’ll see what I can do. If I can get her to agree, I’ll call you.”

“Okay. That’s cool. I appreciate it.”

Li Qin laughed. “Of all the things I expected you to ask me for, Toby, a Library pass was not high on the list.”

“I’m full of surprises. Open roads, Li.”

“Kind fires,” she responded, and hung up.

I turned back toward the others. “Li Qin’s going to see if she can get us into the Library.”

“You didn’t say ‘us,’” said Tybalt, voice suddenly sharp. “You just said you needed a pass.”

“Oh, Maeve’s teeth. I’ll explain when she calls me back, okay?”

Tybalt nodded. He didn’t look completely mollified. I’d worry about that later.

“I still can’t believe the Queen is doing this,” said Quentin.

I wanted to hug him and say that it was all going to be okay. I wasn’t going to do that, though. I try not to lie to my friends. “Why not?” I asked. “She doesn’t like me. The murder trial should have tipped you off about that, even if nothing else did. I gave her an excuse, and she took it.”

“Not a good excuse,” said Tybalt.

“It didn’t have to be.” I plucked at the gray silk fabric of my dress. “I’m going to go upstairs and change. Then we’re going to call Sylvester, and—”

My phone rang. Or rather, my phone chirped like a techno remix of a cricket. I pulled it out of my pocket, frowning at the display, which indicated that Li Qin was calling. Motioning for the others to hang on, I raised it to my ear. “Li. Please tell me you have good news.”

“I got you a Library pass,” said Li Qin.

“Oh, thank Oberon.” I flashed a thumbs-up at the others. “So how does this Library pass thing work? Do I need to come to San Jose and pick up a note or something?”

“No note—the Librarian is expecting you. I’ll text you the Library’s current physical address. It moves around more than most knowes, because of the way it’s anchored.” Li Qin sounded concerned. “Do you want me to read your luck for you?”

“No!” I said, more loudly than I intended. Tybalt and Quentin both took a step forward. I waved them back and repeated, more quietly, “No. No luck. Please.” Li Qin was a Shyi Shuai. Her race specialized in manipulating luck. The trouble was, for every action, there was an equal and opposite reaction. The last time I’d allowed her to play around with my luck, I’d wound up getting disemboweled. Twice. Not an experience I was in a hurry to have again.

“I understand,” said Li Qin. “Let me know if you change your mind?”

“I will. Look, this Library pass, is it only good for me? Because I’m not sure I want to be running around without some sort of backup just now.” More, I wasn’t sure my backup would let me get away with it if I tried.

“I made sure you could bring an escort.” Li Qin’s concern melted into amusement. “I couldn’t picture you going out alone. The Librarian is nice enough, and she understood why you might not want to come without friends. Her name is Magdaleana. Play nicely with her.”

Not that long ago, I considered myself a loner. It was a little odd to realize that I’d moved so far past those days that people I’d met since then didn’t even consider it an option. “I really appreciate this, Li,” I said, skirting dangerously close to thanking her.

“I’m gearing up to ask you for a favor to be named later. I’m just adding to my leverage here.” Her tone was light, but there was an element of seriousness there.

That was something to worry about later. “I still appreciate it. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Please do. Now get yourself un-banished before time runs out. This Kingdom would be awfully dull without you.” Li Qin hung up.

“She got me the pass,” I said, lowering my phone. “And yes, you can come with me, since she didn’t think I’d want to go alone.”

“Both of us?” asked Quentin hopefully.

Tybalt didn’t ask. He just raised an eyebrow.

Li Qin said “friends” when I asked her about bringing an escort . . . “Yes,” I said firmly. My phone buzzed again as Li texted me. I checked the display. “Lucky us: we’re staying in the city. The place is just a few miles from here.”

“I don’t think you should change your clothes,” said May.

I turned, blinking, to see her standing in the kitchen doorway with Jazz. “What?”

“Keep the dress. Most Librarians don’t get out much. Whoever runs the local branch is probably a little bit behind the times. They’ll find formality appropriate and respectful.” May shrugged. “Just a suggestion.”

Sometimes it was easy to forget that my silly, flamboyant Fetch had started her existence as one of the night-haunts. They met all the Librarians, eventually. “Okay,” I said. “As long as I can keep my jacket. But I don’t think we can all go.”

“I know,” said May. “Jazz and I will stay here and deal with anyone who shows up to tell you how sorry they are. You go and make this exile go away. Find out whose throne that really is, and depose the bitch.”

“No pressure,” added Jazz, with a sweet, if worried, smile.

“No pressure,” I echoed. I tucked my phone back into my pocket. “Come on, boys. Let’s go to the Library.”

“If I may,” said Tybalt. “Were I the Queen, I would almost certainly set someone to watching this house, to see if you went anywhere after you finally came home from racing about the city, looking for aid. Were I the Queen, I would also be quite likely arrogant enough to disregard the fact that you are being courted by a man who can take you anywhere you wish without needing to move the car or, indeed, step outside the threshold.”

“Were you the Queen, I wouldn’t be dating you, but point taken,” I said. “Can you carry me and Quentin over to 5th and Brannan? I’m not leaving him here just so the Queen doesn’t follow me.”

“Your loyalty will be the death of us all one day, but yes, I can take you both,” said Tybalt. “It may not be pleasant. I can still manage it.”

“Then let’s go,” I said, and offered him my hand.

“As you like.” This time, Tybalt took Quentin’s hand directly, rather than letting him hold onto me. “Both of you, take a deep breath, and hold fast. I would not want to lose you.” On that dire note, he stepped into the shadows formed by the meeting of the cabinet and the wall, and pulled us with him, into darkness.

The Shadow Roads seemed colder this time, maybe because we were going farther than before. I held Tybalt’s hand, trusting him to see us through the darkness, which was too deep for my eyes to penetrate, but must have been clear to his. I could hear Quentin’s teeth chattering. He hadn’t traveled through the dark this way as many times as I had, and I wasn’t sure he’d ever come this far.

Just as my lungs were beginning to burn, we stepped out of the darkness and into the watery streetlight shining on the corner of 5th and Brannan. There were no people in sight. A few cars moved on the cross streets, but none close enough to have seen our sudden appearance.

“Good aim,” I said, stuffing my freezing hands into the pockets of my jacket. “Quentin? You okay?”

“I really, really miss living where there’s snow,” he said, sounding altogether too chipper for someone who’d just been pulled along the Shadow Roads.

“All right, when this is all over, we’ll go skiing. Now let’s find the Library.” I pulled out my phone, checking Li’s text. Then I blinked. “This isn’t what it said before.”

“What?” Tybalt stepped closer, peering at the screen over my shoulder.

“Before, it said ‘5th and Brannan.’ Now it says to turn left.” I scowled. “April’s been making improvements again. Yippee.”

April O’Leary, Countess of Tamed Lightning, was the reason I had a cell phone. She’s the world’s first cyber-Dryad, and she specializes in making mortal technology compatible with fae magic. Phones that could work in the Summerlands, for example, or survive the freezing temperatures of the Shadow Roads without breaking. And now, apparently, phones that could receive semi-sentient text messages.

We started walking. After we had turned left, the message changed again, now telling us to head three blocks down. We kept walking.

Annoying as this was, it probably served a purpose. Many knowes can’t simply be walked into: they all have their own requirements for entry, tricks and twists that have to be observed if you want to get inside. There was no reason for the Library to be any different, and a lot of reasons for it to be the same. If Li Qin had started by texting me the address, we’d never have found it. That didn’t make the process any less irritating.

The text changed again after we’d been walking for almost fifteen minutes, now reading, “You are here.” I lowered my phone and lifted my head, looking around.

“Okay,” I said, after a moment. “Where the hell are we?”

Li’s directions had led us deep into the sprawling maze that makes up downtown San Francisco, and down a small side alley that was clinging with game tenacity to the title of “street.” I’m sure it had the qualifications, once upon a time. But then these silly little things called “cars” came along, and suddenly being wide enough to allow one fairly slender carriage to pass just wasn’t cutting it.

Tiny shops lined the alley, obviously clinging just as fiercely to keep from sliding into failure. Somehow, I knew they weren’t our destination. That dubious honor was reserved for the two-story building at the end of the alley, sunk back in a vague haze of dust and ancient brick. It was shabby and a little sunken-in, like it was going to collapse at any moment—or maybe last another fifty years. Sometimes it’s hard to tell with San Francisco architecture.

We approached the building, passing the blind eyes of the closed and shuttered shops, until we left the last streetlights behind and found ourselves standing in front of a plain wooden door. A sign in the window identified the shop as “Bookstore.” A few shabby volumes were on display in the window, with a curtain drawn behind them to hide the rest of the shop from view.

I tried the door. It was unlocked. “Here we go,” I said, and pushed it open. I was rewarded with the tinkling of a silver bell and a small shower of pale, translucent dust that fell like rain from the doorjamb, coating us in glitter. I coughed. “Pixies.”

“We’re doubtless in the right place, then,” said Tybalt.

I motioned for the others to follow me inside. It wasn’t much better in than out. The room was small, packed with shelves stacked with battered, mildewed paperbacks and magazines that had been old before I was turned into a fish. Everything glittered with pixie-sweat. The door slammed behind Quentin with an ominous “thud.” I jumped, turning to glare at him. He shrugged apologetically.

I’m not much for signs and portents. If I went looking for them, I’d find them, and my life is already hazardous enough, thanks. Still, the combination of creaking doors, decaying books, and unseen pixies was enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck.

Tybalt sniffed, and then sneezed.

Quentin was squinting at the piles of moldy books. “Something’s wrong with the titles,” he said.

I followed his gaze, and realized I couldn’t actually read any of the book covers, not even the ones unblemished enough that they should have been legible. My eyes refused to fix on the letters, sliding instead from vivid decay to vivid decay. I slid my hands through the air, summoning as much of my magic as I could hold, and said solemnly, “You all did love him once, not without cause. What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him?”

A faint gleam snapped into view above the books, clinging to every surface like pixie dust, pale gold and tasting of parchment. Someone had thrown an illusion over the entire room, presumably to keep the merely curious from coming any further. It was a clever piece of work, one I wouldn’t even have been able to notice a few years ago.

“I do adore a woman who channels magic via Shakespeare,” said Tybalt.

“Flirt later, business now,” I said. There was a narrow doorway in the left corner of the room, tucked between two dilapidated bookshelves. I kept my hands up to prevent the illusion from slipping back into place, and started for the opening, Quentin and Tybalt close behind me. The golden haze snapped as we passed into the next room, leaving our eyes unclouded. And what we found was . . . more books. Given that we were looking for a library, that probably shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was.

“Um, Toby?”

“Yeah, Quentin?”

“The door’s gone.”

I turned, and realized he was right. We were standing at a spot where four paths through the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves met. At least I assumed they were floor-to-ceiling; they actually stretched away into the dark above, disappearing toward a point I couldn’t see. There were no obvious exits, just more shelves, stretching out into forever. They were spotlessly clean, loaded down with books until I was pretty sure that they constituted a fire hazard.

Judging by the volumes in view, whoever ran the place had been collecting books for centuries without bothering to actually sort anything. The Colored Fairy books were shelved next to a pile of torrid-looking romances, several broad, flat art books, and a hefty leather-bound volume with a Latin title. It was like we were standing in the world’s largest used bookstore.

And there were no clerks, or Librarians, in sight.

“Hello?” I called, hesitantly. I wasn’t sure what Library etiquette was, and I didn’t want to start out by pissing off the Librarian. Li Qin had called her “a nice enough sort,” but we were talking about Li Qin here. Her definition of “nice” was questionable at best, and at worst included things I didn’t even want to think about. Some of us are more naturally tolerant than others, I suppose.

The dusty silence didn’t change. I exchanged a look with Quentin and Tybalt. “Should we wait here, or go looking?”

“I honestly have no idea,” said Tybalt. He shook his head. “I’ve always been more interested in oral histories than written ones.”

“Waiting, maybe?” said Quentin. “Seems polite.”

“Okay.” I turned to study a bookshelf. Quentin and Tybalt did the same. Several minutes slipped by, until finally I turned and called again, more loudly, “Hello?”

“Coming!” shouted a cheerful, British-accented voice from somewhere in the maze of shelves. “Hold on a moment, shall you? I’m coming as fast as I can!”

“We’ll be right here,” I called back. After several more minutes, a small figure slipped out from behind one of the shelves, her arms full of books. Her clothes were dowdy, suited to rummaging through dusty old tomes and cobwebbed shelves: an ankle-length black skirt, sensible shoes, and a tweed sweater over a white blouse. She looked about fifteen years old. There was an odd bulge on her back, like she was wearing some kind of brace.

“Hullo!” she said. “I hope you weren’t waiting too long. Time can be a mite squirrelly in here.” She dropped her armload of books on the nearest available surface—another pile of books. Near as I could tell, the Library was a paper avalanche waiting to happen. “Welcome to the Library of Stars.”

She was short, maybe five-two, with a slim, almost frail build. Her hair was the bright copper color of new pennies, and cut short in a bob that framed a heart-shaped face dominated by enormous dark blue eyes. Something was wrong with the way they focused. I squinted, trying to figure out what about those eyes was bothering me, and then dismissed it with a slight shake of my head. I was jumpy. Being exiled does that to me.

“I’m October Daye; Li Qin Zhou called about me,” I said, offering my hand. “These are my friends, Tybalt and Quentin. Are you the Librarian, or do you know where to find her?” She looked like a teenager, but in Faerie, that didn’t have to mean anything.

The girl smiled, taking my hand and shaking it. “If you want the last Librarian, best of luck with that. I’m Magdaleana Brooke, and I’m currently in charge here, inasmuch as anyone is. Call me Mags—it’s easier to shout if something’s about to fall on you.”

“Really?” asked Quentin. “But . . .” Then he caught himself, reddening.

Mags turned her smile on him. “Appearances can be deceiving. I’d tell you to ask my mother how old I am, but I’ve not seen her in about three hundred years, and I don’t know where she is. Off harassing some poor musician, I’ve no doubt. That was always her favorite game.”

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said Tybalt gravely.

“And yours,” she said. “I’ve never met a King of Cats before.”

There was something off about her. I breathed in, trying to catch her heritage, and stopped, blinking. “Wait. What are . . . I mean . . .”

“You mean to ask what I am, and don’t want to give offense by saying I don’t come across as fae to your blood magic.” She reached around to rub the lump on her back, wincing slightly. “I’m a Puca. You’ve caught me in my street clothes—I was out and about when Li called, and I’ve not had time to change.”

“Oh!” I said, realization dawning. “I’m sorry.”

“No need.” She smiled again. “Just come and have some tea while I get changed, and then tell me what you are, and we’ll call it even.”

“Sure, but we’re also here looking for some information.”

“Isn’t everyone? Come on.” She waved for us to follow her as she turned and headed into the stacks. Not wanting to get lost again, we hurried after her.

She led us through the maze, taking turn after turn until we emerged into a space the size of a normal living room, if normal living rooms had walls made of bookshelves. A table, two couches, and several chairs were set up in the center of the space, carefully arranged on a faded rug. “I’ll be right back; make yourselves comfortable, there’s tea and such in the kitchen.” Before we could say anything else she was gone, vanishing between two bookshelves.

“On the plus side, I don’t think she was offended by my dress,” I said.

Tybalt snorted.

Puca are shapeshifters. They have no skill at illusions, but they don’t need it: instead of making themselves look human, they turn into humans, hiding their strangeness under veils of too-solid flesh. Of course, they’re not perfect. There’s always one thing they can’t change, one fae feature that refuses to be hidden. It got a lot of Puca killed, back when humanity still believed in us, and eventually, they faded as a race, nearly becoming extinct.

“I’ve never met a Puca before,” said Quentin.

“Great. This night is already educational.” I looked around the little square of furnishings, all of which seemed to be at least fifty years old. “When she gets back, we’ll ask for the books on Kingdom history, and we’ll get started.”

“Kingdom history, is it?” Mags appeared from between a pair of shelves—not, I noted, the ones she’d disappeared between before. “That’s an interesting topic. The Mists is a young Kingdom, but it’s had its share of troubles.”

“Yeah, it has,” I said, fighting back the urge to stare.

She was still wearing the long black skirt, but the tweed sweater was gone, as was the lump. Instead, she had pliant-looking dragonfly wings, two on each side, which trailed down to her knees in a wash of translucent rainbow color. They twitched as she walked, making minute corrections in her balance and leaving a thin haze of red and copper glitter in the air. She didn’t have a pixie problem. She just had herself.

Mags chuckled as she caught me staring at her wings. “Unlike some of my luckier cousins, who only had to contend with goat’s feet or webbed hands, I was born with a full set of wings. It makes travel by public transportation ever so entertaining.”

I winced, but it was Quentin who spoke, saying, “Binding your wings like that must hurt.”

“You get used to it.” She glanced aside, expression briefly grim. “You get used to a lot of things, really.” The grimness was gone when she looked back, replaced by her earlier amiability. “Li Qin doesn’t ask for passes often, and certainly not for such interesting groups of people. You said you were looking for the history of the Kingdom? What part?”

“We should start with the reign of King Gilad,” I said. “If there’s anything from the later years, that would probably be best.”

To Mags’ credit, she didn’t bat an eye. “King Gilad, is it? What are you looking for? We have the standard histories, of course, and I know where there are a few of the less common ones, although those sections may be dangerous this time of night; better to wait until sunrise, when things settle down.”

“See, I’m on a little bit of a time crunch with this research project,” I said, picking my words as carefully as I could. “So if we could start with the easy-to-find and move on to the more obscure ones, that would be good.”

“Well, you haven’t got a Library card, so you won’t be able to take anything away with you, but if you’re willing to put in the hours, you should be able to find almost anything you need.” Mags walked toward the nearest bookshelf, pulling several volumes down and tucking them under her arm. “I’ll start you with a few biographies, some books of Kingdom history . . .”

“This is very helpful,” I said, following her.

She took down another three books, handing them to me. “I wouldn’t have let you come if I wasn’t willing to help. Besides, I was curious.”

“Curious?”

“I’ve heard of you—who hasn’t? Toby Daye, Amandine’s daughter, twice-dead and twice a changeling child—it’s fascinating, really. I’m sure we’ll be teaching your history in a hundred years. Maybe you’ll even tell me how you managed it, if I’m helpful enough.”

“That was easy,” I said, without thinking about it. “Mom is Firstborn. Surprise.”

Mags stiffened, her wings buzzing a new tattoo. Then she took down another book. “I guess I’ll have to revise her biography, then. But there’s a good way for you to pay your Library fees, if you incur any. We’re always happy to take knowledge in trade.” She took the books from under her arm and added them to the pile I was holding. “This should get you started, and if I can borrow your young men, I’ll let them carry the rest back to you.”

“. . . right.” I looked at the sheer number of books in my hands and managed, barely, not to wince. “It’s a good thing I didn’t have any plans for tonight.”

Mags laughed. “Oh, don’t be cross. Knowledge must be earned, and sometimes this is the only way to do it.” She waved to Quentin and Tybalt. “Come along, gentlemen. We’ll get more knowledge ready for the fight.”

“Um,” said Quentin. “Okay.”

Tybalt paused next to me, murmuring, “If anything troubles you, yell.”

“If anything troubles me, I’ll stab it to death,” I said, and kissed him. “Go with the nice Librarian. Find the book that cracks the case.”

He sighed. “As you say.” I watched him walk after Mags and Quentin until he vanished into the stacks. What can I say? He was still wearing leather pants.

I walked over to the nearest couch and sat, piling the books around me. They looked dusty, but the dust didn’t come away on my fingers, and I had to wonder how much of it had been generated by the Librarian herself. Maybe it was connected to her admittedly eccentric filing system. Navigation via dust.

Reaching into the pile, I picked up the first book my fingers hit, a fat red volume with a redwood tree embossed in gold across the front. I flipped it open to the front page, where the title The Life and Times of King Gilad Windermere in the Mists, Duke of Golden Gate, Protector of the Western Coast was written in florid calligraphy.

“I wish I’d packed some of Marcia’s sandwiches to go,” I muttered, and started reading.

The text was dry, which I expected. It was also dense. By the end of the first chapter, I knew Crown Prince Gilad was an only child; that his parents had been married for more than six hundred years before he was born; that he was a prodigy in every possible way, as befitted a King; and that he really liked climbing trees. Like, really liked climbing trees. Once he was old enough to walk and control his natural teleportation magic, he was continually being fished out of trees all over the Kingdom. Mostly in Muir Woods, where the redwoods presented an irresistible challenge.

At the end of the chapter, Gilad was approaching his teens and had adopted the redwood tree as his personal banner, and I was developing the worst headache I’d had in a long time. I groaned, dropping my head into my hands. “Oh, oak and ash, I hate history,” I moaned.

“History hates you as well,” said Tybalt, whisking the book out of my lap as he sat next to me. “It goes out of its way to be complicated and inscrutable for just that reason.”

“Right now, I’m inclined to believe you.” I eyed the stack of books that he’d brought with him. Quentin was staggering toward us with even more books in his arms. Mags walked behind him, clutching a single massive volume to her chest. “How much history is there?”

“Years and years,” said Mags, and giggled, like that was the funniest joke she’d ever heard. Sobering, she explained, “Much of what you’ll find here is the same information from slightly different points of view. There’s little that’s unique. Historians are magpies, in their way, and they share things back and forth. Still, if you can find a footnote that points you to an index that leads you to a bit of knowledge you didn’t have before . . . librarianship is a form of heroism. It’s just not as flashy as swords and dragons.”

“Any tips on slaying this particular beast?”

“If you could tell me exactly what it was you were looking for . . .” Mags looked from face to face, catching the sudden guardedness in our expressions. “No, I rather thought not. Well, then, I suppose it’s time we reviewed the rules of the Library. Nothing’s quite free, you know.”

“I figured,” I said, and sat up a little straighter. “What’s the fee?”

“The fee comes, in part, with obedience. There is no running in the Library unless you’re being pursued by something that didn’t enter with you. There is no fighting in the Library.”

“What about fighting back?” asked Quentin.

“Self-defense is allowed,” said Mags. “But aggressors will be evicted, and their privilege of passage revoked. Do not taunt someone simply because you think they can’t hit you here.”

I frowned. “You sound like you’re expecting trouble.”

To my surprise, she laughed. “Amandine’s daughter comes here from the Queen’s Court, if the dress you’re wearing is any indication, and starts asking for books about a long-dead King? It doesn’t take a genius to know that you are trouble, and you’re likely to cause even more.”

“Fair,” I admitted.

“Next, I’ll need you to tell me about your mum. We can do that part later, once you have the information you need, but it’s clear you know something that’s not in her official biography, and that could help me quite a bit.” Mags looked almost abashed. “The Libraries work on a system of information for information, you see. If I have verified information that no one else does, I can use it to trade for some volumes we’ve needed here. Undersea histories and the like.”

“Done,” I said. Mom gave up the right to pretend she was Daoine Sidhe when she lied to me about my heritage, then left me with powers I didn’t fully understand. I paused as a thought occurred to me, and asked, “While we’re here, do you have any books about hope chests?” They were a manufactured method of doing what my mother—and I—could do naturally. Maybe reading about the hope chests could give me a better idea of how my own magic worked.

And how to hurt people less when I had to use it on them.

“I do,” Mags said. “I’ll get it for you.”

I looked at the heap already building around me, and sighed. “Right. We’re going to need to make a coffee run.”

Mags smiled. “I like my mochas with extra whipped cream.”