Chimes at Midnight

THIRTY

MAY HUMMED AN OLD ENGLISH FOLKSONG about decapitated women as she fussed with her hair, which was streaked with white, blue, and electric green for the occasion. I eyed her before going back to checking the fit of my own spider-silk gown in the mirror. I didn’t need to bother—the dress fit like it was made for me, and always would, because that’s what spider-silk does. It was the most formal dress I owned, black with gold and silver highlights, cut straight across the chest and with a knee-length skirt. I’d worn that dress the night I first met Patrick and Dianda Lorden. It was my “try to avoid a war” dress. It seemed appropriate to the occasion.

“You weren’t decapitated, you know,” I said. Stacy had done my hair, curling it gently before pulling it off to one side with a ribbon. Somehow, it didn’t make me look like an escapee from a 1980s teen comedy. It was elegant, simple, and perfect.

“Close enough,” said May. Her dress was rainbow taffeta, likely rescued from a thrift store somewhere in the Mission District. It didn’t match the black velvet band she had tied around her throat. She was healing, but slowly. It would be months before she could go out in public without either fabric or illusions covering her.

There was a knock at the door. I turned to see Sylvester standing there, in full formal regalia, looking embarrassed to have interrupted. “Are you ready?” he asked. “I’m trying to gather everyone who needs to be on time.”

“I’ll catch up,” said May.

“Then I’m ready.” I walked over and placed one gloved hand on Sylvester’s arm, allowing him to lead me from the room.

A week, and all the Hobs from the old Queen’s knowe—under the ecstatic instruction of Melly and Ormond, who felt they had first claim—had worked wonders. The Windermere knowe was a gleaming showpiece, all polished wood and glossy floors. The less public areas would need more time, but it was already suitable for habitation, which was a good thing, since Arden, Nolan, and Lowri hadn’t left since the old Queen was defeated. Lowri was serving as the head of Arden’s guard, which was made up half of defectors from the old Queen and half of recruits who had shown up looking for a place to serve.

Faerie is like that. Create a vacuum, and we’ll rush to fill it. Just in time, too. In the confusion of our allies waking from the Siren song and our enemies figuring out whether they were still our enemies, the old Queen had escaped, aided by loyalists who had managed to sneak in, hidden amongst the more sincere defectors. We needed the extra security now if we wanted to be sure of Arden’s safety.

We stepped out of the hall and into the receiving room, which was filled almost to capacity. Sylvester’s Court was in full attendance, as was the portion of Dianda’s that could survive on land. Tamed Lightning and Dreamer’s Glass had sent emissaries, as had many of the other smaller fiefdoms. I didn’t recognize everyone. I knew enough of them to know that some were here to curry favor, and some were here to see what they believed would be a righting of past wrongs. The Luidaeg wasn’t present. I hadn’t heard from her since she’d gone looking for Mother’s tower. One more thing to worry about; one more thing to deal with later.

Arden was on her throne, wearing a simple green gown and chewing on her thumbnail. I let Sylvester pull me through the crowd to a spot at the front, where Quentin and Tybalt were waiting.

“Hey, you,” I said, kissing Tybalt on the cheek. Then I ruffled Quentin’s hair. “Also, hey, you. You nervous?”

“A little,” he admitted. “I haven’t seen them in years.”

“I’m terrified. I’ve been worried about meeting your parents for years.”

“Pretty sure I couldn’t have come up with anything bigger than crowning a new Queen to bring them here.”

I paused. “That’s actually a reasonable answer.”

The final step to any challenge to a throne being deemed acceptable was approval by the High King. Normally, that approval came at a distance, handed down without a physical appearance. This time, due to the circumstances surrounding Arden’s ascension, the High King and High Queen had decided to come in person. No pressure.

An aisle had been kept clear along the middle of the room. The reason why became obvious when a faint shimmer appeared in the air and a portal opened, allowing four guards in the livery of the High Throne to walk through. They stepped to the side, and two Daoine Sidhe stepped through the portal, which closed behind them. Everyone in the room, save Tybalt, immediately bowed or curtsied, as low as we possibly could.

“You may rise,” said High King Aethlin. His accent was pure Toronto. I straightened, getting a good look at him. He was tall, with hair the color of hammered bronze and features that said a lot about what Quentin would look like as an adult. The woman next to him—High Queen Maida—had hair like molten silver. It didn’t make her look old. It just made her even lovelier than she already was.

“Those are your parents,” I said faintly. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Yup.” Quentin beamed. “I can’t wait for you to meet them.”

“Now I really think I’m going to throw up.”

The High King and High Queen had been walking toward Arden as we spoke. She had remained standing after she rose to curtsy. When they reached the dais holding her throne, she dropped to one knee, bowing her head.

“You claim the throne of the Mists,” said High King Aethlin. “Why?”

“By right of blood, my liege,” she said. “My father was King before me. I am Arden Windermere, daughter of Gilad Windermere. This throne is mine.”

“Prove your claim.”

Arden held out her hand, managing to only tremble slightly. King Aethlin drew a slim dagger from within his doublet and pricked her index finger, just deep enough to coax out a single drop of blood. He transferred that drop to his own finger, and raised it to his mouth.

For a long moment, it felt like everyone in the receiving hall was holding their breath. I balled my hands into fists, feeling my nails cut into the skin.

Then the High King spoke.

“Your claim is true. Your crown is untarnished. By the oak, the ash, and the thorn; by the rowan, the yarrow, and the pine, you may rise, Arden Windermere, rightfully Queen in the Mists.” King Aethlin smiled. “May all hail your glory.”

The room erupted into cheers as Arden stood, looking stunned.

There was so much left to do. We needed to clean up the remaining goblin fruit before anyone else got hurt; I still had a hope chest in my hall closet, along with the flagon and cruet I’d taken from the old Queen’s treasury. Arden needed to build a Court, and somewhere along the way, she’d need to start disassembling the puppet government holding Silences. I needed to find the Luidaeg and pay my debt to the Library. Worst of all, I needed to meet Quentin’s parents.

All that was for later. Right now, I held Tybalt’s hand and put my arm around Quentin’s shoulders, and cheered for the new Queen, who was taking her throne at last.

Long may she reign.