Rosemary and Rue

THIRTEEN

SILENCE CLOSED AROUND ME, drowning out everything else. I sat heavily back down on the bench, closing my hand around the rose petals Connor had dropped. They left stinging cuts on my palm and fingers, nicks too small to draw blood, but big enough to let me fight my way back out of the stillness Connor’s departure had created. I was there to get resources to help me solve the murder of a friend, not to fall for another woman’s husband, especially when that other woman was Rayseline Torquill, heir apparent to Shadowed Hills. Fae inheritance is nonlinear, but Sylvester and Luna didn’t have any better prospects.

I’ve never gone out of my way to collect enemies in high places, and I wasn’t there to fall in love. I was there because I had a job to do.

I don’t know how long I sat there before I heard footsteps approaching. I raised my head, petals slipping through my fingers to shatter on the path. It wasn’t Connor. The page who’d come to my apartment stood there, mouth pressed into a thin line. He winced at the sound of breaking glass, but covered the gesture almost before it was made. The purebloods train their courtiers well.

“The Duke requests your presence, if it suits you,” he said, keeping his eyes forward, away from me. I was willing to bet he’d received a dressing-down from someone—probably Etienne—for stopping me at the doors. Poor kid.

“Okay,” I said, and stood, aware that any chance I had left to make a good impression would go out the window if I tripped on my skirt. “What’s your name?”

He met my eyes,looking startled.“Quentin.”He paused before asking, “Have I given you some offense?”

“No, you haven’t,” I said. “You’ve been more than correct. I just wanted to be able to tell the Duke what a good job you’re doing.”

Quentin straightened, too surprised to mask the pleased smile that lit his face. “I . . . that is appreciated, milady.”

“A word of advice, though, while you’re listening. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Milady?”

“Don’t let any of it go to your head. Not your position, not your nature, not who or what you are. You may be immortal, but you aren’t invincible.” I thought of Evening, lying broken where Faerie’s courtiers could never reach her, and suppressed a shudder. “None of us are.”

He frowned, looking bewildered. “Yes, milady.” He was agreeing because etiquette demanded it, and we both knew it. Unfortunately, nothing I could say would make him understand, and there was no point in arguing if he wouldn’t listen. That never works on anyone. Warn the purebloods to be careful and they’ll ignore you; warn the changelings and they’ll take notes on the great games you’re suggesting. It’s a miracle we’ve lasted this long.

I sighed. “Let’s go see the Duke, shall we?”

“Yes, milady,” he said. He bowed and turned to lead me out of the garden. I glanced back over my shoulder, watching the light play through the roses, and wondered why it couldn’t all be that way. Why can’t Faerie be the stuff of dreams, all courtly manners and glass roses, Courts and pageants? Why do we have to include murder and mystery and the stuff of nightmares?

Light glittered off the shattered petals on the path, answering me. It can’t all be dreams because a broken dream will kill you as surely as a nightmare will, and with a lot less mercy. At least the nightmares don’t smile while they take you down.

Quentin waited for me at the exit, holding the garden door open in the proper courtly fashion as he waited for me to catch up. I nodded in answer to his courtesy, letting him close the door behind me. “How was he?” I asked.

“Milady?”

“The Duke. When he told you to come get me. How was he?”

Looking discomforted again, Quentin shrugged, beginning to walk down the hall. “I didn’t see him, milady. Sir Etienne gave me the order to retrieve you.”

I smiled a little. “Etienne, huh? How is the old war-horse doing, anyway?”

Not even Quentin’s training could hide the smirk that crossed his face, although his words were entirely proper. “I’m fairly sure Sir Etienne would object to being referred to in such terms.”

“Which would be why I do it,” I said. “Guess that means he’s doing okay?”

“Yes, milady.”

“Good to know.” A few more of the Duchy’s inhabitants were in evidence now, emerging as the day wore on toward evening. The place would only get more crowded as night fell and more of the locals woke up. For now, we only had the fae equivalent of night people to deal with—those rare souls who chose a diurnal existence. Shadowed Hills is a good place for the daylight folks. Luna stays awake all day for the sake of her gardens, and Sylvester stays awake for the sake of his wife. I recognized a few of the Hobs who were dusting and tidying the corners, but that was about it. Hobs are strictly domestic spirits, and they tend to attach themselves to single households for generations, often raising their children to join them.

Quentin was looking straight ahead as he walked, paying no more attention to the domestics than he’d pay to the furnishings. Also standard to a courtier’s training. A page is supposed to be animate furniture most of the time, and tables don’t acknowledge couches.

The silence between us was bothering me, so I did what came naturally: I broke it. “You live here, right?”

“Yes, milady. My . . . my parents gave me in fosterage to the Duke and Duchess Torquill for the sake of my education.”

“Where are you from? I can tell it’s in Canada, but that’s about my limit.” A lot of pureblood parents ship their children off to some noble Court as soon as they’re old enough to stand up on their own. Too early, if you ask me. Faerie teaches its children to be courtiers before it teaches them to be people.

There was a pause before Quentin shrugged, the not-quite-human lines of his body turning the simple gesture into something elegant. “My parents have requested that my home fief not be named, for fear that the mistakes I make while young may reflect poorly upon their honor.”

Ouch. Blind fosterings aren’t unheard of, but they’ve always seemed like a lousy way to get rid of kids who’ve managed to get old enough to be a nuisance. Normally, it’s the changelings that get farmed out that way, not the purebloods. “Well, I’m sure you’ll bring nothing but honor to your parents and their house.”

“I should hope so, milady.” He hesitated before adding, “It’s been very strange being away from home.”

I was trying to formulate a reply when a group of shrieking children ran past, stealing his attention. They were a motley bunch—fae kids usually are—and almost all changelings, although there were a few precious purebloods running at the center of the pack. “Hey!” Quentin shouted, indignant. “No running in the halls!” I turned away, hiding a smile behind my hand. No matter how elegant and strange he tried to seem, he was still a teenager.

The kid at the head of the pack was a Tylwyth Teg half-blood with muddy hair and clothes that were probably older than he was. He turned without slowing to blow a juicy raspberry at Quentin, and then they were gone, vanishing around a corner with loud cries of “Bang, bang! I got you!” and “No you didn’t!”

Quentin watched them go, scowling, before he managed to compose himself. Turning back to me, he said, “I’m sorry, milady. The children get overexcited at times. I promise they’ll be spoken to.”

“It’s okay; let them play,” I said. “When’s the last time you got the chance to play like that?”

“Milady?”

“Seriously. When’s the last time you got the chance to just play, without worrying about honor or manners or what you looked like?” I stopped and leaned against the wall, watching the inhabitants of the knowe as they wandered through their day, but more important, watching Quentin. “When’s the last time you didn’t need to worry about whether your friends were purebloods or changelings?”

Quentin hesitated, looking almost uncertain as to whether he should answer. I quirked an eyebrow, and he admitted, “A long time, milady.”

“Do you miss your folks?”

That was the wrong thing to ask: Quentin stiffened, saying, “I wouldn’t distract myself from my duties, milady. If you please, the Duke is waiting for us.”

“Of course.” I pushed away from the wall, smoothing my skirt with the heels of my hands. “Wouldn’t dream of upsetting the Duke, would we?”

Quentin gaped. “Of course we wouldn’t dream of upsetting him! He’s the Duke!”

I frowned. “Okay, work with me here. You’re pureblooded, and unless I’m wrong—and trust me, I’m not—both your parents were Daoine Sidhe. What have you been taught about being pureblooded?” He squirmed, cheeks reddening, and refused to meet my eyes. “Come on, it’s okay; I don’t bite. What did they tell you?”

“That it’s our right and our duty to rule Faerie in the absence of our King and Queens, because the lesser elements need to be kept under control.” It had the air of something learned by rote. It also had a certain spark of sincerity. He might not believe it yet, but he would.

“The lesser elements being?”

“The changelings,” he said, and cringed, obviously waiting for me to fly off the handle.

This reputation I seemed to have developed was starting to be a real drag. “Okay,” I said, keeping my tone calm. “Do I strike you as somebody that needs to be ‘kept under control’?”

“No, milady.”

“Why not?”

“I—you just don’t. That’s all.” He tugged on his sleeve, still squirming. I’d finally found the person under all that inbred arrogance. Good for me. Now I just had to make him listen.

“How about him?” I pointed to a Coblynau half-blood who was chatting up a donkey-tailed maid in front of one of the hall’s many bookshelves. “Does he need to be controlled?”

“No, but . . .”

“Or them?” This time I indicated a pair of Candela walking arm-in-arm down the hall, lost in one another’s eyes, with the glowing spheres of their Merry Dancers in attendance. “Do they need to be controlled? Does anyone here look like they need to be kept ‘under control’?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“Right. Let me tell you something: the only reason I worry about upsetting Sylvester is because he’s my friend, and I don’t like upsetting my friends.” Not that you could tell from my recent behavior—but Quentin didn’t know that. “I don’t do it because he’s better than I am, because he’s not. His rank gives him the right to command me, and I recognize that; we’re not living in a democracy. I’ll give him my attention and my courtesy, but that’s because I respect him. I’ve never feared or honored him just because he was the Duke, and I refuse to start doing it now.”

“But . . .”

“Hear me out,” I said, shaking my head. “Shadowed Hills is the most egalitarian duchy I’ve ever visited, and a lot of what makes it like that is the way Sylvester rules. He demands respect for who he is, not what he is. I refuse to see that change if I can help it. Am I making sense?”

Quentin nodded, eyes wide. “I . . . yes.”

“Good. Let’s go see Sylvester.”

“Yes, milady.”

“That’s another thing—my name’s not milady. It’s Toby. I’m not a cartoon dog.”

“Yes, Toby,” he said, and smiled at me. Maybe I was doing better than I thought. “Will you follow me now?”

“It wouldn’t do for me to ditch my escort, would it?” I stepped up beside him, and he grinned, offering his arm with all the gallantry and style one expects from a trained courtier. The difference in our heights made walking somewhat awkward, but no one laughed at us. Never laugh at a changeling in formal dress with a fledgling Daoine Sidhe on her arm. One of them is bound to take offense, and you could wind up with a serious problem on your hands. Besides, there was no way for us to look sillier than some of the other couples in the hall, even if their oddities could be ascribed to things like belonging to radically different species. We’d grow out of it; Quentin was bound to get taller, and I almost never went out in public wearing a dress. They’d still look silly in ten years.

We stopped at the audience chamber doors, Quentin releasing my arm. I gave him a quizzical look, and he shrugged, saying, “I don’t have permission to enter with you, milady.”

“Gotcha,” I said. I might have tried to invite him anyway, but I still needed to tell Sylvester about the Queen’s reaction. Smiling, I offered, “I should be around a little more after this. I’ll bring a ball or something. We can have a party, just you and me, where nobody cares whether we’re dignified or not. Cool?”

“I’d like that,” said Quentin. “Cool.”

“Good,” I said, and went back into the audience chamber.

The room seemed even emptier than it had before, now that it was just Sylvester and Luna waiting for me on the dais. They’d abandoned their chairs; Sylvester was sitting on the steps, and Luna was curled next to him, her head resting on his shoulder. Sylvester looked up when he heard me close the doors, and waved, beckoning me forward.

Luna sat up once I was in conversational distance, offering a wan smile. Her ears were still half flat, telegraphing her distress. I couldn’t blame her.

“Toby,” said Sylvester wearily. “Are you all right? Really? I . . . it’s been so long since you’ve come to see us, and when you finally do, you come with news of a murder . . . and Evening. She’s been here since forever. She was over a thousand years old, did you know that? The only one older living in this state is the Luidaeg.”

“I know,” I said, moving to sit down on the bottom step, looking up at the pair of them. I laced my fingers around one knee, resisting the urge to fidget. “I have to find the answers to why all this is happening. I don’t . . . I owe it to her to find out why she died.”

“It’s not just that, is it?”

Unwilling to answer him, I turned my face away.

After several seconds of silence, Sylvester sighed. “This isn’t the first place you came, is it?” I shook my head, looking back as he smacked the top step of the dais. “Dammit, Toby. You went Home, didn’t you? Answer me!”

“Yeah,” I said. “I did.”

“Oak and ash, why? You knew I’d help you if you asked. I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”

“We all have,” Luna said. “We’ve been so worried.”

“I didn’t think you would,” I said, lacing my fingers tighter together. “I’m sorry. I just . . . I didn’t think.”

“Oh, Toby.” Sylvester closed his eyes. “What did you promise him?”

“Bill to be settled later.”

“And it’s too late to talk you into telling him you won’t take his help, I suppose.”

I laughed, a little wildly. “Devin could call me on breach of contract if I even tried—and I won’t try unless you order me to. I have to find the answers to this.”

“Was there no one else?” Luna placed her hand on Sylvester’s arm, squeezing gently. “Even if you didn’t think you could come here, the Queen . . .”

“Sent me away.” Sylvester opened his eyes, both of them staring as I continued, “I went to her first. She said no one’s allowed to even speak Evening’s name, much less try to find out what happened. She ordered me out of her Court. Frankly, she scared me. I’m afraid she may not be entirely stable.”

“That’s not news, but it’s also not encouraging,” said Sylvester, his tone as grim as my own. There was a new sharpness in his eyes. It can be easy to forget that Sylvester won the right to hold Shadowed Hills; it wasn’t just his heritage that got him his throne. He was a hero once, and he earned everything he has. He changes when there’s a threat to be overcome: it’s like he pulls on a second skin, one he almost forgets the rest of the time, and becomes a hero again. A tired, old hero, one who wields a pen instead of a sword and rides waves of paperwork rather than a white charger, but still a hero. “I’m not happy that you went to Devin when she threw you out. You should have come here.”

“I wasn’t sure of my welcome.”

“Never doubt your welcome in my halls again—and that, Toby, is an order.” The stress on the last word was subtle but firm. He was my liege. He orders, I obey.

“Yes, Your Grace,” I said, inclining my head.

“Good. Now, I want you to stay away from the Queen as much as you can; frankly, I don’t trust her to react rationally. Come back here tomorrow morning, just so I know you haven’t managed to get yourself in more trouble—do you understand?” I nodded. He continued, “It’s clearly too late to stop you from involving yourself with Devin again, but be careful. I don’t want to see you getting hurt.”

“I’m not sure my safety is really a priority right now,” I said, shaking my head before I stood. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I’ve ever been able to ask from you.” Sylvester stood in turn, moving to embrace me. I didn’t pull away. “I’ll send the knights out, and start sending out inquiries. If there’s anything to be learned here, I’ll learn it. And if you need help, call us. We’ll be there.”

“I’ll call,” I said.

Sylvester let me go, looking at me sternly. “Promise, Toby.”

I held up my hands. “I promise! I promise.”

That appeared to be enough to satisfy them. Luna rose as well, and hugged me briefly before giving me a nudge toward the doors. “We’d keep you here all day if we could,” she said. “That’s why you need to go. Finish doing what you’re bound to do, and come back to us.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I said, and forced a smile before turning to make my exit.

Quentin was standing by the door in the hall, back to playing the perfect footman. There were several people waiting for an audience, and so he didn’t move from his position, but he winked as I brushed by. I spared him a tight, pleased smile. He was a good kid, and he was learning. Maybe there’s some hope for us yet.

It was late enough that a steady trickle of people filled the halls, heading toward the audience chamber at a leisurely pace. It’s a good thing Faerie isn’t big on fire marshals: while the traffic wasn’t heavy enough to stop me from making my way to the door, it would have complicated an evacuation. Most of the people I passed gave me odd looks for going against the current, although one fragile-looking Gwragen wedged into a niche on the wall offered me a conspiratorial smile as I passed. I guess she thought she’d found a kindred spirit, someone else who just wanted to get away from the crowd. She was right, in a way, although my urge to get away was born of urgency, and not the natural Gwragen reluctance to get caught up in social niceties. I returned her smile and kept going, rushing down the last stretch of hallway to the knowe’s back exit.

The late afternoon light was momentarily blinding as I stepped back into the mortal world. I raised an arm to cover my eyes, waiting for the brightness to fade. When it did, I looked around to find myself at the bottom of the hill, dressed in my own clothes, with a warm buzzing in the air that told me my human disguise was back in place. I reached back to check the tip of one ear, confirming that it was round. It was. I shoved my hands into my pockets, looking up the hill toward the oak that served as the door in, before I sighed and started across the parking lot.

My car was where I’d left it, apparently undisturbed, despite the fact that I’d left it unlocked; no real surprise there. Pleasant Hill isn’t a big crime town—the worst they usually get is groups of teenagers pushing each other around and saying “you suck.” It’s a nice change, especially after San Francisco, where it’s perfectly acceptable to give your girlfriend an ear as a courting gift in some of the less reputable neighborhoods.

I opened the door and got in, fastening my seat belt. The radio came on when I turned the key, and I hit the scan button until it found the local eighties channel. I prefer listening to music I can recognize, and that doesn’t include most of the stuff that makes the current top forty.

Thoughts about the case and Shadowed Hills kept me occupied until I reached the Bay Bridge and needed to pay attention to the traffic. Even with the other cars to deal with, it wasn’t a difficult merge—not unless you counted the two tailgaters and the little old lady who seemed convinced that the speed limit was fifteen miles an hour—and I wasn’t in a hurry. I had plenty to think about while I waited to reach the tollgate. I inched forward, following the flow of traffic, and shook my head. I’d just think about it until the puzzle came together and everything made sense. Then I’d find Evening’s killers, bring them to justice, and go to bed for a week.

The toll taker at the tollbooth didn’t even look at me as he held out his hand, saying blandly, “Four dollars.”

Smiling, I reached into my pocket and slipped him four of the mushrooms I’d plucked from the grass under my window. “Miss Suzy had a steamboat, the steamboat had a bell,” I said to him. He started to protest, and I finished, “Miss Suzy went to heaven, the steamboat went to New Jersey where it enjoyed a lucrative career in children’s programming.” The smell of copper and cut grass rose around me, twining around the toll taker’s head.

A brief, stabbing pain hit me behind the eyes, and I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. The illusion seemed to have worked, because the toll taker dropped the mushrooms into the fare box, waving me through. I smiled wanly, tipped an imaginary hat, and drove on. Yes, it was mean and petty and something I probably shouldn’t do. On the other hand, substituting random pieces of greenery for human money is a long-standing tradition, and the fae are supposed to revere and uphold tradition, right? Besides, I only do it when they’re rude to me. And when I don’t have exact change.

Traffic on the bridge was light, and I was beginning to think that I was going to make it the rest of the way home without incident. I smiled, anticipating a smooth trip to my apartment, followed by a pause where I could start assembling clues into something that resembled a coherent picture. The temptation to blame it on the Queen was pretty strong, even though it would probably get me executed. Unfortunately, I didn’t think that theory would get me very far; something wasn’t right there. Oh, well. There was time for me to think about it.

I’m sure it’s written somewhere, possibly in Fate’s day planner: “October Daye is never to be given enough time to actually think about what she’s going to do next.” I was exactly halfway over the bridge, surrounded by water, when a deep, rumbling chuckle rolled out of the backseat, and a figure loomed up in the rearview mirror.

There was someone else in the car.