The Winter Long

FOUR

CAGNEY AND LACEY were curved on my pillow like sleeping commas when I opened the bedroom door. Either the chaos in the kitchen hadn’t filtered up the stairs—unlikely, given Jazz—or the cats hadn’t cared. I leaned over and pulled the pillow out from under them, sending them sprawling. They opened their blue Siamese eyes and squalled, protesting this rough treatment.

“I needed you awake, and I don’t have time to be polite,” I snapped, throwing the pillow on the floor. I started yanking off my nightclothes, letting them fall where they landed. “Simon Torquill was just here. That name doesn’t mean anything to you, but it’ll mean something to Tybalt. I need you to tell him I’ve left for Shadowed Hills, and that he should find me as soon as he can.”

The cats stopped complaining and simply looked at me, assuming the classic sphinx poses practiced by felines around the world. I shook my head.

“He’s at Court. I’ve intruded enough there recently.” I knew he’d be angry at me for leaving before he could join me, but this was part of the balance we had to strike. Sometimes, I had to take care of myself, no matter how much it upset him, just like sometimes, he had to take care of me, no matter how much it upset me.

The cats kept staring at me. I shook my head again, digging through the mess on the floor until I found a pair of reasonably clean jeans. “I don’t care how mad he’s going to be. He can be mad at me. Just tell him, all right? Tell him Simon is back. Tell him Simon came to the house. Simon hurt Jazz. Tell him . . .” I hesitated. None of the things I wanted to say felt right, and so I shook my head and said, “Just tell him to hurry.”

Cagney meowed once, a sharp, almost disdainful sound. Then she jumped off the bed and ran out the bedroom door. Lacey followed her. I looked after them for a few precious seconds. They were both indoor cats; I’d never caught them outside the house. They still had a way of getting to Tybalt when they needed to. The Court of Cats is open to all felines, and they all know how to get there. He would hear. He would find me.

I got dressed as fast as I could, yanking on my shoes and belting my knife around my waist. After a moment’s hesitation I grabbed my sword from where it hung on the closet door. I still wasn’t good with it, despite Sylvester’s many patient hours of training, but it would keep the fight farther away from me, if it came down to that. The way I was feeling right now, anything that kept the fight at a distance was a good thing. The last thing I put on was my leather jacket, shrugging it over my shoulders and taking a small degree of reassurance from its familiar weight.

“I can do this,” I said. “He isn’t going to be there, and even if he were, he’s not the bogeyman. He’s just a man. I can beat him.”

They may have been lies, but even lies have power if you repeat them often enough. I took a breath to steady myself, turned, and opened the bedroom door.

Quentin was leaning against the hallway wall, already dressed to go, with his own sword belted by his side. He raised his head and looked at me coolly. His bronze hair was wet and slicked back from his face, a concession to the shower he hadn’t had time to take. “I thought you might forget to wake me, so I got ready,” he said. There was no quarter in his expression: he knew damn well that I’d been thinking about leaving him behind, and he wasn’t having it.

Tough. “I didn’t wake you because you need to get some sleep. As your knight, it’s important for me to look out for your health.”

“You didn’t wake me because you don’t want me coming with you.”

“Oh, right, silly me. I didn’t want to drag my squire into pointless danger.”

Quentin narrowed his eyes. “You would have woken me before you knew I was the Crown Prince.”

That made me pause, but only for a second. Quentin was my squire, yes, but he was in the Mists under a blind fosterage: no one was supposed to know who his parents were, and even though I’d known him for years, I hadn’t learned their identity until recently. It turned out that was because they were the High King and Queen of the Westlands—a Kingdom better known as “North America” in mortal circles. He was going to rule a continent one day. Assuming he stayed alive that long, which was by no means guaranteed while he was living with me.

In the end, I decided to go with aggressive honesty. My headache was enough to make anything else seem like too much work. “Guilty as charged. I didn’t wake you because I don’t want you anywhere near Simon Torquill, okay? This is the man who turned me into a fish for fourteen years. Now he’s trying to feed me some bullshit line about how he did it to ‘save me,’ which means he’s delusional on top of everything else. So, yeah, you’re staying home. I’m not going to be the girl who gets the Crown Prince killed.”

“I’m still your squire. That comes first until my training is finished,” Quentin shot back. “I’m not staying behind. You know I can follow you. Do you really want to make me do that?”

I glared at him. “I hate you.”

“I know.”

“You will do exactly what I say at all times. That includes backing off if I say something is too dangerous for you. Do you understand?”

“You’re my knight,” he said, almost cheerful now that he knew he was getting his way. “I do what you tell me to do.”

“That’ll be a cold day in Mag Mell,” I muttered, and stalked toward the stairs. “Come on. We need to ward this place to kingdom come before we get on the road.”

We walked down the stairs side by side, our shoulders brushing the walls. I managed to swallow most of my relief—I wasn’t going out there alone—but I couldn’t swallow my dread. The only place I knew for sure that Simon wasn’t was the house. By leaving it, I exposed myself to him, wherever he might be lurking. I took some small comfort in knowing that the spell he’d thrown at me had hit him. Hopefully, the bastard was a pigeon or something by now.

May and Jazz were no longer in the kitchen. My former Fetch had dragged or carried her unconscious girlfriend into the living room, and was busy warding the windows while Jasmine slept on the couch. May looked around when Quentin and I appeared in the doorway.

“I didn’t wake him up on purpose,” she said. “He must have heard the noise from the kitchen, same as I did.”

“I’m a little insulted that you all thought you could have a major fight in the house and not wake me up,” said Quentin.

“You’re a teenage boy. You could sleep through a nuclear bomb. Now go ward the front door and the mail slot against intrusions.”

“Don’t try to leave without me,” he said, and ran off to do as he’d been told.

I watched him go, managing to keep my expression mostly composed until he was out of sight. Then I turned back to May, allowing my fear to show. “He’s not going to let me leave him behind.”

“No, he’s not.” She muttered a line from what sounded like a They Might Be Giants song, waggling her fingers at the window as she spoke. The smell of cotton candy and ashes filled the room, layering on top of the traces of her magic that had already been present. She turned back to me. “That’s good. You’d worry about him just as much if you let him out of your sight, and you’re not exactly rational where Simon is concerned.”

“He tried to turn your girlfriend into a fish!”

“I’m not exactly rational where Simon is concerned, either,” she said wearily. She walked back across the living room and perched on the arm of the couch, reaching down to stroke Jazz’s hair. “I’d be the worst kind of backup possible right now—the kind who just wants to go home and take care of someone she loves. But that doesn’t mean I want you going out alone.”

“I told the cats to find Tybalt,” I said, feeling somehow ashamed of myself for wanting to run before any of my allies could put themselves in the line of fire for me. I couldn’t handle it if they got hurt. Not by this. Not by him.

“That’s a start.” May looked up, meeting my eyes. There was nothing soft in her face, not now; in that moment, she looked like an avenging angel. “Find him. Hurt him. Please.”

“I’ll do my best.” Footsteps in the hall behind me signaled Quentin’s return. I turned as he skidded into view. “Ready?”

Relief suffused his features. “I thought you’d try to sneak out while I was distracted.”

“Nah. What kind of knight would I be if I didn’t endanger your life for no good reason?”

He smiled—a brief, forced expression that died as soon as he looked past me to Jazz’s sleeping form. “A bad one,” he said.

“I guess that’s true. May? Call if there’s any change.”

“I will,” she said. “Open roads. Kick his ass.”

“You got it,” I said, and went.

Quentin and I paused by the back door long enough to spin human disguises and drape them over ourselves like shrouds. Fear and anger made the casting faster than usual, even though the spell itself made my head throb. Strong emotions have always fueled my illusions that way, even back when I believed I was Daoine Sidhe, when illusions were supposed to be part of my birthright.

“How many traffic laws are you planning to break?” Quentin asked, as we walked out to the car, checked the backseat for unwanted passengers, and got inside.

I fastened my belt, stuck the key in the ignition, and bared my teeth in the semblance of a smile. “All of them,” I said, and hit the gas.

Quentin seemed to have been expecting that answer. He grabbed a handful of air, singing a verse from a song about boats—the kid had an endless supply of songs about boats—as his magic rose and burst, filling the car with the smell of steel and heather. I felt the weight of his don’t-look-here spell settle over us as we reached the end of the driveway. It was a more sophisticated illusion than the one that made us seem human. It would keep us from being pulled over or ticketed during the drive, and all I had to do was remember that most of the other drivers couldn’t see me, which could make avoiding a collision a little more exciting than usual. It was a worthy tradeoff, especially considering the land-speed records that I was about to break.

On a good day, with no traffic, it takes about an hour to get from my house in San Francisco to my liege’s knowe in Pleasant Hill, the mortal suburb that conceals the fae Duchy of Shadowed Hills. There was traffic. Not as bad as it would have been during rush hour, but enough that despite breaking every posted speed limit and a few rules of common sense, it was still almost ninety minutes later when we reached the parking lot at Paso Nogal Park. I pulled into the first available parking space, nerves rattled from the drive, and unfastened my seat belt.

“Quentin, I want you to stay close,” I said, twisting in my seat to look toward my squire. “We don’t know where Simon is. No unnecessary risks.”

“Okay,” he said. The scent of steel and heather wafted through the air as his don’t-look-here popped around us.

“Good.” I started to reach for my door. My hand found empty air. It took a few precious seconds for me to realize someone else had gotten there first, wrenching the door open; then a hand was closing around my upper arm, hauling me out of the car.

My first instinct was to reach for my knife. Fortunately, my eyes were faster than my hands; I had just closed my fingers around the hilt when I recognized my captor, even if I wasn’t accustomed to seeing him this disheveled. I stared at him. Tybalt stared back, the banded green of his eyes muted by the illusion that made him seem human.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded.

“Hello to you, too, Tybalt.” I breathed in, tasting his heritage, just to be sure. Simon might have been able to make himself look like Tybalt, but he would never have been able to pass himself off as Cait Sidhe; not to me, not to my particular set of skewed magical abilities. I relaxed as my magic confirmed that yes, this was Tybalt. There were other Cait Sidhe in the world, but he was the only one who would be looking at me with such a perfect mix of terror and exasperation.

“Why didn’t you wait at the house?” He let go of my arm. “I came as soon as the cats reached me, but you had already gone.”

“Look at it this way,” I said. “If I wasn’t there, Simon had no reason to come back.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Tybalt’s face contorted with sudden fury, washing everything else away. “He found you once,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “He should never have been allowed to come near you again.”

“But he did, and I survived,” I said. “Now come on. We need to tell Sylvester his brother’s back in town.” I took a breath before adding, “He probably wants to get his hands on Simon, and he may have some idea why Simon would come back to the Mists. I think that’s the sort of thing we need to know.” And I could confirm that Sylvester was who I thought he was. If I’d been Simon, the first thing I would have done was replace my brother. Most people aren’t as sensitive to the scent of magic as I am. He could have gotten away with it, as long as he’d distracted Luna and kept me—and my mother, I suppose—far away from Shadowed Hills. Simon might have had ways to cross the Bay Area faster than I could manage in a car. He could be the acting Duke by now.

Tybalt stared at me for a moment. Then, with a shake of his head, he moved to follow me up the hill that would lead us to the entrance to Shadowed Hills.

Quentin moved faster than either of us, although he kept his word and stayed close, never roving more than a few yards away as he went through the complex series of steps and turns necessary to unlock the door into the knowe. I slowed down until Tybalt and I were walking side by side, then reached over and slid my hand into his, lacing our fingers together.

“You have no idea how terrified I was when Cagney and Lacey came to the Court of Cats and told me you’d been attacked,” he said, voice pitched low to keep it from carrying to where Quentin was now running circles around a hawthorn bush.

“I have some idea,” I said, ducking under an oak branch. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait.”

“It would have been safer to take the Shadow Roads.”

“That assumes you’d be available immediately. You were, but that’s not the point. I couldn’t wait when there was a chance that Sylvester was in danger.” I dropped his hand long enough for us to run our own circles around the hawthorn.

When we were done, Tybalt reclaimed my hand. “That argument has merit. A pity it’s not the real reason you made this journey.”

“No, it’s not,” I admitted. “I just . . . I need to see him. I keep closing my eyes and seeing Simon’s face.”

“That, I can appreciate. You cannot, however, force me to like it.”

“No, I can’t. But I can be glad you’re here now.” I paused before chuckling to myself.

Tybalt gave me a sidelong look. “What is it?”

“Just thinking. The last time Simon Torquill came into my life, you and I were what, enemies? Adversaries? Definitely not friends.”

“I was certainly not sleeping with you at the time,” said Tybalt, the ghost of a smile flitting across his lips.

I managed not to grin in relief. That smile, brief as it had been, was all I could have asked for. A smiling Tybalt was a Tybalt who was still capable of stepping back and looking at the situation rationally. I loved him, but even I could find him frightening when he was fixated on vengeance. Not that Simon didn’t deserve a little vengeance; it was just that I wanted him alive to answer my questions when it was over.

We passed the final obstacle to find Quentin waiting by the door in the burnt-out old oak tree, an expression of polite disinterest on his face. I let go of Tybalt’s hand and approached the door, murmuring, “Didn’t hear a thing, did you?” to my squire as I passed him.

“Nope,” he said, without hesitation.

I smirked, raised my hand, and knocked.

Only a few seconds passed before the door was opened by a black-haired teenage girl in the livery of Shadowed Hills. Half the livery, anyway: she was wearing a proper page’s tunic, but her breeches had mysteriously vanished, replaced by blue jeans and tennis shoes. Quentin stiffened with automatic dismay, his own training doubtless providing a running inner commentary on how inappropriate her attire was. I just smiled, amused despite my exhaustion and the events of the day.

“Hi, Chelsea,” I said. “Can we come in?”

Chelsea Ames was a full-blooded Tuatha de Dannan, and the daughter of the head of Sylvester’s guard, a man named Etienne. She was going to be an immensely powerful teleporter when the potion that was currently blocking her powers wore off. For the moment, however, she had no magic at all, so it was no real surprise when she frowned at me, unrecognizing.

“You are . . . ?” she asked.

“Toby,” I said. My human disguise used to look more like my true face. That was a while ago. I indicated my companions. “This is Quentin and Tybalt. You know us all. Now please, can we come in? I need to talk to the Duke.”

“Toby!” Her confusion fled, replaced by delight. “Wow, I didn’t know you were coming over today! Um . . . the Duke’s asleep. That whole daylight thing, you know?” She stood aside to let us enter the knowe.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I said, unable to keep a note of grim certainty from creeping into my voice. “He’ll want to see me.”

The look on Chelsea’s face as she closed the door told me just how disturbing I sounded. “I, um . . . you guys wait here, okay? I’m going to go get my dad.” She took off without waiting for an answer, running down the hall and skidding out of sight around a corner.

Chelsea and I met under strange circumstances—something that’s true of me and all the teenagers in my life. Chelsea’s mother had raised her knowing that she was a changeling, but not knowing exactly what that meant, and when Chelsea’s powers activated, Bridget had had no idea how to cope. Etienne might have been able to help, but he’d been unaware of Chelsea’s existence. Lots of complications later, Chelsea was purely fae—a consequence of my having burned out her human blood in order to save her from her own out-of-control teleportation—and her parents were finally living together. It seemed to be working out for them so far, thank Oberon. Bridget would not have taken being permanently separated from her daughter well at all, and that would have been unavoidable if she had chosen not to stay with Etienne.

Sometimes I think Faerie is overly hard on the children it creates when it brushes up against the mortal world. And then I pause and realize that it’s even harder on our parents.

“She’s a good choice for daytime door duty,” I said, as I released my human disguise. Tybalt and Quentin did the same. “She’s full-blooded fae, but she hasn’t gone nocturnal yet.”

“She’s a terrible choice for door duty,” said Quentin. “She doesn’t know any of the proper forms, she can’t see through illusions or even know for sure when someone’s wearing them, and did you see what she was wearing?” He sounded most offended about the last part.

I smiled at him, shaking my head. “My little conservative.”

“I may disagree with his assessment of the young lady’s attire, but I cannot argue with her lack of powers,” said Tybalt, slowly. “If she cannot see someone’s true nature, how is she to bar your enemies from entry?”

“Oh, that’s never been the point of door duty here.” I started walking. If Etienne wanted to talk to me, he could come and find me. “If an enemy showed up, she’d let them in. Probably offer them tea and scones or something, too.”

Tybalt blinked at me. “I . . . what?”

“Sylvester is a retired hero. He doesn’t get to have much fun these days, and most of what he does get is interrupted by his knights insisting that he’s not supposed to risk himself without really good reasons,” I said. “An enemy making it into the knowe isn’t a problem. It’s a treat. An enemy making it out of the knowe, on the other hand . . .”

“I will never understand the Divided Courts,” muttered Tybalt darkly.

“If it helps at all, neither will I,” I said.

The halls of Shadowed Hills were built to house an army, with smooth marble floors and high ceilings that could accommodate any number of aerial or oversized fae. I’ve seen Giants walking there, shoulders a little hunched, but heads still not hitting the ceiling. One thing was for sure: I didn’t envy the Hobs and Brownies whose job it was to keep the chandeliers and stained glass windows glittering.

Ropes of roses and holly circled every window, acknowledging the season while steadfastly refusing to abandon the flowers that had given the Duchy much of its reputation. Luna, Sylvester’s wife, was a Blodynbryd, a rare form of Dryad tied to roses instead of to a single tree. She was also one of the greatest gardeners in Faerie, thanks to a combination of her innate nature and centuries of practice. The roses, and all the other flowers in the Duchy, were hers.

We walked until we reached a filigreed silver gate that led to a solid wall instead of a hallway or a courtyard garden. I stopped, turning to Tybalt and Quentin.

“Sylvester will forgive me for intruding on his private quarters,” I said. “I’m not so sure he’d forgive me for bringing company. Will you wait out here, and trust that I’m not going to find a way to get myself killed while I’m waking the Duke?” Assuming it was Sylvester in there, and not his brother. I had every confidence that if I screamed, my boys would come for me.

“You’re planning to wake a man who once defeated an entire Goblin army with a sword, despite his arm having been broken in an earlier engagement,” said Tybalt dryly. “I believe waking the Duke is an excellent way to get yourself killed, should you startle him.”

“Then I’ll do my best not to startle him,” I said.

Tybalt sighed. “We will wait here.”

“Good. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve told Sylvester what’s going on.”

I turned to the gate. It looked delicate, like I could have peeled it off the wall with one hand. Appearances can be deceiving. This was one of the few doors in the knowe that was supposed to be locked to anyone who hadn’t been formally invited to use it, and the enchantment that was woven into the metal of the gate itself did a pretty good job of enforcing that restriction. Gently, I reached out and rested my fingers on the latch.

“Hey,” I said. I was speaking to the knowe, and not to either of my companions. In Faerie, sometimes, intent is everything. “It’s me, October. I really need to see Sylvester. It’s important. I know you’re only supposed to open for family, but he is my family, just not by blood. Will you please let me in?”

The latch turned under my hand, and the door swung inward of its own accord, dispersing the seemingly solid wall like it was mist and revealing a small, circular garden under a deep purple Summerlands sky. I glanced back at Tybalt and Quentin, flashing them what I hoped was a reassuring smile, before stepping through the gate onto the cobblestone garden path. I heard the gate swing shut behind me, and when I turned to look, there was nothing there but an ivy-covered garden wall.

“Right,” I said, and turned again, starting down the path.

Some of Luna’s gardens were showy and elaborate, intended to serve as living jewels in the crown of Shadowed Hills. This garden was private, and its design supported that. The only flowers were roses, and they were more subdued than the riotous flowers that grew elsewhere in the knowe. Most of them were striated in yellow and blue, the colors of the Duchy itself. Marble benches ringed the garden, allowing for quiet contemplation. There were several cobblestone walking paths, including the one that I was on. They came together to circle a decorative fountain before they branched out, leading to smaller, freestanding silver gates.

This was only the third time I’d been in this part of the knowe. The first time, I’d been coming to warn Sylvester about an attempt on Luna’s life, and I’d been elf-shot for my troubles, nearly dying on the cobblestones I was walking along. I looked down, trying to find traces of the trauma in the stones under my feet. It wasn’t there. Even when I breathed deeply, looking for traces of the blood, it wasn’t there. There was no sign that anything bad had ever happened here. But I remembered, and I walked a little faster as I tried to outpace that memory.

If I remembered correctly, the gate to my right would lead to Rayseline’s quarters. I turned left, walking up to the gate and stopping, unsure how to proceed. “I don’t suppose there’s a doorbell somewhere on this thing, is there?” I asked, only half rhetorically. The gate didn’t answer me. I sighed and reached for the handle.

As soon as my fingers touched the metal of the gate it began to chime, quietly at first, but louder and faster with each passing second, until it was like I was standing in a forest of wind chimes. I yanked my hand back like I’d been burned. The chiming continued.

Then, with a final loud chord, the chiming stopped, the handle turned, and the gate swung open to reveal a tall, redheaded Daoine Sidhe in breeches and a sleeping shirt, squinting slightly in the twilight of the garden. An empty bed was partially visible behind him. I stepped forward and breathed in, catching the reassuring scent of daffodils and dogwood flowers. Only then did I allow my shoulders to unlock. I tried to settle my expression as I let out my hastily taken breath and bowed.

“Good day, my liege,” I said. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but it was genuinely important.”

“October?” He sounded confused, and when I straightened, I saw that he looked even more so. Then the confusion passed, replaced by growing wakefulness, and worry. “Of course you wouldn’t disturb me if it wasn’t genuinely important. Is someone hurt?”

I thought of Jazz. “Someone was, but I fixed it,” I said. “Sylvester . . .”

He raised a hand, cutting me off before I could finish the sentence. The worry in his expression deepened, turning slowly into a deep, burning fury. “I can smell him on you,” he said, voice honed to a razor’s edge. It could have drawn blood. “I should have known that if he ever came back here, he would come for you first.”

“My liege?” I said, reeling a little. When Oleander had come back, I hadn’t been able to convince anyone she was in the Kingdom. She’d managed to halfway convince me that I was losing my mind. It seemed almost perverse for things to be so much easier this time.

Then again, I had been throwing Simon’s spells around like they were softballs. It made sense that some of the stink of him might have clung to me, and if anyone was sensitive to the smell of the man’s magic, it was his twin brother.

Sylvester turned his cold, furious face toward me. I quailed, and he blinked, looking briefly surprised before his fury melted into resignation. “I’m sorry, October. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just . . . I didn’t think he’d really come back. Not like this. I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me for not being there?”

“You had no idea it was going to happen today,” I said, still shaky. My headache wasn’t helping. I heal so fast these days that I had become unaccustomed to lingering pain.

Sylvester stepped through the gate, pulling it closed behind him. The glimpse of the darkened bedchamber I had seen when the door opened disappeared, replaced once more by the empty air. Without another word, he stepped forward and folded me into a hug. I made a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a sob and simply let him hold me, enjoying the safety and comfort of his arms. I lost my mortal father when I was seven years old. Sylvester had been the closest thing I’d had ever since.

“I am so sorry,” he said again, when he finally let me go. He started down the cobblestone path, and I followed, walking with him to the first of the marble benches. He sat down, motioning for me to sit beside him.

I sat.

“I knew he’d return one day. There’s too much for him in this Kingdom for him to stay away forever, and my brother has never been anything if not stubborn. Even when we were children, when his magic still smelled like smoke and mulled cider, he would have his way no matter what the cost.” Sylvester shook his head. Something like grief was lurking in his eyes. “He should never have come near you.”

“He said he transformed me to save me,” I said hesitantly. “I think there’s something wrong with him.”

Sylvester’s laugh was thin and bitter. “Oh, I know there’s something wrong with him. There’s been something wrong with him for a very long time. But . . .” He hesitated.

I frowned, eyeing him sidelong. “I don’t like the tone of that silence.”

“You have to understand, October, that time is different for the pureblooded.”

“I know that.” I’d always known that. From my mother’s inability to remember that my birthday was something important to the sad way most purebloods looked at changelings, like the fact that we’d die someday meant we were as good as dead already.

“Yes, but . . .” Sylvester hesitated again before he said, “I admit, I’ve often wondered about the nature of what he did to you. Transforming you into a creature with a long lifespan, using a spell you could someday break yourself . . . I think he may be telling the truth, disturbing as it is to consider. He may have transformed you as he did because the alternative was killing you, and he didn’t want to be responsible for your death.”

“Why the hell not? He’d already kidnapped Luna and Rayseline. It’s not like he could have done anything to make you angrier.” And he’d laughed. I remembered that so clearly. Simon and Oleander, laughing while they watched me gasp and struggle to breathe the air that had become poisonous to my body. How could that have been an attempt to save me?

“It’s not my wrath that he was worried about. Not in that moment.” Sylvester looked at me sadly. “Did you come here alone?”

“No. Quentin and Tybalt are waiting in the hall.”

“Good. That means you’ll have someone to rant at when I finish telling you what I’m about to tell you.”

I blinked. “What are you talking about?”

Sylvester paused for a moment before he continued. “Have you never wondered why the doors in Shadowed Hills are willing to acknowledge you as family, or why Luna could enter your mother’s tower uninvited, despite the wards Amandine has put in place over the years? I know you believe the knowes are alive, and I don’t think you’re wrong, but they’re normally inclined to follow their own rules.”

A horrifying picture was starting to form at the back of my mind, assembled from things people had said to me over the years. Arden’s confusion when I said my mother was married to a human; Oleander’s visit to the tower, all those years ago, when she’d taunted Amandine with her relationship with Simon. The way Sylvester cared for me . . . and then the last piece of the awful puzzle fell into place as I recalled Simon’s own words about my mother in my kitchen only a few hours ago.

“You’re not serious,” I half-whispered.

“I’m afraid I am,” he said.

“I want to hear you say it.” My tone was suddenly challenging. I didn’t try to rein it in. “Say it! I won’t believe it if you don’t say it.”

“You are my niece, October, in the eyes of the law, if not the substance of your blood.” Sylvester looked at me solemnly. “My brother took Amandine to wife long ago. Things were different then. He was different then. And no matter how much he changes, no matter how much he has changed, I truly do believe that he still loves her.”

“You are not serious.” I jumped to my feet, beginning to pace back and forth. “Why are you telling me this now? You don’t think this is something I should have known years ago, like, I don’t know, before you sent me after him? This is not okay! This is the new dictionary definition of not okay!”

Sylvester sighed, shaking his head. “I didn’t expect you to take this well, but I had expected you to take it a little bit better than this.”

“You think I’m overreacting? You’re telling me your brother was married to my mom, and you thought I was going to do anything other than exactly what I’m doing right now?” I glared. “This is not okay.”

“According to fae law, my brother is still married to your mother,” said Sylvester, sounding apologetic.

I stared at him.

Under fae law, a pureblood who has an affair with a mortal isn’t even cheating on their spouse. Showing bad judgment, maybe, but that’s it. Which meant that marrying Dad wouldn’t have required my mother to divorce Simon, because the marriage wouldn’t have counted under fae law. It was just a dalliance taken uncomfortably far. It wasn’t real.

“This isn’t happening,” I said.

Sylvester stood. “I’m afraid it is.”

“Simon Torquill is my stepfather.”

He nodded.

“That’s just . . . that’s not okay.”

“No, it’s not. But I believe it may be why he chose to transform you, rather than killing you. My wrath means nothing to him. Your mother’s, on the other hand . . . there is nothing in this world he wants or yearns for more than Amandine’s forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness for what?” I asked.

Sylvester turned his face away.

I groaned. “So great, he did something so bad you won’t tell me about it even now, and now he’s back in the Kingdom, where he can get to her.” I shook my head, pushing my shock and anger aside in the face of something much more immediately important. “Oak and ash, Sylvester, we have to warn my mother that he’s coming.” Amandine would have no idea. She wouldn’t be prepared. And Firstborn or not, if he took her by surprise . . .

Sylvester shook his head. “Your mother is the last person he would bring to harm, in this world or any other. He loves her. He has always loved her.”

“He’s your brother, and he kidnapped your wife and his own niece,” I snapped. “Why the hell would his estranged wife be off the list of people to hurt?”

“Perhaps because he and Luna have never cared for each other,” Sylvester said. “Why he would hurt Rayseline, I don’t know.” The fury sparked in his eyes again, just for an instant; long enough that I had to struggle not to look away. “I would love the opportunity to ask him. In private.”

I swallowed hard and said, “We don’t know why he’s here. We don’t know what he wants. I want to know that my mother is all right. Please.”

Sylvester sighed. “All right,” he said. “If nothing else, he may have gone to see her. If he has been and gone, perhaps she can tell me where to find him—and if she won’t agree to do that, I may be able to find a trace of his magic to follow. And then . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

For the first time in my life, I found myself in the awkward position of actually feeling bad for Simon Torquill.