Chimes at Midnight: An October Daye Novel (36 page)

M
AY 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.

As a special bonus in this edition, read on for a brand-new October Daye short story by Seanan McGuire:

 

Here never shines the sun; here nothing breeds . . .

—William Shakespeare,
Titus Andronicus

SAN FRANCISCO. SUMMER, 1959

S
EVEN YEARS IS A classic length of time in Faerie. Most enchantments last for seven years, or some multiple of sevens. When people disappear underhill, it’s almost always for seven years, no less, no more. Most of all, seven years was long for me to be patient.

It was long enough to wait.

I still felt a little guilty as I settled on the park bench and pulled a bag of breadcrumbs out of my coat pocket. I began scattering them on the sidewalk, trying to look like I was just another part of a perfectly normal scene. Pixies and pigeons swarmed in from all directions and started snatching the food, squabbling amongst themselves all the while. Most of the pixies were content with the bread; a few were clever enough to recognize that it had other uses. They began making a heap of crumbs at the very edge of the feeding frenzy, luring a fat pigeon in their direction. I nodded approvingly. Reducing the pigeon population of the city wasn’t going to hurt anything—except for maybe the pigeon in question—and it would teach this particular colony of pixies that being clever could lead to eating better. Given enough time, they might surprise a lot of people.

My attention was only half on the impending slaughter that was being staged in front of me. The rest was fixed on a tall, statuesque figure in a polka dot day dress, her platinum blonde hair pinned back in a sensible bun. She was trudging across the lawn with a picnic basket in one hand and a towheaded little girl running rings around her. Amy would be furious if she saw me. That couldn’t keep the smile off my face. Seven years was
more
than long enough to wait. Amy wanted her privacy. That was fine with me. It was selfish and horrible and stupid of her, but it was still fine. I just wanted to meet my niece. I don’t have very many of those anymore.

Amy put down her basket, opening the lid and pulling out a battered olive-green army blanket. She spread it over the grass with a practiced flick of her wrists, looking so domestic that it made my chest ache a little. She was living a lie. We both knew it, even if I was the only one who was willing to admit it. But she’d been living it for so
long
, and it was covering up a hurt that was so great . . . how much did that lie really mean to her by this point? How far would she go to preserve it?

The little girl chirped something I couldn’t make out, voice high and sweet and shredded by the wind. I heard Amy laugh—she always had the most beautiful laugh; all her lies couldn’t change that—and then the little girl, my niece, was running as fast as she could for the playground equipment, her pigtails streaming in the wind. What was her name again?

Oh, right. October. One more page in the ongoing calendar of our tangled lives.

“You never could resist giving that knife one more twist, could you, Amy?” I asked aloud.

The pixies didn’t answer. I hadn’t actually expected them to.

I dumped the rest of my breadcrumbs out of the bag as I stood, dusting my hands against my legs. My mouth was dry, and my heart seemed to be beating just a little bit too fast. You would never have been able to make me admit it, but I was nervous. Hell, I was bordering on scared. Here was my youngest sister’s kid, throwing herself down the slide in a public park like there was no such thing as getting hurt, and I had no clue what I was going to say to her. “Hi, I’m your Aunt” seemed a little weak, and like a good way to bring the wrath of Amy down on my head. All I wanted to do was meet her. I wouldn’t introduce myself, I wouldn’t interfere, I’d just . . .

I’d just meet her. That would be enough.

Besides, it’s not like I’ve ever been famed for my patience. If something went wrong, Amy was going to have to suck it up and admit that waiting seven years had required a herculean effort on my part. She should be proud of me for even trying.

The grass was springy and slightly damp underfoot, filling the air with the fresh smell of summer. I walked to the play area, careful to avoid any of the really marshy patches. October was still flinging herself down the slide with mad abandon, landing face-first in the sand and then racing to clamber back up the ladder. I stopped at the edge of the sandpit, just watching her for a moment.

She was a pretty little thing, all scabby knees and elbows. Her face was a human-blunted mirror of Amy’s. She even had Amy’s no-color gray eyes, like the kind of mist that swallows ships whole. Her hair was darker than I’d expected, dirty dishwater blonde already trending toward brown. Maybe blonde hair wasn’t going to be a hallmark of the Dóchas Sidhe after all. They were a pretty new race. I was still sorting out what I could use to spot them at a distance.

There was nothing wrong with her eyes. She’d only gone tumbling down the slide twice more when she spotted me and waved, fearless as you please. I hesitated before waving back.

She seemed to take that as an invitation, because she scrambled up and ran over to me. Her feet were bare. I hadn’t noticed that before. She dug her toes into the sand and looked up at me, Amy’s eyes in a little half-human girl’s face, and asked, “Are you lost?”

“What? No. I’m not lost.” Shit. I hadn’t come prepared with an excuse; I didn’t expect her to spot me before I was ready for her. She had good eyes. “My dog is. Have you seen him? He’s pretty big and shaggy.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head for good measure. “I haven’t seen any dogs. Did you ask my Mommy?” And she pointed to Amy, who was, blessedly, looking down into the picnic basket. I should have gone then. I should have turned and walked away. But there was something out of place; something in the color of this little girl’s hair . . .

I squatted down, resting my elbows on my knees, and studied her as carefully as I could. “What’s your name?”

“October,” she answered, with prompt and dangerous honesty. “I’m seven.”

“Pleased to meet you, October. I’m Annie. I’m a lot more than seven.” And I stuck out my hand for her to shake.

There was no hesitation on her part—none at all. She took the hand I offered, and the feeling of her skin on mine told me everything I needed to know.

Seven years wasn’t long enough to wait.

Seven years was seven years too long.

•   •   •

The pounding on my apartment door started almost exactly when I expected it to. It had been three days since I had informed Sylvester Torquill of what Amy had been doing; three days since I had “suggested” he take steps to fix things. He was a good man, Sylvester was, and he’d done the honorable thing. October had chosen Faerie. That didn’t surprise me—no kid who did that little second-guessing was going to choose humanity—but it was still a relief. The line remained unbroken. Despite everything, there might still be half a chance in Hell.

I waited for a pause in the hammering before I opened the front door and said, very calmly, “Hi, Amy. Nice of you to drop by.”

“You—you! How
dare
you!” She shoved her way past me into the hall. It was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, now I could close the door. On the other hand, now she was inside my apartment, and there was a very good chance that she was going to start throwing things.

Amy always was a little temperamental.

“How dare I what?” I turned to face her, cocking my head slightly to the side. “Really. What is it that you think I did? I want to hear you say it.”

“You had no right!
None
!” The air around her crackled with the blood and roses smell of her magic as her human guise wiped itself away, revealing Amandine, daughter of Oberon, in all her seriously pissed-off glory. If looks could kill, I would have died at that moment. “I told you to leave me alone. I told you to leave
us
alone.”

“I gave you seven years. That was a lot longer than you had any right to ask for.” I stepped around her, walking toward the living room. I figured she’d follow me, and she didn’t disappoint.

“Do you know what you
did
?” she demanded.

Dad forgive me, but that was the last straw. I whirled around to face her, snapping, “Yeah, I know what I did. I called Sylvester and told him what you were doing to that poor kid, because
he
didn’t have the right kind of eyes to see it. I told him he was almost out of time to get her out of there. Fuck, Amy, I knew you wanted out, but I never dreamed—”

“I was saving her!” shouted Amy, balling her hands into fists as the smell of blood and roses thickened in the air around her.

I dispelled whatever she was starting to cast with one sharp slash of my hand. “
You were killing her
!”

Amy stared at me, colorless eyes filling with tears.

It was a trick she’d been using on me since she was born. Littlest sister, getting ready to cry, needing comfort. It usually worked, whether I wanted it to or not. But it wasn’t going to work this time. I stepped closer, moving into her personal space as I lowered my voice to a hiss. “You were
killing
her. Every time you twisted that little girl’s blood, you took centuries off of her life, centuries that weren’t yours to steal—”

“Annie, please . . .”

“No, you’re going to listen. Every time you twisted her blood, you took centuries off of her life, and you made her that much more vulnerable. Faerie is
not
going to treat her kindly. Not thin-blooded, and not as your daughter.”

She sniffled, trying to lift her head proudly. She almost succeeded. “I was going to make sure Faerie never had the chance to hurt her.”

I laughed before I could stop myself: a brief, bitter sound. “You think a lot of yourself, don’t you, Amy? You could destroy that little girl. For all I know, you already have. But you can never,
never
save her from Faerie.” A thin smile twisted my lips as I added, “It’s in her blood. Even you can’t change that.”

“You never gave me the chance,” she whispered.

“You never
had
a chance; it wasn’t mine to give,” I replied, as kindly as I could. “What you did to her, what you were clearly planning—that’s monstrous, Amy. That’s Eira’s territory.”

Her eyes widened. “Don’t you compare me to her.”

“Then don’t you
act
like her. You have to be better than she is. There’s no point if we can’t be better than she is.” As far as I know, Eira Rosynhwyr is the oldest of my still-living sisters. I’d kill her in a heartbeat if I thought I could do it. But she’s Titania’s eldest daughter, as I’m Maeve’s, and if there’s anyone in Faerie I fear, it’s her.

Amy wiped her eyes, looking at me beseechingly. “I don’t know what to do, Annie. Why didn’t you ask me before you went to them?”

“Because you would have cried. You would have said you just needed a little bit more time. And I would have given it to you, and by the time I realized I was making a mistake, that little girl would have been completely human, and completely unable to protect herself.” I shook my head. “You say I didn’t give you a choice. You didn’t give me one, either, Amy. The only one with a Choice to make was October, and she’s made it.”

“She didn’t know what she was doing.” Amy turned away from me, shaking her head. “I can still change her. I can still save her from all of this—”

“If you touch one hair on that little girl’s head, they will never find your body.” My voice was low and dangerous, filled with a warning that I knew she would never heed. My poor Amy. She never did learn when to leave well enough alone. “She’s not yours anymore. She made her Choice. She belongs to herself.”

“You’ve forgotten what it was to be a mother.” A note of smug satisfaction crept into her tone, and I was briefly, burningly glad that I couldn’t see her face. If her expression had matched her voice, I might have slapped the smug right out of her. “Children require sacrifice.”

“Dammit, Amy, you’re not
listening
to me!” It took everything I had to keep my anger in check. This was my fault as much as it was hers. She was the youngest of us, and when she needed me, I wasn’t there. She should never have been given so much freedom, never allowed to make so many poor decisions. But the Firstborn had scattered in the wake of losing our parents, and we left her free for so long.
Too
long. This is my fault.

She whirled, blonde hair flying, hands balled into fists. Sudden rage contorted her face as she shouted, “You had no right!”

“I had every right, Amy; I had
every
right. That little girl deserves better than what you were trying to do to her, and you know it.”

“She deserves a life!”

“She’s not human! No matter what you do to her, no matter how deep you go, Faerie will
always
know her as its own. Do you understand? You can’t free her. All you can do is make her defenseless. She’ll belong to Faerie until she dies. You’re making sure that happens sooner.”

She looked at me, my beautiful baby sister, and her broken heart was shining in her eyes like a fallen star. Finally, she shook her head. “So be it,” she said, and I knew.

I knew she had given up again.

“Amy—”

“I hate you,” said Amy, the sorrow in her eyes replaced almost instantly by sullenness. She’d been the baby of the family for centuries. We were all too used to giving her what she wanted. “You’ve gotten so wrapped up in being the Luidaeg—being the all-mighty sea witch—that you’ve forgotten what it takes to be a sister.”