Late Eclipses (25 page)

 

 

 

I
TOOK THE ROADS BETWEEN BERKELEY and Pleasant Hill at a speed that would’ve made me public enemy number one in the eyes of most traffic cops, if they’d been able to see through my don’t-look-here spell. Walther’s little concoction did something right: my headache was almost gone, and performing minor magic was no longer an insurmountable problem.

Walther put a name to what was wrong with me: I’d been poisoned. Fine. I couldn’t fix it, but I could understand it, and it fit with Oleander’s way of operating. I needed to figure out how she’d been able to get to me during the Ball, but until then, I needed to keep moving and trust Walther to fix things as quickly as possible. I hadn’t known him long enough for the trust to come easily.

If I was being honest, I’ve never trusted
anyone
easily. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling, especially considering that Walther wasn’t the first: by putting my life in Tybalt’s hands, I’d declared my trust for him. That was unsettling. I trusted Tybalt enough to let him decide whether or not I should be allowed to live?

“When the hell did that happen?” I asked, and jumped, startled by the sound of my own voice. I started to laugh, relaxing even more. Did it matter when I started trusting Tybalt? It was too late to change it, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Either he’d betray me, or he wouldn’t. I needed to believe he wouldn’t.

I needed that to be enough.

I turned on the radio, scrolling through stations until I found one that promised “all eighties and nineties, all the time.” Those stations always play songs written after I disappeared, but I don’t mind the way I used to. It’s nice to hear bands I recognize, even if the songs are strange. If it weren’t for the DJs, with their modern phrasing and to-the-minute slang, I could pretend I was listening to radio transmissions from my own time.

The Paso Nogal parking lot was empty, and the afternoon air was cold, making me draw my jacket a little tighter. It wasn’t winter by a long shot, but the air felt colder than it should have, like it was promising worse things to come. The hillside was marshy, the ground softened by recent, unseasonable rain. It still took me less than ten minutes to race through the complicated approach to the knowe. Stress, anger, and mild panic will do that for a girl.

The door didn’t open when I knocked. I frowned, knocking again. The door usually swings open on its own if there’s not a page close enough to answer it, and even that almost never happens. The Torquills pride themselves on their hospitality. Unless the entire knowe was in mourning, someone should have answered.

The door opened when I knocked for the third time. I stepped through—and stopped dead.

Heavy curtains covered the entry hall windows, giving the room a haunted, funereal air. Flickering candles illuminated the room, their flames sending dancing shadows up and down the walls. I shuddered. Fear of the dark is a human phobia—or so I thought, before I got myself lost in Blind Michael’s lands. Now my heart tries to stop every time I see shadows dancing by candlelight.

Blind Michael is dead. I killed him myself. And when the lights are low and the shadows dance, it doesn’t matter, because I’ll be waiting for him to come back for the rest of my life.

I won’t be waiting alone. A small figure was curled in one of the entrance hall chairs, eyes closed, head tucked forward until his chin rested against his chest. I walked over and put a hand on his knee. “Hey. Wake up.”

His eyes opened immediately, betraying the shallowness of his slumber. He offered me a small smile that was fueled almost entirely by relief. “Toby.”

“In the too, too solid flesh.” I stepped away. “Come on. Let’s go see how Sylvester’s doing.”

“Okay.” Quentin scrambled out of the chair, sticking close to me as we started down the hall. He wasn’t looking at the candles either.

I glanced at him. “They’re bugging you, too?”

“They give me the creeps. It’s like . . . ”

“I know.” Admitting it seemed to help. “Can you take me to Sylvester?”

Quentin nodded. “He’s in the Duchess’ chambers. I can take you there.”

“Good. Has there been any change?”

“Rayseline’s been ranting a lot. It’s impressive. She seems to think she’s in charge because her parents aren’t coming out of their rooms. And we had to cancel the post-Beltane Court,” Quentin said. “I’m scared. What’s going to happen if Luna dies?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did.” I sighed, raking my hair away from my face. “It depends on whether Sylvester steps down, and whether Rayseline inherits, first off. If she becomes Duchess, things are going to change. How long are you fostered for?”

“I’m sworn to Shadowed Hills until I turn twenty-five or my liege finds me a suitable knight.” He glanced away. “I’ll probably still be here. Most of the knights I know are sworn to Shadowed Hills. But there’s a chance my oaths will be transferred when he finds someone appropriate.”

I blinked. That was a long term of service. Daoine Sidhe are considered immature until they reach their early hundreds, but fostering normally ends when they reach physical adulthood. Given the rate he was maturing, Quentin should have been released when he turned eighteen, or thereabouts. “Well, I guess we’d better hope Raysel doesn’t inherit.” I shoved my hands into my pockets, trying to ignore the dull throbbing in my fingers.

“Yeah, I guess.” He paused. “What did you do to your hands, again?”

“I didn’t say,” I said. He gave me a wounded look. I shrugged. “I had a fight with a hawthorn bush. The hawthorn won.”

Quentin eyed me for a moment before he sighed, shaking his head, and offered me his arm. “Okay, I give up. You hurt yourself in the
weirdest
ways.”

“It’s a talent.” I took his arm, letting him lead me deeper into the knowe. We made it halfway down the hall in companionable silence before the footsteps started behind us.

Quentin tensed. “Toby—”

“Shhh.” I counted to ten, listening. I knew who it was before I reached five. I stopped walking. Quentin did the same, every inch of him vibrating with stress. Neither of us turned. “Hello, Etienne.”

“You came back,” said Etienne. There was a hint of reproach in his voice.

“Not expecting me?” I looked over my shoulder. He was carrying a spear. That worried me; the guards at Shadowed Hills don’t normally go around the knowe armed with more than ceremonial swords.

“I thought you had more sense than that.” He leveled a narrow-eyed gaze on Quentin’s back.

“Don’t blame Quentin for my being here; he didn’t do it. I have news, and I have proof, and that means I need to see the Duke.”

“You know that isn’t a good idea.”

“Lily’s dead.”

Quentin made a small sound of protest. I hadn’t told him. Damn.

Etienne’s eyes went wide. “What?”

“Lily, the Lady of the Tea Gardens, has stopped her dancing,” I said, tension adding a clipped cadence to the traditional announcement of a pureblood’s death. I kept my eyes locked on Etienne’s. “She dissolved in my
hands
, Etienne. Now, are you going to let me tell Sylvester what I’ve learned before the same thing happens to Luna, or are you going to keep standing there?”

“Oberon’s balls, October, you—” He hesitated, stepping closer and dropping his voice before he said, “It’s not safe here. You, of all people, should know that.”

I raked one bandaged hand through my hair. “She’s gunning for me?” He nodded marginally. “How badly?”

“Badly enough to make this a terrible idea.” He sighed. “Don’t even think about trying to slip me. Rayseline will take it as an excuse to have you arrested, and I won’t be able to stop her.”

“Believe me, I won’t.”

“Fine. This way.”

Shadowed Hills was living up to the “shadow” part of its name; the halls were dim, and most of the windows were covered. A heavy silence hung over the place, forming a shroud that didn’t want to be disturbed. It was like the knowe was in mourning. Goldengreen was like that after Evening died: bitter, cold, and empty.

I paused. Goldengreen was mine to use as I saw fit. It wasn’t a small knowe. Evening only used a percentage of its space, and she hadn’t been using the grounds on the Summerland side at all. Lily’s people needed a place to go, and thanks to the Queen, they just might have one.

None of the people we passed would meet my eyes; it seemed that Raysel’s opinion of me was more popular within the Duchy than I’d hoped. It made sense—no matter how many times I saved their asses, I was still the misfit changeling daughter of a crazy woman—but I won’t pretend I was happy about it.

Something was wrong with the rooms around us. I frowned, trying to figure out what it was. We passed through a hall whose floors were being polished; the windows were open to let air circulate, and I glanced up instinctively. The wrongness became suddenly clear, and suddenly terrifying. “Oh, oak and ash,” I breathed.

There were no roses around the windows. There were no roses anywhere.

Every Duchy has something that makes them unique. Golden Gate excels at political intrigue, Wild Strawberries produces amazing chefs, Dreamer’s Glass threatens to invade the neighbors, and so on. They’re proud of their distinctions, and they take every chance they get to show them off. Shadowed Hills grew roses, and now those roses were gone.

We stopped at a marble arch. “Wait here, and don’t wander off,” said Etienne.

“Check,” I said, leaning against the wall. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Etienne nodded and vanished through the arch. Quentin glowered after him. I put a restraining hand on his arm.

“Don’t. He knows me well enough to know that I’d go chasing shadows right now if I thought it would help, and that would just get us in more trouble.”

Quentin gave me a plaintive look. “He should trust you.”

“He does.” I nodded toward the nearest window. “When did all the roses die?”

“The night of the Ball,” Quentin said. Then he frowned. “How did you know the roses died?”

“This is the only time I’ve been in this knowe and not seen live flowers.” It felt like there was something I wasn’t seeing that would make everything make sense. Something about Luna and the roses . . .

Raysel stepped around the corner and froze. She was wearing a black dress, her hair in artful disarray; she looked every inch the grieving daughter, except for the part where she didn’t look sad. Angry, yes, and faintly smug, but not a drop of sorrow.

The three of us stared at one another for a frozen moment, no one quite sure what the appropriate reaction would be. “Hello, Rayseline,” I said, finally.

She frowned. “What are you doing here?” She didn’t sound angry; just irritated, like I’d been downgraded to “minor annoyance.” Interesting.

“Lily’s dead.”

“I’m aware.” She shot a murderous glare at Quentin. “I’m not sure what that has to do with your being here.”

I silently resolved to get Quentin out of there sooner than later. Having a man on the inside wasn’t worth the risk of having Raysel truly angry with him. “I’m just here to see your father.”

“Why should I let you anywhere near my parents?” She jerked her chin toward Quentin. “He can’t help you. He’s just a page here.”

“I know that. But I have news, and I need to speak with my liege.”

“You can give your news to me. My father will listen to you, even if your message comes from my lips.” The venom in her voice was unmistakable.

The words escaped before I could stop them. “Why do you hate me so much?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know. I won’t let you.”

“Raysel, I’m not pretending. I don’t—”

She cut me off, demanding, “Do you have
any
idea where I grew up?”

I stared at her, not sure how I was supposed to answer. Quentin’s expression was as blank as mine. “No, I don’t,” I said, lacking anything else to say.

“I grew up in nothing,” she said. Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment she achieved a look I’d seen on her father’s face a hundred times: pure and righteous anger. “It was dark and cold, and it hurt to breathe, and it never ended. They threw us food, sometimes, and water, sometimes, but never enough, and I was always hungry. I almost forgot what light was until the day the binding fell away, and then I thought the sun had come to kill us, and I was
glad
.”

“Root and branch,” I breathed. “Raysel . . . ”

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry. Do you know what my mother said to me every day—every hour—of my childhood?
Do you?!
”

“No,” I said. Watching Raysel’s anger was like watching a train wreck. It was horrifying, but I couldn’t look away. Somehow, I couldn’t shake the small, terrible feeling that she was right; this was my fault.

“ ‘Your father’s coming,’ ” she said, in mocking parody of Luna’s measured tones. “ ‘He’ll save us. He won’t let us die here.’ ” She shook her head, voice returning to normal. “But he didn’t come. So she told me about his allies. She told me everything.”

I winced. It was obvious I’d been included in those “allies.” I was starting to understand why she hated me, and I didn’t want to.

Raysel ignored my distress, continuing, “‘Evening will find us, and your father will raise an army, and Toby—’ ” She faltered, looking confused and a little lost. That was the first time I saw her truly unguarded. “Toby will come. That’s what she does. When we need her, she comes.”

“Raysel . . . ”

She glared. The moment was over. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see my mother go crazy calling for my father, calling for
you
. She never lost faith in either of you. She
believed
in you. And you never came. So you can make all the excuses you want, and Father will believe them, because he wants to. He wants to think you’re perfect, but you’re not. You’re just a stupid changeling, and you have no business here.”