Rosemary and Rue od-1 Read online

  Tybalt glanced away. “The Queen . . .”

  “She won’t help me. She’s already refused.”

  “Why?” He looked back, suddenly frowning. “What does she know?”

  “If I knew that, I’d feel safe asking someone at Shadowed Hills to guard it. But I don’t know why, and that means, for everyone’s sake, that it needs to stay with someone she doesn’t control.” The Courts of Faerie have no control over the Cait Sidhe, by Oberon’s own decree. The Queen couldn’t touch Tybalt. Maybe she wasn’t a murderess, but our brief encounter had left me with the sinking suspicion that she was going insane, and if that was the case, I really didn’t want to deal with her while I was cursed and looking for a murderer.

  Tybalt’s eyes narrowed. “Why not just take it Home? I’ve heard you’d still be welcome there. Surely your ban on changelings can’t extend so far as that.”

  “Devin’s got enough trouble with the Queen. I don’t need to cause him more.” I studied Tybalt’s expression, and frowned. I didn’t know of any bad blood between him and Home. Fourteen years is plenty of time to start a feud.

  “The Tea Gardens, then.”

  “That’s the first place anybody who’s trying to find it would look. If they know I can’t hide it with Sylvester . . .”

  “They’ll assume you’ve taken it to the Lily-maid.”

  “Exactly.” I cocked my head, watching him. “So you’ll do it?”

  “You still haven’t said why you’re coming to me. I’m not the only cat in this city.”

  “Because you hate me.” Seeing his confusion, I clarified: “There’s never been any love lost between us, and there probably never will be, but you keep your word, and I know that if you say you’ll do this for me, you’ll do it. Your honor might survive betraying a friend, because the friend would forgive you. I wouldn’t.”

  His expression hardened. “What’s in it for me?”

  “The chance to get me in your debt.” I allowed myself a thin smile. “That’s worth enough that I know you’d keep your word.”

  He was silent for a long moment; long enough that I started to worry that I’d gone too far. Finally, voice hushed, he said, “So you’ll trust me because you don’t trust me?”

  I swallowed. “Yes,” I said.

  “You’ll owe me for this. You may never pay this debt; I may never let you. I could hold it over you for centuries. I could decide to never let you go.” There was an odd warning note in his voice, like he wanted me to reconsider.

  “That’s my problem, isn’t it?” I raised my head a little further and met his eyes.

  He blinked, apparently surprised by my boldness. Then he shrugged, saying, “Very well,” and reached for the box, trying to tug it from my hands.

  I kept my grip on the hope chest. “No,” I said, sharply. “Promise first.”

  He glared at me; I glared back. “You know the rules. You want me in your debt, fine, I’m going willingly. But I’m going by the rules. Now promise.”

  “If you insist,” he said, and straightened, squaring his shoulders before chanting, “By root and branch, by leaf and vine, on rowan and oak and ash and thorn I swear that what is given to my keeping shall remain in my keeping and shall be given over only to the one who holds my bond. My blood to the defense of the task I am set, my heart to the keeping of the promise to which I am bound.” The air grew thick with the taste of pennyroyal and musk as his magic crackled around us, drowning out the taste of roses.

  “Broken promises are the road to our damnation,” I said, the copper and cut grass smell of my own magic undercutting his. “Promises kept are the meeting of all our myriad roads.”

  “And such a meeting will my promise be.” The magic shattered around us as the formalities ended and he pulled the hope chest away. This time I let it go, my fingers aching as they pulled away from the wood. How badly did I want it? I didn’t know. I didn’t want to.

  “Thank you, Tybalt,” I said, lingering on the forbidden words. Thanks implies fealty. As long as Tybalt held that chest, he was in mine. It was rude beyond belief for me to point it out that way. I wasn’t sure exactly why I did it; chalk it up to stress.

  He tucked the chest under his arm, glaring, before he turned and stalked away. He turned back as the shadows parted like curtains in front of him, saying, “There will be a reckoning, October,” before he stepped through them and was gone.

  Shivering, I wrapped my arms around myself and walked back down the alley, heading for my car. There was no time to linger; I needed to go to Shadowed Hills, and I was exhausted. I needed to get some sleep. Evening’s curse wasn’t crippling me yet, but it would start eventually, and once that happened, it wouldn’t matter how tired I was. Somehow, time had become a limited commodity.

  I stopped beside my car, looking back into the darkness of the alleyway. “Yes, Tybalt,” I said to the empty air. “I know.”

  ELEVEN

  IT WAS ALMOST SEVEN by the time I staggered back into my apartment, stumbling over the hem of my stained silk gown and garnering curious looks from the cats, who weren’t used to me coming in smelling of smoke and the sea. The sky outside the window was turning slowly from rosy gold to a clear, crystalline blue as the sun finished its climb above the buildings. That’s one thing you’ve got to give San Francisco: there are too many people, the rent is hell and the politics are worse, but we have beautiful mornings. Somehow, in the koi pond and everything that came after, I’d forgotten that part.

  I shut the door and leaned against the wall, letting my human disguise waft away into the faint, distant taste of copper. Lowering the spell left me feeling oddly refreshed and clean despite the layers of grime I’d acquired during the night. The cats twined around my ankles, complaining. I vaguely remember spooning food into their dish before collapsing facedown on the bed, too tired to bother shutting the curtains, and falling into my dreams.

  For the first time in weeks, I didn’t dream of the pond. I don’t remember what I dreamed, but whatever it was, it didn’t stay with me long enough to be remembered. I woke up stiff, aching, and still dressed in the blue silk gown that used to be my second-favorite pair of jeans. I sat up, pressing a hand against the side of my head, and paused. The headache I expected wasn’t there, and it only took me a moment to remember why. I touched the hope chest. I touched the hope chest, and my headache went away. Had it changed me in just that brief, accidental contact? Root and branch, how powerful was that thing?

  My memories of the previous night were jumbled but clear enough to understand, from Evening’s last frantic phone call to being ordered away by the Queen of the Mists, the discovery of the hope chest, and my bargain with Tybalt. It was the Queen’s reaction that puzzled me the most. Evening’s death was a mystery and a tragedy, but there was an answer waiting somewhere for me to find it; the existence of the hope chest told me that, if nothing else. The Queen’s response to her death was another matter. I could have understood shock, sorrow, or even anger at the messenger. What I didn’t understand was her panic at the very concept of Evening’s death. Why had she reacted that way? Where did Evening get the hope chest in the first place, and who knew she had it? Too much of this wasn’t making sense, and I didn’t like that one bit.

  The lack of a headache was more worrisome than anything else. I’d done more magic than was good for me the day before. On a good day I can maintain my illusions without any slips and still reset my wards. That’s on a good day. Add several small misdirection spells, fog-scrying, and an adventure in blood magic to the mix and I should have found myself one exit past pain and approaching the highway to agony. Magic-burn hurts more than anything physical, digging down until it finds nerves you didn’t even know existed. What, exactly, did the hope chest do to keep all that from happening?

  Lacey jumped onto the bed, strolling up to butt her head against my chin. At least someone was having a good day. Of course, the cats would have a good time in nuclear winter, as long as somebody was left to feed them. I s
cratched her behind the ears and sighed. If the cats could get up, so could I.

  Pushing the cat off my chest, I levered myself out of bed. “I already fed you, Lacey, stop pretending I didn’t. I need a shower before . . .”

  The sentence died as phantom rose branches slapped me across the face and throat, driving invisible thorns deep into my skin. I bent double, too surprised to stop myself from screaming.

  Sylvester warned me once about how badly a binding curse could hurt you if you didn’t do what it demanded. That didn’t mean I really understood him until now. Every breath hurt. It felt like my skin was being peeled away, and the world was drowning in the cloying stench of roses. I struggled not to fall over, gagging on the scent. Inaction wasn’t an option: not with the knives of Evening’s command digging into me.

  Squeezing my eyes closed, I said, “I know. I’m doing it. Please? Wait.” The stinging receded, although I could still feel thorns brushing my skin. That didn’t matter—I could think and move again. That was all I needed.

  Getting out of the grimy ball gown was a challenge. Forcing myself through the process of showering and getting dressed was harder. I kept stumbling, catching myself against the walls as I tried to remember how things like pants worked. The cats milled around my ankles throughout the process, but I didn’t pay them any attention; my thoughts were far away, reviewing Evening’s death over and over again. I hadn’t dreamed of her. I’d thought that was a mercy, but it turned out the dreams were just waiting until I was awake. Lucky me.

  After half an hour of tripping over my own feet, I was finally dressed, wearing clean jeans, a plain white shirt, and a loosely knit gray sweater for warmth. The sky outside was gray with clouds, making me really start to miss my coat. Unfortunately, I didn’t think going to the Queen’s Court to ask for it back would be a good idea. After a moment’s hesitation, I shoved the key I’d taken from the rose goblin into the pocket of my jeans.

  The cats were crying to be fed. “I still say I fed you already,” I said, as I filled their dish before making myself a peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwich, acting under the sadly reasonable assumption that I wouldn’t get another chance to eat. To my surprise, the food went down easy, and I made myself a second sandwich before heading into the bathroom to fit my human disguise into place.

  Maybe being cursed is good for me, because the spell came together the first time I tried it, blunting the too-sharp angles of my ears and cheeks into something more realistically human. I left my hair loose, blunting those angles still further.

  “I can do this,” I said to my reflection. It didn’t contradict me.

  The cats were on the couch when I left the bathroom and watched impassively as I strode through the apartment and out the door, grabbing my keys off the counter as I passed. Resetting the wards took a matter of seconds, the magic coming, again, with surprising and unsettling ease. There were wild mushrooms growing on the narrow strip of grass beside the door. I paused to pick a few, tucking them into my pocket. You never know what you’re going to need.

  There was no one in sight as I walked to my car. It was too close to Christmas. Everyone was either at work, shopping, or with their families, not hanging around the parking garage, and that was fine with me. I was already planning to see enough unfriendly faces. Evening’s curse relaxed when I started moving; there was no need for it to hurt me when I was actually getting things done.

  Taking one last breath to steady myself, I climbed into the car, put the key into the ignition, and started for the freeway.

  Shadowed Hills is the largest Duchy in the Bay Area, consisting of the area around Mt. Diablo. That mountain defines their boundaries; if you can see Mt. Diablo, odds are good you’re in the Duchy. It’s one of the largest political entities in the Kingdom of the Mists, but it makes up for it by having several semi-autonomous Counties and no political aspirations whatsoever.

  Still, it’s big enough to support some pretty spectacular architecture. Maybe that’s why, as if to spite the expectations of anyone who might come to visit, the Torquill knowe is located in a park called Paso Nogal in the sleepy suburb of Pleasant Hill, about twenty miles outside the boundaries of the Mt. Diablo State Park. It would take a little less than an hour to get there, driving counter-commute. Getting into the knowe might add another twenty minutes. They’re big on security, and I couldn’t blame them; not after what happened to Luna and Rayseline.

  I pulled into the parking lot at Paso Nogal and got out of the car, actually somewhat grateful for the cold. From the look of the grass, it had been raining, and that had driven off the bored teenagers that might otherwise have been spending their Christmas vacation hanging around in the park. Silently blessing the weather, I began the trek up the side of the nearest hill.

  The Torquills believe in taking precautions: entering their knowe requires jumping through a series of metaphorical hoops that range from silly to annoying. I stopped to catch my breath after walking up the largest hill in the park, crawling under a cluster of hawthorn bushes, and running six times counterclockwise around an oak tree. The ground was slick and muddy, but at least the rain had stopped. My one and only trip to Shadowed Hills in the rain convinced me years ago that there was nothing that pressing.

  Once I was sure I wouldn’t collapse, I turned, knocking on the surface of a nearby stump. The sound echoed like it was rolling through a vast hall, and a door swung open in the hollow oak nearby. Smoothing my shirt and brushing my hair away from my face in a gesture that was half anxiety, half courtesy, I stepped through into the knowe of Shadowed Hills.

  Whoever built the knowe had very firm ideas about how space was meant to be used—lavishly and without limits. The knowe meets and exceeds the physical limitations of the hill that supposedly contains it; there are rooms that haven’t known footsteps in more than a decade, places only children remember, hidden passages and gardens that haven’t been tended since we lost our Lord and Ladies. It wasn’t opened in Paso Nogal, I know that much. Sylvester shifted the doors there at some point in the last two hundred years, connecting otherwise unrelated locations in the mortal world and the Summerlands.

  Evening told me Sylvester took my disappearance as a dark omen and sealed the knowe, swearing not to step outside until his family came home. I can’t blame him. He and Luna were a perfect match, and losing her might have killed him. Instead, it just drove him insane. His seneschal ran the Duchy in his place, and Shadowed Hills fell into despair. Among the fae, the King is the land, and in Shadowed Hills, the King was mad.

  That madness broke when Luna came home. Of all the news Evening relayed while she explained the things I’d missed, that was the only part that made me smile. Walking through Shadowed Hills for the first time since I’d come home, it was like there’d never been anything broken there at all. It was the same now as it had ever been. Everywhere I looked there was too much gilt, too much velvet, and generally too much of everything. Even the windows were ringed with garlands of silver and pale blue roses. The smell made me cringe, but you can’t have Shadowed Hills without roses—not with Luna there. She’s the Lady of the Roses, and the Duchy reflects her as much as it reflects Sylvester.

  People bustled past in all directions, purebloods and changelings alike, displaying the frantic activity needed to keep a Ducal Court running. None of them knew me, and so none of them stopped to ask why I was there. I stopped and opened a door at random, looking into a small room with dust piled several inches thick on the floor. A donkey-tailed maid brushed by me with a reproachful look, beginning to sweep up. I smiled wanly, moving on.

  Evening didn’t tell me where Luna and Rayseline had been, and I hadn’t pressed; I got the impression from the things she wasn’t willing to say that they still didn’t quite know what had happened. Luna and her daughter were gone, and then they weren’t. Sometimes that’s how it works. It’s one of the downsides of living in a land that sometimes seems like it’s based on a children’s story.

  A footman met
me at the end of the hall, sneering at my clothes. I sneered at him in return, although I had to admit that he was probably more justified. He was dressed in the blue-and-gold livery of Shadowed Hills, ready to receive anyone up to Oberon himself, and here I was, in jeans. Not exactly Ducal Court material.

  “Would my lady care to state her business?” he asked.

  “Your lady is here to see the Duke. How would you like her to go about doing that?”

  He gave me another, even more disdainful look. “Perhaps my lady would care to change first.”

  “Certainly,” I said. There are ways of following form that need to be obeyed. Changing for Court when asked to do so is one of them.

  The footman waved toward a door off to the right. Offering a shallow bow, I walked over and opened it.

  The room on the other side was larger than it had any right to be, walls mirrored and reflecting an infinity of weary-eyed women draped in the thin flicker of a hastily-spun illusion. A table at the center of the room was heaped with leaves, feathers, flower petals, and carded spools of spider-silk. The implication was plain, by fae standards: if you couldn’t make a workable glamour from what was offered there, your business probably wasn’t that important. It’s a subtle sort of pureblood prejudice, and one of the few that still hangs on in Shadowed Hills. I took a deep breath, letting my disguise wisp away until an equally-weary changeling blinked at me from all those myriad reflections, ears pointing through uncombed brown hair. Time to make myself presentable for the nobility.

  After studying the table’s contents, I selected a handful of leaves and a spool of spider-silk. Artistry in dresses takes seamstresses and the resources to hire them. Most changelings aren’t that well off, and so we wind up using an endless stream of disposable illusions and short-term transformations, crafting couture from whatever raw materials the various Courts are willing to provide. As long as we don’t come out looking like kitchen help, we do okay.