Rosemary and Rue (22 page)

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Authors: Seanan McGuire

BOOK: Rosemary and Rue
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“What does she want?” I asked, not looking up. “Grandchildren?”
“What would Luna do with grandchildren? Plant them?”
I had to chuckle. “True enough. So do you know what she wants?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?” I said, finally looking over at him.
Connor brushed the dirt off his pants, looking at anything and everything but me. “You know, now that I think about it, bluegrass isn’t usually blue. It’s green. It has to be something she came up with.”
“Connor—”
He raised his hand. I stopped, just watching him. He looked back at me, seal-dark eyes grave, and said, “She wants me to fall in love with her daughter.” Suddenly formal, he bowed. “Have a good afternoon, Toby. Enjoy your roses. I’m sorry about Evening.” He turned while I was still gaping, openmouthed, and walked out of the garden, leaving me alone.
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.

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