Queen of Air and Darkness (The Dark Artifices #3)

“You can’t go,” she said to him a bit desperately. “You must be so tired—”

“I’m all right.” He still didn’t look at her. Dru felt wretched. She hadn’t meant to lie to Jaime. She’d just never mentioned her age, because she’d been afraid he’d think she was a stupid kid. And then Mark had yelled at him about it.

“No, Dru is right.” Helen smiled with some effort. “Let us at least give you dinner.”

Jaime hesitated. He stood twisting the ties of his pack irresolutely as Kit and Ty pushed past him, and Ty said something about going up on the roof. Kit waved and the two of them slipped out of the library. Back to their private world, Dru thought. Ty would never let her in—he’d never let anyone take Livvy’s place.

Not that Dru wanted to do that. She just wanted to be friends with her brother. Like Helen just wants to be friends with you, said an annoying little voice in the back of her head. She ignored it.

“Aline’s a really good cook,” she said instead. Aline rolled her eyes, but Dru ignored her. Jaime was really skinny—skinnier than he had been when she’d seen him in London. He must be hungry. Maybe if she could get him to stay, she could explain—

There was a noise like a soft explosion. Dru gave a small shriek, and an envelope fell from the ceiling and landed on the table. A faint wisp of smoke hung in the air.

“It’s addressed to you, babe,” Helen said, handing the envelope to Aline. “?‘Aline Penhallow, Head of the Institute.’?”

Frowning, Aline ripped the envelope open. Her face tightened. She read aloud:

Aline Penhallow:

Pursuant to the most recent Council meeting held in Alicante, the Registry of Downworlders is now enforced. Heads of Institutes and Conclaves, it is your responsibility to make sure that the Downworlders in your region are registered and given identification numbers. You will be receiving a stamp to use in registration, in ink that will show up only in witchlight.

Downworlders must be ready to show their marked documents at any time. Records of all registrations must be handed over to the Office of the Inquisitor. Failure to do so may result in suspension of privileges or recall to Alicante. Sed lex, dura lex. The Law is hard, but it is the Law. In these troubled times, all must be held accountable. Thank you for your understanding.

Horace Dearborn

NB: As reflects our new policy of accountability, all Institute heads should be advised that the traitors Diego Rosales, Divya Joshi, and Rayan Maduabuchi are awaiting conviction in the Gard for aiding in the escape of a wanted Downworlder. As soon as the Mortal Sword is reforged, they will stand trial.

There was a crash. Jaime had dropped his pack. Drusilla moved to pick it up, but he’d already seized it.

“That bastard Dearborn,” he said through white lips. “My brother is not a traitor. He is painfully honest, good—” He looked around at the stricken faces surrounding him. “What does it matter?” he whispered. “None of you know him.”

Helen began to rise to her feet. “Jaime—”

He bolted from the library. A second later, Dru tore after him.

He was fast, but he didn’t know the house or the way the front door stuck. Dru caught up to him as he struggled to yank it open.

“Jaime!” she cried.

He held up a hand. “Stop. I must go, Drusilla. It’s my brother, you understand?”

“I know. But please be careful.” She fumbled at her belt and held something out to him. Her hand was shaking. “Take your dagger. You need it more than I do.”

He stared down at the blade she held; he’d given it to her, left it in her room at the London Institute when he’d gone. A gold hunting dagger carved with roses.

Gently, he took hold of her hand, closing her fingers over the dagger. “It is yours. A gift,” he said.

Her voice sounded small. “Does that mean we’re still friends?”

His fleeting smile was sad. He pulled at the door handle and this time it opened; Jaime slipped through it, past her, and vanished into the shadows.

“Dru? Are you all right?”

She turned around, scrubbing furiously at her stinging eyes. She didn’t want to cry in front of Helen—and it was Helen, her sister standing on the bottom step of the main staircase, looking at her with troubled eyes.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” she said in a shaking voice. “I know you think it’s stupid, but he was my first real friend—”

“I don’t think it’s stupid!” Helen crossed the room to Dru in swift strides.

Dru’s throat hurt almost too much for her to speak. “I feel like people keep leaving,” she whispered.

This close up, Helen looked even more thin and pretty and she smelled like orange blossoms. But for the first time, she didn’t seem remote, like a distant star. She seemed distressed and worried and very much present. There was even an ink stain on her sleeve.

“I know how you feel,” Helen went on. “I missed you so much while I was on Wrangel Island I couldn’t breathe. I kept thinking about everything I was missing, and how I’d miss you getting older, all the little things, and when I saw you in the Council Hall I kept thinking . . .”

Dru braced herself.

“. . . how beautiful you’d gotten. You look so much like Mom.” Helen sniffled. “I used to watch her getting ready to go out. She was so glamorous, she had such style . . . all I can ever think to wear is jeans and a shirt.”

Dru stared in amazement.

“I’m going to stay,” Helen said fiercely. “I’m not leaving you ever again.” She reached for Dru—and Dru nodded, just the smallest nod. Helen put her arms around her and held her tightly.

Dru rested her forehead against her sister and finally allowed herself to remember Helen picking her up when she was small, swinging her around while she laughed, tying ribbons in her hair and finding her lost shoes, inevitably discarded on the beach. They fit together differently now than they had then, Dru thought, as she put her own arms around Helen. They were different heights and shapes, different people than they had been once.

But even if they fit differently now, they still fit like sisters.

*

It was nothing like a Portal; there was no rushing tumult, no sense of being picked up by a tornado and hurled around wildly. One moment Cristina was standing in the library at the Institute, and the next she was in a green field, with Mark and Kieran on either side of her and music ringing through the air.

Mark dropped his hand from her shoulder; so did Kieran. Cristina shoved the artifact into her pack and slung it onto her back, pulling the straps tight as the boys looked around in astonishment.

“It’s a revel,” said Mark in disbelief. “We’ve landed in the middle of a revel.”

“Well, not the middle,” said Kieran. He was technically correct; they were just outside a field that was full of whirling, spinning dancers. Pavilions had been set up on the green, with one, more massive than the others, hung with swags of silk.

“I thought we were going to Bram’s Crossroads?” Cristina said.

“We’re close to it.” Kieran pointed. Across the field, Cristina could see the place where two roads met, surrounding by massive oak trees. “It is the place where the Seelie Lands and the Unseelie Lands meet.”

“Who is Bram?” said Cristina.

“Bram was King before my father, long ago,” said Kieran. He indicated the southern road. “Emma and Julian would be coming from there. The Seelie Lands. Any official procession would pass the crossroads.”

“So we have to get to the road,” said Mark. “We have to go through the revel.” He turned. “Disguise yourself, Prince Kieran.”

Kieran gave Mark a dark look. Cristina, not wanting to waste time, unbuckled Kieran’s pack, pulled out a rolled cloak, and handed it to him.

Kieran drew the cloak on, pulling the hood up. “Am I disguised?”