An Artificial Night

“Because she misses you and remembers that you like roses? I don’t know. Luna, what the hell is going on here?” I glared at her, not bothering to hide my frustration. “I’m a kid, Katie’s turning into a horse, my Fetch is waiting with the car, you sent me off to die, and I’m pretty sure Blind Michael’s your—”

“He’s my father.” Her voice was calm now; resigned. “I said to be careful of all his children, you know. You never listen. I watched you walk out of here, and I knew you wouldn’t be back, and I didn’t tell my husband, because he wouldn’t have let you go. I love you, Toby. I always have. But I hate my father more, and when you offered the choice of your life or my own, I took the one that kept me safe. You should have listened when I said to be careful. He has you now, whether you know it or not, and I don’t know if you can be saved.”

I froze. “What?”

“How many times do you need me to say it? Yes, he’s my father, and yes, I sent you to die. At least Mother’s always said he was my father, and I believe her. She’s never broken free of him.” She smiled bitterly. “They recreated Faerie more accurately than they dreamed; she doesn’t love him and hasn’t loved him in centuries, but she orbits him like the moon orbits the earth. He knows it and hates her, and they’ll never leave each other. Habit holds them.”

“But . . .”

“But what? I was the last of their children, born when they still thought they could love each other. When he still allowed the sun to rise.” Her smile faltered, fading. “There was sunshine then, and rainbows. We lived in his halls once; I remember that. But things changed. They fell out of love. The sun stopped rising. It was too late for us to leave his lands—my siblings were gone, scattered, and they couldn’t hide us—so Mother and I ran to the forest. The trees were strong because Mother was strong, and the roses were strong because I was there. I used to watch the Hunt sweep the moors searching for children . . . for me.” She shook her head. “I’m part of what he’s looking for. His lost little girl. And I will not go back.”

“How did you get away?”

“I escaped. Isn’t that how one always gets away? One escapes. One takes whatever route is open and gets out. The methods don’t matter.”

“Sometimes they do.”

“No, they don’t.” Her expression hadn’t changed, but her voice . . . she was begging, and I didn’t know what she was begging for. “Please, October, believe me. They don’t matter.”

I looked at her. There were a hundred questions I wanted to ask, and years of history telling me I shouldn’t. Why should I care where she’d come from? She was my friend and my liege, and Sylvester loved her. And she sent me to my death.

There were reasons to ask. There were reasons to keep my peace. Answers are bitter things, and once you get them, they’re yours and you can’t give them back. Did I want to know badly enough that I was willing to live with whatever answer she gave me?

No. I didn’t. Swallowing hard, I said the first thing that came to mind: “Well, I guess that explains Raysel.”

“Yes, it does. Blood will tell. I tried to pretend it wouldn’t, that we could change, but blood always tells. We carry the burdens of our parents.” She sighed, holding out her hand in an easy, imperious gesture. “My rose, if you would?”

I considered arguing. Then I saw the look in her eyes, all bitter sorrow and broken resignation, and handed it to her without a word. She curled her fingers around the stem and heaved a deep, bone-weary sigh, closing her eyes as she whispered, “Hello, Mother.”

The rose began gleaming like a star, getting brighter and brighter until everything was obscured save for Luna and the rose. There was a flash of black and silver light, burning pink around the edges like a sunset, and Luna was gone, replaced by someone I didn’t know.