Chimes at Midnight

A strange look crossed her face. Then she shook her head, and said, “I don’t care. I don’t care who your mother is, or why that makes pie your weakness. I want my brother back.”


“Amandine isn’t Daoine Sidhe, and neither am I. It’s hard to explain, but when the Queen sent that man . . . I think she was trying to get me hooked so she could destroy my credibility. Maybe that would have worked, except I’m not Daoine Sidhe. I didn’t just get hooked. I changed the balance of my own blood so that the goblin fruit would be even stronger. I turned myself mostly human.”

“So turn yourself back,” she said.

“I can’t. I need a hope chest.”

Arden raised her eyebrows. “My brother is missing and you came to ask if I have something that doesn’t exist? Are you high? Oh, wait, goblin fruit—of course you’re high. There are no hope chests, October. They’re a fairy tale.”

“Says the lost Princess of the Mists,” I snapped. “They’re real. Evening had one. I found it after she died.”

“So? Then you don’t have a problem. Get the hope chest, do whatever it is you do with hope chests, and leave me out of it. I just want to get my brother and get out of here.”

“I gave it to the Queen.”

Arden barked a short, startled laugh. “Oh, is that what this is all about? You still think I’m going to help you overthrow her? Dream on. I am done with insurrections. Find yourselves another Princess.”

“That doesn’t sound very royal,” I said.

“What do any of you know about being royal?” she shot back. “It’s all betrayals and backstabbing and never trusting anyone.”

“I know a lot about being royal,” said Quentin.

It was a calm statement, made with absolute sincerity. We turned toward him. Quentin stepped around Danny, moving with careful grace, his shoulders locked in a line so precise it could have been drawn with a ruler. His chin was up, and his eyes were fixed on Arden.

She blinked before shaking her head. “Watching them doesn’t make you an expert. It makes you a voyeur. You don’t know anything, kid.”

“I know more about it than you do,” he said, as he reached the bottom of the steps. He shot me an apologetic glance before turning to face her again.

In that instant, I knew. That look . . . it answered all the questions he’d never been willing to, and put so many statements into a new context. I stared at him, slack-jawed, the urge to shake him and the urge to slap him warring for dominance in my mind.

Neither of them won out. Instead, I stayed where I was, and listened as he said, “My name is Quentin Sollys. I am the Crown Prince of the High Kingdom of the Westlands. And I think I know a thing or two about being royal, no matter what you say.”

“I’m going to kill him,” I muttered.

Arden just stared. “What?”

“My father is King Aethlin Sollys of the Westlands,” said Quentin. “I’ve been in blind fosterage for the last six years. It seemed like the best way for me to grow up without being treated like a Prince everywhere I went.” He glanced at me sidelong, and while there was still apology in his eyes, it was underscored now by amusement. “I can definitively say that I’ve not been receiving the royal treatment for the last several years.”

“You people are insane.” Arden shook her head, apparently shaking off her shock at the same time. “She’s not Daoine Sidhe, and a pie turned her human, so she wants me to go through with an act of treason so she can get her hands on a fairy tale, and now you’re telling me it’s okay, because you’re secretly the Crown Prince of the Kingdom that my Kingdom answers to.” She turned, leveling a finger at Danny. “Are you going to tell me that you’re really Oberon in disguise? Is that the next piece of the lunatic pie?”

“Nah, not me,” said Danny. “I’m just the taxi driver. Also, it ain’t treason if you’re the rightful heir. Insurrection, maybe. But that’s a technicality.”