Chimes at Midnight

“Okay,” said Madden, sounding pleased with himself. “Okay, okay. The bad people are gone now. Everything is wonderful, and I get to have a ginger cookie once Arden gets back. Protect the basement, get a ginger cookie.”


Danny rolled his eyes as he turned to look at me. “This guy for real?” he muttered.

“Cu Sidhe,” I said, like that explained everything. In a way, it did. They’re not stupid—in fact, some great fae scholars have been Cu Sidhe—but they prefer simplicity and joy to complexity and angst. It’s a nice change from the rest of Faerie. I stood, releasing my hold on Quentin, and walked to the curtain. “You can let go now, Danny.”

He released the seam. I spread the canvas “wall” and walked through, back out into the basement, where a smug-looking Madden was waiting for us.

“They left,” he said. “You did a good hide. It was real quiet. I barely heard you at all.”

That was high praise coming from a Cu Sidhe who’d been in animal form while we were trying to stay silent. I smiled at him, fighting back the urge to ruffle his ears. “You were an excellent diversion and protector,” I said. “You did real good.”

He beamed at the word “good.” I guess the urge to be considered a good dog is genetic. “Arden didn’t want you taken.”

“No, she wants to yell at us herself.” Speaking of yelling at people . . . I turned to Quentin. “Were you serious before?”

He grimaced, looking down at the floor. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

“Quentin.”

“You knew I was a blind foster.” He glanced back up at me. “I mean, didn’t you ever wonder if maybe I was . . . ?”

“No! No, I did not! You know why?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “Because your parents approved of you being my squire, and there is no way the High King would approve of his son and heir being trained by a changeling.”

“I told him what you said.”

That stopped me. “I . . . what?”

“The first time we met—really met, I mean, since you never let me deliver the Duke’s messages—you told me his rank gave him the right to command you, and you’d do what he said because he held your fealty. But that was all. You said he wasn’t better than you. That he got your attention and your courtesy because you respected him. And that changelings weren’t a lesser element to be kept under control.” Quentin bit his lip. “I’d never heard that before. Everyone back home said changelings were inferior, and I’d sort of started to believe them.”

“Even your parents?” The question was out before I could stop it.

To my relief, Quentin shook his head. “No. But they didn’t have time to manage the bulk of my education. That’s why Maman,” he said it the French way, two quick syllables that almost melted together like sealing wax, “said I had to be sent away. I had to learn to be tolerant if I was ever going to be a good . . . a good . . .” He hesitated, seemingly unwilling to finish.

So I finished for him. “A good King. They fostered you to Sylvester and let you be squired to me because having the crap kicked out of you on a daily basis was going to teach you how to be a good King.”

Quentin nodded.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You’re serious. You’re actually serious, and this isn’t a really poorly timed practical joke. You are the Crown Prince of the Westlands.”

“Yup.”

“The Crown Prince of the Westlands has seen me wandering around the house in athletic shorts and a tank top on laundry day.”

“Yup.”

“I’ve been making the Crown Prince of the Westlands do dishes.”

“Yup.”

“Are you gonna run through every chore you’ve ever involved the kid in?” asked Danny. “Because we’ll be here all night, and I don’t think we’ve got time for that.”