Chimes at Midnight

If anyone looked like they’d been modeled on the idea of the perfect Faerie Queen, it was her. She’d grown her hair out again, and it fell in a ribbon of white silk to puddle at her feet, impossibly long, especially since she’d bobbed it less than two years before. Her dress was blue velvet, shading from deep-sea blue at the hem to whitecap gray at the neckline. She was beautiful, as long as you didn’t meet her eyes, which were the moon-mad color of the foam on a stormy sea. That shouldn’t have been a color, but it was. Faerie is nothing if not creative.

My breath caught. Her beauty was not the kind that human hearts—or part-human hearts—were ever intended to deal with. As I breathed in, I tasted the strange cocktail of her heritage on the air. Siren, Sea Wight, and Banshee. How she teleported in and out of the ballroom was anybody’s guess. It’s possible to borrow the magic of others through their blood. There was probably a Tuatha de Dannan on her staff who was willing to bleed for her.

She frowned before looking down her nose at me, one perfect eyebrow raised in what looked like surprise. “Sir Daye,” she said. There was nothing warm or welcoming in that voice. “I did not expect to see you here again.”

Since my visits to the Queen’s Court always seemed to end with things going horribly wrong, I shared the sentiment. Still, I wasn’t foolish enough to say that aloud. I gripped the sides of my transformed skirt and sank into a deep curtsy. “Your Majesty.”

She let me hold that position long enough that my thighs began to ache before she said, sounding almost bored, “You may rise.”

I did, forcing myself to lift my head until I was looking at her face. Her beautiful, terrible face. “I came to petition for an audience.”

“Did you?” Her gaze flicked first to Quentin, then to Tybalt. “In the company of your loyal hounds, even. Well. How can I deny such a thoughtful petition? You have your audience. What petty trouble have you brought to lay before my feet tonight?”

I had wanted to do this in private if possible. I should have known the Queen wouldn’t allow it. She never had before, after all. “Your Majesty, as I am sure you’re aware, there has been an increasing amount of goblin fruit in the city of late. It’s appearing everywhere. The dealers—”

“Wait.” She raised a hand, cutting me off. “Have you truly come to ask about the goblin fruit? October, really. I’m disappointed in you. I knew your upbringing left much to be desired, but this seems a new low, even for your bloodline.”

“What?” I blinked at her, my train of thought utterly lost. “What do you mean?”

“I won’t grant you a license to peddle the fruit, October. I’m ashamed for you, that you would even ask.”

It felt like the floor was dropping out from under my feet. “I didn’t come to ask for a license to sell the stuff,” I said slowly. “I came to ask you to help me stop people from selling it at all. It’s dangerous. Changelings—”

“Should know better than to imbibe. Those who do not would clearly have become a danger to Faerie, given the time; better they float away like Ophelia, each to their own private river, and drown in peace, rather than continuing such terribly troubled lives.” A thin smile touched the edges of her lips. “I am doing this Kingdom a service.”

“You . . . you’re the source of the goblin fruit?”

“I am not the source, but I am the channel. Those who had need to know—those whose minds were not closed to the possibilities, whose halls were not choked with mongrels—” Her gaze flicked to Tybalt. “—they knew where to come. Perhaps you should question the worth of your allies if not one of them could tell you that.”

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. I just stared at her, trying to wrap my head around the enormity of what she was saying. She was the reason the goblin fruit was showing up on the streets. She was the one allowing it. “But, Your Majesty—”

“This is a difficult time for the pureblood community. The mortal world encroaches at every side, and we need what escapes we can find. Surely you, with your insistence on diving into every trial and trouble, must recognize that, sometimes, dreams are better.”