Chimes at Midnight

I wanted to run more than I wanted another bite of goblin fruit. That realization was a relief—I could still find things I wanted—and I held to it tightly as he took another step, carrying us out of the thin barrier zone between the mortal world and the Summerlands. Then we were inside the knowe, and the biting sensations stopped, replaced by the familiar disorientation of breathing air that had never been touched by the Industrial Revolution.

At least it was better lit here, even if I couldn’t see a direct source of the illumination. That meant pixies, or witch-light, or something else my eyes couldn’t handle. Tybalt put me down without being asked. I kept hold of his elbow as we walked, afraid of being lost in the stacks. Somehow, I didn’t think the Library would be very open to helping me. Not now. Not as I was.

We stepped out into what I couldn’t help thinking of as the Library’s living room. Mags was there, sitting on a stool that allowed her to fan her wings without worrying about hitting them against anything. She was flipping through a photo album, but looked up when she heard our footsteps. Heard my footsteps, really; Tybalt was silent, and Quentin was only a little louder. Her eyes widened and she set the photo album aside, sliding off the stool.

“What happened?” she breathed, staring at me.

“I got hit in the face with a pie,” I said.

Mags stopped, blinking. “You got . . . hit in the face with a pie,” she repeated. “I . . . what? I’m sorry, but I’ve been in charge of this Library for a long time. I’ve seen a lot of really ridiculous things. I lived in Wales. And there is no way being hit with a pie should have turned you human.”

“It was a really evil pie,” I said. Mags looked at me blankly. I shook my head. “It was a goblin fruit pie, and it turns out that since goblin fruit is more addictive and effective for humans, and lucky me, I come from a race that can change the balance of fae blood—normally, anyway, I can’t do a damn thing right now—so since I’m part human, I turned myself more human while I was drugged out of my mind, in order to enjoy the goblin fruit more. Now I’m stuck. I’m addicted, I’m starving, but the idea of trying to eat anything but goblin fruit makes me want to throw up. We could really use a miracle right about now.”

“Miracles aren’t exactly a Library specialty,” she said. “Could you . . . what do you mean, can change how human you are?”

“Remember that thing about Mom being Firstborn?”

Mags nodded.

“That’s what I got out of the deal. I’m Dóchas Sidhe. We’re blood-workers, to the point where we’re basically living hope chests. Only Mom never taught me anything, so I was hoping you’d have a book on hope chests that could help me understand what I do and how it works. I guess that’s more important now than ever, since I need to find a hope chest. If I don’t get less human in a hurry, I’m going to have problems.” I already had problems.

“Oh.” Mags took a step backward. “I pulled the book for you earlier. Let me get it.” Then she was gone, running into the stacks. I knew that she had to be leaving a trail of pixie-sweat behind her, but I couldn’t see it, and part of my mind kept trying to insist that her wings were fake, just cellophane over pipe cleaners. That wasn’t good. The human mind instinctively rejects Faerie, because it’s safer that way. Only if I started rejecting Faerie, I was going to be in a world of hurt.

“We need to find me some fae ointment,” I said, directing the comment toward Tybalt. “Can you go to Goldengreen and—”

“No.” The word was said flatly, and with absolute conviction. There was no getting around it. “I will not leave you again. Do not ask me. When we are done here, I can take you there. But I will not leave you.”

“Okay.” I touched his arm. “I’m sorry.”