Chimes at Midnight

“What is it?” he asked.

“Listen to this,” I said, and read, “‘When the last of the hope chests was crafted, Oberon gathered them, and gathered also his children, and the children of his Queens, to ask what they would do with such power as those chests contained. Five were given to the best of them, and five to the worst of them. One was given to the author of this book, for safekeeping, and one to her direst enemy, for sake of balance. The hope chests exist to keep Faerie in balance. Forget that at your peril.’”

Tybalt frowned at the page. “I don’t see why this excites you.”

“Oberon gave the hope chests to the Firstborn, right?”

“According to this text, yes.”

“Well, we have more Firstborn around here than you can shake a stick at. Maybe someone we know has a hope chest, and we’ve just never asked.” Not Mom. She was too young, as Firstborn went, and she didn’t need one. Acacia, maybe, or the Luidaeg . . . “Maybe there’s an index that says who got which chest.” I flipped to the back of the book.

“You never could have been a scholar, could you, little fish?” Tybalt toyed with a lock of my hair, his voice turning contemplative.

I kept flipping. “I never wanted to be. Research is boring if it doesn’t end in hitting—ha! There is an index. Oberon bless the Type A personalities of the world.” I ran a finger down the list of names, looking for one that I knew. Then I stopped, and blinked. “Whoa. That’s weird.”

“What is?”

“The Mists is a pretty recent Kingdom, right? It’s younger than Mom, and she’s younger than the hope chests.”

“I believe that to be correct, yes.”

“So why is Goldengreen listed in here?” I flipped forward in the book again, stopping when I got to the page indicated by the index. It was an illustration of a hope chest that I knew all too well. It was the only one I’d ever seen, and the intricacy of its carvings weren’t something I’d forget any time soon. Feeling dazed, I lowered the book to let Tybalt see.

Fig. XIX: Goldengreen.

For a moment, we both sat quietly, considering the picture. Finally, in a soft voice, I said, “The key didn’t have anything to do with the knowe.”

“What?”

“When Evening died, I rode her blood. That’s how I found the hope chest in the first place. I let her tell me where to go.” The experience damn near killed me. Her blood was too strong for me, and I was too human to handle it. I glanced at my hand, lips pressed into a flat line. I was more human now than I was then. No blood magic for me. “One of the things she, um, ‘said’ was that the key would open my way in Goldengreen.”

“I see,” said Tybalt, sounding puzzled.

“No, you don’t, and neither did I until now. Tybalt, the hope chests have names, and the key did nothing to help me get into the knowe, or to guide me while I was there.” I twisted to face him, the book still open in my arms. “The key got me to the hope chest, because it was taking me to Goldengreen. This is Goldengreen.” I gestured to the illustration.

“They named the knowe for the treasure it contained?”

“I guess so.” I turned the page, and read aloud, “‘The seventh chest to appear was Goldengreen, made of oak, ash, rowan, and thorn, carved by no fewer than seven hands, and no more than thirteen. The exact number is unknown, but it is unique among the hope chests in that no trace of apple or rosewood was used in its making, nor willow, nor pine. The wood was soaked in blood before it was lain into place, and the hope chest itself does not sit easy in the hands, making some suspect the crafters died in the making of it’ . . . charming.”

“Who was its bearer?” asked Tybalt. “Perhaps we can determine where the others might be by eliminating at least one of the possibilities.”