Rosemary and Rue

The police station looked pretty much like every other station I’ve ever seen: a little sad, a little overused, and seriously in need of a good steam cleaning. I didn’t notice the computers on the desks or the dates on the calendars; I still wasn’t used to being bipedal, and most of my attention was fixed on staying upright. The attending officer, a brisk, no-nonsense man named Paul Underwood, called for someone to clean the scrapes on my elbows, hands, and knees, and had them bring me some clothes. They were kind enough to let me dress alone in the bathroom; I guess having no possessions or pockets makes you seem less likely to be a dangerous criminal, and the various small injuries I’d picked up during my trek through the garden made them more inclined to believe me when I claimed to have been assaulted and left for dead. Being in a state of shock helped me ramble convincingly.

Now that I was starting to understand what Simon had done, I couldn’t get past the fact that he’d actually turned me into a fish. My thoughts were chasing their tails like puppies, caught between fear and fury. I thought the worst was over. I had no idea that the worst was still to come, or just how bad that could be.

Officer Underwood fed me coffee and stale donuts until I started making sense, and then he gave me papers to fill out—name, social security number, residence, place of employment—all the standard questions. He took them away when I was finished, presumably to be filed. Still standard procedure . . . at least until he came back ten minutes later with murder in his eyes.

“Just what are you trying to pull, lady?”

It was my name that did it. He knew it because he’d been assigned to the case when I disappeared; he spent a year turning over rocks, questioning witnesses, even dredging the big lake in Golden Gate Park looking for my body and finding nothing, and he didn’t think it was very clever, or very funny, for me to be posing as a dead woman. He handed me a clean set of papers, ordering me to fill them out correctly, without any stupid jokes. I think that’s when I started understanding just how much trouble I was in. Numbly, I turned the papers over, starting to fill them out, and the first correction came before I even got to my name.

“You’ve got the date wrong. It’s June eleventh, two thousand and nine, not nineteen ninety-five. Christ, lady, pay attention.”

My fingers tightened, snapping the pencil in half as I stared at the attending officer, eyes wide and uncomprehending. “How long?” I whispered.

“What?”

“How long did he leave me . . . oh, no. Oh, oak and ash, no.” I closed my eyes, letting myself go limp as the enormity of it all struggled to sink in. Fourteen years. I’d been afraid the spell might have lasted weeks, maybe even months, but fourteen years? It was too much to wrap my mind around. But I didn’t have a choice, and it just got worse from there.

Everything was gone. Every single thing I’d built or worked for in the mortal world . . . all gone. Cliff sold my business to cover my debts after my investigator’s license expired; after I expired, since seven years on the missing list is the limit of a human existence. I’ve always found that slightly ironic—after all, seven years is also the traditional period of confinement for those humans who manage to find their way into the hollow hills. October Daye, rest in peace.

Thank Oberon for Evening Winterrose, known as Evelyn Winters in the mortal world. She was the only person I knew whose telephone number wouldn’t have changed in the intervening years. I used my one phone call to beg her to come and get me. I expected her to yell, but she didn’t. She just came to the station, confirmed that I was who I was claiming to be, and somehow convinced them to release me into her custody. Then she took me to a motel where I could get my head on straight. We both knew that taking me to her place wouldn’t have helped, and so neither of us suggested it; I wasn’t up for entering someone else’s domain.