Rosemary and Rue

“Yes,” I said, resisting the urge to add anything else. Considering the look he was giving me, he might turn and run. That would upset Devin, and I didn’t need Devin mad when I was already in his domain uninvited, looking for favors.

“You knew the Winterrose,” the boy said, in an almost mournful tone.

I paused, reappraising him. He was taller than I was, with that thin, lanky teenage build that always seems to fill out while you aren’t watching. Overall, he looked like a movie producer’s idea of a street thug—too clean, with unnaturally golden hair bundled into a rough ponytail and his too-green eyes softened by an almost puppy dog expression. Only the pointed ears broke the image, making it seem more like he’d escaped from a game of Dungeons & Dragons than from the set of the latest teen drama. I wouldn’t have put him at more than sixteen, maybe seventeen, if you stretched the truth and squinted. “What’s your name, kid?”

He blushed under my scrutiny, but managed not to squirm as he said, “Manuel.”

“Is Dare your sister?”

“Yeah,” he said, looking embarrassed. Almost against my will, I found myself warming to him. “I’m sorry about how she talked to you. Sometimes she doesn’t do too well with people who aren’t . . . who aren’t from around here.”

“People who aren’t family” was what he meant, but I could tell he wouldn’t say it to my face. I upgraded my opinion of his intelligence a few notches, saying, “It’s not a big deal; I used to live here, and I’ve had more punks talk down to me than I can count.” He colored again, trying not to glare. The kid got points for that: even if your sister’s a brat, you should stand up for her. “Relax, okay? I said I wouldn’t tell Devin, and I meant it. She doesn’t deserve that sort of trouble just for mouthing off.”

Manuel smiled, and I smiled back automatically. He was going to be a heartbreaker when he finished growing up. “Th-that’s very kind, Ms. Daye.” Oh, he was young: I could hear the hastily avoided “thank you” in his stutter. It takes a while for certain rules to become instinctive, especially for changelings. We’re not born to them, and our mortal parents tend to drill basic manners into us long before the Choice rolls around.

I shrugged. “It’s not a problem. I screwed up, too, when I was her age, and if folks hadn’t been willing to give me a break once in a while, I’d be long gone.” I paused, choosing my words carefully before I continued. “You said that I ‘knew the Winterrose’ . . . who did you mean?” Silently, I added, And how did you know she was dead, kid?

“Countess Winterrose.” He brushed his hair out of his eyes with the back of one hand. “You’ve heard, right?” He sounded nervous again: he didn’t want to be the one who told me I’d just lost a friend. Or maybe he just didn’t want me to keep asking him questions.

“Yes. I’ve heard.” How did this kid know Evening? She would never have come this far into the changeling slums fourteen years ago. Then again, even purebloods can change. It just takes them time; maybe a decade and a half was long enough.

“I’m sorry.”

“Join the club. How did you find out she was dead?” The words were out, cold and flat between us.

To his credit, he met my eyes as he said, “News travels fast. A Glastig that lives in her building told us—Bucer O’Malley? He saw the police going into her apartment. He listened long enough to find out what was going on and he came here and told us.”

“Bucer lived in her building? How the hell did he afford—never mind. It’s not important.” I remembered Bucer. He was never one of Devin’s kids, but he’d done piecework for Devin from time to time. If he thought there was a profit in it, he would’ve carried the news of Evening’s death Home as fast as he could. “Do you know where he was going from here?”

“To the Queen’s Court, he said. To tell her.”

I grimaced. “Lovely.” That was one lead down: after he’d spoken to the Queen, there was no way Bucer would speak to me.