Rosemary and Rue

“I can do this,” I said to my reflection. It didn’t contradict me.

The cats were on the couch when I left the bathroom and watched impassively as I strode through the apartment and out the door, grabbing my keys off the counter as I passed. Resetting the wards took a matter of seconds, the magic coming, again, with surprising and unsettling ease. There were wild mushrooms growing on the narrow strip of grass beside the door. I paused to pick a few, tucking them into my pocket. You never know what you’re going to need.

There was no one in sight as I walked to my car. It was too close to Christmas. Everyone was either at work, shopping, or with their families, not hanging around the parking garage, and that was fine with me. I was already planning to see enough unfriendly faces. Evening’s curse relaxed when I started moving; there was no need for it to hurt me when I was actually getting things done.

Taking one last breath to steady myself, I climbed into the car, put the key into the ignition, and started for the freeway.

Shadowed Hills is the largest Duchy in the Bay Area, consisting of the area around Mt. Diablo. That mountain defines their boundaries; if you can see Mt. Diablo, odds are good you’re in the Duchy. It’s one of the largest political entities in the Kingdom of the Mists, but it makes up for it by having several semi-autonomous Counties and no political aspirations whatsoever.

Still, it’s big enough to support some pretty spectacular architecture. Maybe that’s why, as if to spite the expectations of anyone who might come to visit, the Torquill knowe is located in a park called Paso Nogal in the sleepy suburb of Pleasant Hill, about twenty miles outside the boundaries of the Mt. Diablo State Park. It would take a little less than an hour to get there, driving counter-commute. Getting into the knowe might add another twenty minutes. They’re big on security, and I couldn’t blame them; not after what happened to Luna and Rayseline.

I pulled into the parking lot at Paso Nogal and got out of the car, actually somewhat grateful for the cold. From the look of the grass, it had been raining, and that had driven off the bored teenagers that might otherwise have been spending their Christmas vacation hanging around in the park. Silently blessing the weather, I began the trek up the side of the nearest hill.

The Torquills believe in taking precautions: entering their knowe requires jumping through a series of metaphorical hoops that range from silly to annoying. I stopped to catch my breath after walking up the largest hill in the park, crawling under a cluster of hawthorn bushes, and running six times counterclockwise around an oak tree. The ground was slick and muddy, but at least the rain had stopped. My one and only trip to Shadowed Hills in the rain convinced me years ago that there was nothing that pressing.

Once I was sure I wouldn’t collapse, I turned, knocking on the surface of a nearby stump. The sound echoed like it was rolling through a vast hall, and a door swung open in the hollow oak nearby. Smoothing my shirt and brushing my hair away from my face in a gesture that was half anxiety, half courtesy, I stepped through into the knowe of Shadowed Hills.