Rosemary and Rue

Nodding dolefully, Connor shoved his hands into his pockets and trailed after his wife. He caught my eye as he passed, and the look on his face was sad, almost beaten. Raysel’s the one with the Kitsune blood, but he was the one who looked like a whipped puppy.

The three of us stood for a moment in uncomfortable silence before Luna glanced to Sylvester and said, “She’s still a little unstable from everything that . . . from everything. My family has always been subject to . . . well. We don’t recover quickly from the sort of things she was forced to go through. It’s just our way.” She shifted as she spoke, refusing to meet my eyes.

No one seems to know what “things” Luna and her daughter went through during their absence, but the haunted look in Luna’s face told me they might have been worse than I’d ever dreamed. “Of course,” I said, feeling somehow embarrassed to have witnessed Raysel’s outburst, and turned to Sylvester.

The color had drained from his face, leaving him pale and shaking. He didn’t seem to have noticed Raysel’s dramatic exit. “Dead?” he said.

“Murdered,” I said, looking down, trying to avoid the shock I knew I’d see in his expression. Too late. “They shot her, then slit her throat with an iron blade.”

A sharp silence fell over the room. I raised my head, meeting Sylvester’s eyes. “Iron?” he said.

“Yes. She died from her wounds.” Not from anything more merciful.

“So there’s no way it was anything but murder.” There was something broken in his tone. The purebloods have to stick together, because they have nowhere else to turn, and so every death hits them hard. Changelings don’t work that way. We’re too scattered and too different, and it can take us years, sometimes, to find out when someone dies. Death is more of a danger for us, and that makes it seem less impossible. That doesn’t make it any better.

“I’m sorry,” I said lamely.

“I . . . yes. Yes, of course.” His fingers sought Luna’s and gripped them hard. “Oh, Evening. Was there . . . was that all you had to tell?”

“Before she died, she asked me to find her killers,” I said, watching him carefully. “I’m here because I wanted you to know. And because I have to ask for help.”

“I wish you’d come sooner,” said Luna, very quietly. “We’ve missed you, and no homecoming should be darkened by this sort of news. It’s an ill omen.”

Sylvester’s concerns were more immediate than ill omens. Expression sharpening, he asked, “You said yes?” All I had to do was nod. Sylvester knew my word would bind me, whether or not I wanted it to. I didn’t see a reason to tell him about the curse; he was already going to worry enough. “Oh, Toby. Why did you agree?’

“Because I didn’t have a choice.” I folded my hands behind my back. “If you don’t want to help, I’ll understand.”

“I didn’t say that. I . . . damn. Can you give us a few minutes? Please?” His voice was tight with the strain of holding back tears. He didn’t want to cry in front of me anymore than I wanted to watch him cry.

“I haven’t been here in a while,” I said, taking the hint. “I’ll go see what Luna’s done with the gardens. Send for me?”

Sylvester nodded, mutely. Luna echoed the gesture, ears still pressed flat.

Seized by a strange impulse, I darted forward and hugged them both at once, one with each arm, before I turned to run out of the room, gathering my skirt in both hands. I was lucky; I got out fast enough. No matter what else might happen before I left the knowe, I wouldn’t have to see him cry.





TWELVE