The Winter Long

“Evening?” I asked. Etienne looked at me like I was stupid. “I’m serious. I need to know, for sure, that we’re talking about the same dead woman. I’ve given up on dismissing anything as impossible.”


He sighed. “Yes. The Countess Winterrose arrived an hour or so ago. She just . . . she just walked in, like the wards weren’t there at all. The Duke went to meet her, as did I, and Grianne, and a host of others.”

“And?”

“And?” He looked at me bleakly. “All of them agreed immediately that her return was miraculous, and that she was somehow entitled to the hospitality of the Duchy, even though she had entered uninvited, even though she made no explanation of what had happened to her. Men and women I have respected for decades, suddenly slavering like striplings seeking a crumb of praise.”

“But not you,” I said slowly.

“No, not me,” he said. “I moved to the back of the group—no one seemed to see me go—and when I had the opportunity, I slipped away, back to my quarters, and locked the doors. I did not think,” he added, making a sour face, “to lock the servants’ doors. I am grateful for the reminder, even as I must ask you all to leave.”

“What?” I blinked at him. “Why?”

Etienne looked at me like I had said something even more stupid than usual. “It is not safe here, October,” he said. “But more, if you are here, there is a good chance someone will come looking for you.”

“We knew it wasn’t safe here before we came. I called before. Simon answered the phone. I’m guessing he came in with Evening, and then slipped away while everyone was distracted by her miraculous return.”

Etienne stared at me, apparently too shocked to speak. Oh, he was going to love what I had to say next.

“As for someone coming looking for us, we left a false trail and we took the servants’ tunnels. Sylvester will hopefully think we snuck out the back door. Besides which, we’re cold and exhausted, and I’m not going to run off and leave Sylvester under some should-be-dead lady’s spell. Even if she was an ally of mine, once upon a time.” I took a deep breath, trying to figure out how to explain the next part of the situation. Finally, I settled for just blurting it out. “Also, she’s the Daoine Sidhe Firstborn. I’m almost certain. Ninety percent certain.”

Etienne blinked.

“Let them in, Etienne,” said a female voice from the door at the back of the room. It had a faint Irish accent. I leaned around Etienne to see its source: Bridget Ames, his mortal lover and soon-to-be wife. She offered me a wan smile. “Hello, October. I think we can manage a few dry sweaters, if that’s all that you need.”

“Socks would be great, too,” I said, holding up my soggy shoes. “I feel like I’m going to lose a toe.”

“I’ll see what we can do,” she said, beckoning for us to follow as she turned and walked back through the door in the far wall, presumably heading deeper into the living quarters she shared with Etienne and Chelsea. I glanced to Etienne to see what he wanted us to do.

He sighed, shaking his head—but his fondness for her was unmistakable. There was a light in his eyes that I’d never seen before Bridget and Chelsea came to live with him, and it infused his voice as he said, “You’ve done it now. There’s no way she’ll let you leave until she’s sure you’re protected from the elements. Couldn’t you have reminded her that you heal at a ludicrous pace, and left before you risked Sylvester’s anger?”

“Nope, because now we need to grill you on why Evening’s whammy got everybody but you,” I said amiably, as I started after Bridget. “You said Grianne was there?”

“Yes,” he said.