The Winter Long

Watching Raj size her up, his expression faintly wary in the way it always was when he was dealing with someone new . . . it made me wish we could have given that same luxury to all the kids I knew. “Here you are, sweetie, here’s a year where you can’t do anything for Faerie, and so it’ll leave you the hell alone.” It was a silly dream that could never be realized. That didn’t keep me from having it.

Etienne’s eyes narrowed as he looked around the room. “October,” he said, in a tone which implied that he knew perfectly well he wasn’t going to appreciate my answer, “where did your troublesome swain and your squire go?”

Guess Etienne hadn’t received the “Quentin is the Crown Prince” memo. Good. That was supposed to be a secret, no matter how bad we were proving to be at keeping it. While Etienne was currently as powerless as his daughter, his sense of etiquette had always been top-notch, at least where the power structure of the Divided Courts was concerned. “Oh, they just went to do me a little favor,” I said airily. “Don’t worry about it. Quentin knows the servants’ halls really well; they won’t get caught.”

“And what, precisely, is the nature of this ‘little favor’?”

“They’re getting the Duchess.” Etienne gaped at me. I sighed. “Come on, Etienne, did you really not see that one coming? Luna was raised by two of the Firstborn. My mother is Firstborn. I need to talk to Luna.”

“But why?”

“Because October believes the previously dead woman is actually the Firstborn of the Daoine Sidhe,” said Raj, abandoning his study of Chelsea in favor of watching how Etienne took the news. “I am assuming she suspects herself of being resistant to Evening’s manipulations because she had to learn to ignore her own mother, and wishes to verify this with the Duchess.”

“Something like that,” I said. Etienne was frowning at me again. I sighed. “Now what? I told you she was the Daoine Sidhe Firstborn.”

“You’re serious,” he said. “You said that before, but I assumed it was some sort of strange jest. The Countess Winterrose may be an intruder, but she is not Firstborn!” He sounded affronted. I understood the feeling.

“Well, why not?” I spread my hands in a helpless gesture. “The Luidaeg lives here. My mom lives here. Blind Michael’s skerry is anchored here. If the Firstborn are grouping together, it makes sense that there might be more than we’ve been able to identify.” There were so many other reasons for me to be right—and I knew they were true, I knew it, just like I knew that this answered a dozen questions I’d barely recognized about why Evening’s blood always tasted just a little different than the blood of the other Daoine Sidhe. I’d been too weak and too far in denial over my own nature to understand what was in front of me.

That wasn’t true anymore.

Bridget returned through one of the open doors, a burgundy sweater over one arm and a pair of socks in her hand. “I hope this will fit you,” she said, without preamble. “We’re not much of a size, but you can wear your sweaters a little large, and it won’t hurt you any.”

“I appreciate it,” I said, automatically dodging the “thank you” the sentence wanted to contain. “Can I leave my jacket here for a little while? I’m going to want it back.” I hated to leave my jacket behind for even a short period, but wearing wet leather wasn’t doing anything for my core temperature—or my sense of smell, since the pungent odor of tanned hide dipped in ocean was trying to overwhelm everything around it.