The Winter Long

“Yes. I promise that no matter what you say, unless it spells immediate disaster for someone I care about, I’ll sit here and eat before I go haring off, okay? Besides. You took my shoes.” And my knife, I realized: I was unarmed.

Maybe that was intentional. Tybalt took a breath, looked at me solemnly, and said, “Your suspicions are confirmed. The woman we know as Evening Winterrose was born Eira Rosynhwyr, called the Rose of Winter, first daughter of Oberon, King of Faerie, and Titania, the Summer’s Queen. She did not return from the dead, because she never died. Of all the Firstborn, the Rose of Winter has been called the most difficult to kill.”

“Ah.” It wasn’t as much of a shock as I’d expected it to be: I’d already been almost certain. This just confirmed it. “And Luna was able to resist her as much as she did because . . . ?”

“Because she was not there when Evening first arrived. She remained surrounded by her roses, as she said, which allowed her to resist any call that Evening might send. Further, she had already been exposed at such great length to her own parents, whose Firstborn nature would normally have overwhelmed her—but most of all, because Evening was not Luna’s original. Any of the Daoine Sidhe would have trouble denying Evening if given a direct command.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I suspect that this was meant to make the Firstborn better able to control their descendants. I shall have to ask fair Amandine how well that has worked for her when I see her next.”

“If my mother turns you into a lemon tree, I’m not going to yell at her,” I said, somewhat numbly. My mind was far away, and my body took advantage of that brief absence to shovel several bites of chicken and potatoes into my mouth. I barely tasted any of it. Swallowing, I asked, “So why couldn’t Grianne resist her? The Candela aren’t descended from Titania.”

“No, but Grianne swears her allegiance to Sylvester, who is Evening’s to command.”

“Etienne resisted. He swears his allegiance to Sylvester.”

“I have no idea why he was able to achieve that state of grace. Wheels within wheels.” Tybalt sighed. “It’s all very troublesome.”

“And it’s just going to get worse,” I said grimly. “Can we leave the boys here?”

Tybalt blinked. “Quentin is a friend of this Court, and is well chaperoned by the presence of my nephew, but you’re generally loath to be parted from him. Why—”

“He’s Daoine Sidhe. I don’t want that bitch telling him what to do.” There was a chance his exposure to so many other Firstborn—from the Luidaeg to Blind Michael—would make him resistant. I didn’t want to risk it. I took a bite of salad before adding, “I’d hide all the Daoine Sidhe I know here, if that wouldn’t be abusing your hospitality.”

“I appreciate your concern for the limits of my charity,” said Tybalt dryly.

“I try to be considerate,” I said, before inhaling another few bites of chicken. My hunger wasn’t abating. The magic I’d been doing had taken more out of me than I thought. At least the food seemed to be taking the edge off of my headache. “But yeah. I don’t want Quentin near her. If he can be hidden here for a little while, that’s for the best.”

“He will object.”

“He’ll lose.”

Tybalt raised an eyebrow. “You sound remarkably sure of yourself. Raj—”