The Winter Long

“Please, I implore you, don’t hang up.”


Only two people had that voice, and there was no reason for Sylvester to be calling me from an unfamiliar number. “Hello, Simon,” I said wearily. “How did you get this number?”

“Is that really what you want to know right now?”

“Given that you tried to turn me into a tree, and all the other antisocial crap you’ve pulled, yeah, it is. Did you hurt someone to get my number?” The door opened and Tybalt stepped back into the room just in time to hear my last comment. His eyes widened. I held up my hand, signaling for him to stay quiet. Just for the moment; just for now. “Answer me, Simon.”

Simon sighed. “The Hobs at Shadowed Hills have your number written on a piece of paper posted next to the telephone. I copied it down. It’s all very primitive there. I thought my brother would have made more strides toward modernity. He always thought of himself as a progressive, when we were younger.”

“You didn’t hurt anyone.”

“No, I did not,” said Simon. “Pray greet your feline swain for me, as he has clearly entered the room. You may stop ostentatiously using my given name and repeating everything I say. I promise, I am not calling to distress you.”

“And yet you’re managing it,” I said. “What do you want, Simon?”

“I want to see you.”

I laughed before I realized I was going to. “Oh, not just no, but hell no. That’s not going to happen.”

“But it must. Please. There are things we must discuss. I have . . . a small time, when I am not being watched. I don’t know when this time will come again.” Simon paused before saying, “I would have come to you, but I couldn’t find you. I don’t know where you have hidden yourself, and I don’t want to. There’s too much chance I could be compelled to tell.”

He sounded sincere. I blinked. Simon really didn’t want to know where I was, because he might have to tell Evening. He hadn’t given me away when I’d called Shadowed Hills. He’d brought us the winter roses.

Maybe he was really trying to be on my side.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Your home. I can linger for an hour. Please, come.” The line went dead.

I lowered the phone and looked at Tybalt. “Simon Torquill is at my house. He wants to talk to me.”

“And you have agreed to let him.” Tybalt shook his head. “I suppose I should be upset, but we both knew it was only a matter of time before you resumed pursuing impossible quests and slaying dragons. Shall I wake your squire?”

“No,” I said, walking over to offer him my hand. “Simon also said he couldn’t find us here. If leaving Quentin behind keeps him safe, I can deal with him being pissed at me.” I felt a small pang of guilt at the idea of leaving without saying good-bye to Quentin, but it was just that: small. Waking Quentin up would be selfish, and it would slow us down. We needed to get to Simon as quickly as possible. Part of me wanted to tell Tybalt that I didn’t want to go; that if Simon couldn’t find us in the Court of Cats, neither could Evening, and we would be safe here. The rest of me knew that was a lie.

“Take a deep breath,” said Tybalt, and took my hands, and pulled me with him into the shadows.

Wherever we’d been in the Court of Cats, it must have been near the house, because we had only been running for a few minutes when we stepped back into the warmth of my kitchen. The lights were out, and the sky outside the windows was the clear, brittle blue of the early morning. I pulled away from Tybalt, reaching up to wipe the ice away from my face. The faint smell of oranges and smoke drifted in from the hall.

“October?”

I held up a hand, signaling for Tybalt to stay quiet as I sniffed the air. Simon’s magic was the only thing I could detect. It had been long enough since dawn that even the ashy smell of my wards burning away had had plenty of time to clear.