The Winter Long

“I have some idea,” I said, ducking under an oak branch. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait.”


“It would have been safer to take the Shadow Roads.”

“That assumes you’d be available immediately. You were, but that’s not the point. I couldn’t wait when there was a chance that Sylvester was in danger.” I dropped his hand long enough for us to run our own circles around the hawthorn.

When we were done, Tybalt reclaimed my hand. “That argument has merit. A pity it’s not the real reason you made this journey.”

“No, it’s not,” I admitted. “I just . . . I need to see him. I keep closing my eyes and seeing Simon’s face.”

“That, I can appreciate. You cannot, however, force me to like it.”

“No, I can’t. But I can be glad you’re here now.” I paused before chuckling to myself.

Tybalt gave me a sidelong look. “What is it?”

“Just thinking. The last time Simon Torquill came into my life, you and I were what, enemies? Adversaries? Definitely not friends.”

“I was certainly not sleeping with you at the time,” said Tybalt, the ghost of a smile flitting across his lips.

I managed not to grin in relief. That smile, brief as it had been, was all I could have asked for. A smiling Tybalt was a Tybalt who was still capable of stepping back and looking at the situation rationally. I loved him, but even I could find him frightening when he was fixated on vengeance. Not that Simon didn’t deserve a little vengeance; it was just that I wanted him alive to answer my questions when it was over.

We passed the final obstacle to find Quentin waiting by the door in the burnt-out old oak tree, an expression of polite disinterest on his face. I let go of Tybalt’s hand and approached the door, murmuring, “Didn’t hear a thing, did you?” to my squire as I passed him.

“Nope,” he said, without hesitation.

I smirked, raised my hand, and knocked.

Only a few seconds passed before the door was opened by a black-haired teenage girl in the livery of Shadowed Hills. Half the livery, anyway: she was wearing a proper page’s tunic, but her breeches had mysteriously vanished, replaced by blue jeans and tennis shoes. Quentin stiffened with automatic dismay, his own training doubtless providing a running inner commentary on how inappropriate her attire was. I just smiled, amused despite my exhaustion and the events of the day.

“Hi, Chelsea,” I said. “Can we come in?”

Chelsea Ames was a full-blooded Tuatha de Dannan, and the daughter of the head of Sylvester’s guard, a man named Etienne. She was going to be an immensely powerful teleporter when the potion that was currently blocking her powers wore off. For the moment, however, she had no magic at all, so it was no real surprise when she frowned at me, unrecognizing.

“You are . . . ?” she asked.

“Toby,” I said. My human disguise used to look more like my true face. That was a while ago. I indicated my companions. “This is Quentin and Tybalt. You know us all. Now please, can we come in? I need to talk to the Duke.”

“Toby!” Her confusion fled, replaced by delight. “Wow, I didn’t know you were coming over today! Um . . . the Duke’s asleep. That whole daylight thing, you know?” She stood aside to let us enter the knowe.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I said, unable to keep a note of grim certainty from creeping into my voice. “He’ll want to see me.”