The Winter Long

The look on Chelsea’s face as she closed the door told me just how disturbing I sounded. “I, um . . . you guys wait here, okay? I’m going to go get my dad.” She took off without waiting for an answer, running down the hall and skidding out of sight around a corner.

Chelsea and I met under strange circumstances—something that’s true of me and all the teenagers in my life. Chelsea’s mother had raised her knowing that she was a changeling, but not knowing exactly what that meant, and when Chelsea’s powers activated, Bridget had had no idea how to cope. Etienne might have been able to help, but he’d been unaware of Chelsea’s existence. Lots of complications later, Chelsea was purely fae—a consequence of my having burned out her human blood in order to save her from her own out-of-control teleportation—and her parents were finally living together. It seemed to be working out for them so far, thank Oberon. Bridget would not have taken being permanently separated from her daughter well at all, and that would have been unavoidable if she had chosen not to stay with Etienne.

Sometimes I think Faerie is overly hard on the children it creates when it brushes up against the mortal world. And then I pause and realize that it’s even harder on our parents.

“She’s a good choice for daytime door duty,” I said, as I released my human disguise. Tybalt and Quentin did the same. “She’s full-blooded fae, but she hasn’t gone nocturnal yet.”

“She’s a terrible choice for door duty,” said Quentin. “She doesn’t know any of the proper forms, she can’t see through illusions or even know for sure when someone’s wearing them, and did you see what she was wearing?” He sounded most offended about the last part.

I smiled at him, shaking my head. “My little conservative.”

“I may disagree with his assessment of the young lady’s attire, but I cannot argue with her lack of powers,” said Tybalt, slowly. “If she cannot see someone’s true nature, how is she to bar your enemies from entry?”

“Oh, that’s never been the point of door duty here.” I started walking. If Etienne wanted to talk to me, he could come and find me. “If an enemy showed up, she’d let them in. Probably offer them tea and scones or something, too.”

Tybalt blinked at me. “I . . . what?”

“Sylvester is a retired hero. He doesn’t get to have much fun these days, and most of what he does get is interrupted by his knights insisting that he’s not supposed to risk himself without really good reasons,” I said. “An enemy making it into the knowe isn’t a problem. It’s a treat. An enemy making it out of the knowe, on the other hand . . .”

“I will never understand the Divided Courts,” muttered Tybalt darkly.

“If it helps at all, neither will I,” I said.

The halls of Shadowed Hills were built to house an army, with smooth marble floors and high ceilings that could accommodate any number of aerial or oversized fae. I’ve seen Giants walking there, shoulders a little hunched, but heads still not hitting the ceiling. One thing was for sure: I didn’t envy the Hobs and Brownies whose job it was to keep the chandeliers and stained glass windows glittering.

Ropes of roses and holly circled every window, acknowledging the season while steadfastly refusing to abandon the flowers that had given the Duchy much of its reputation. Luna, Sylvester’s wife, was a Blodynbryd, a rare form of Dryad tied to roses instead of to a single tree. She was also one of the greatest gardeners in Faerie, thanks to a combination of her innate nature and centuries of practice. The roses, and all the other flowers in the Duchy, were hers.

We walked until we reached a filigreed silver gate that led to a solid wall instead of a hallway or a courtyard garden. I stopped, turning to Tybalt and Quentin.