The Winter Long

This time, Tybalt’s snarl was audible. “Do not speak of your sister in my presence,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow. “Interesting as it is to watch you try to needle my boyfriend, you sort of sound like a soap opera villain right now. ‘Gosh and golly, October, why don’t you stand there while I reveal a bunch of dirty secrets that stopped mattering centuries ago.’ His name is Tybalt now, as I’m sure you’re aware, and whatever may have happened with him and your sister happened in another time.”

Tybalt shot me a grateful look. Oh, he knew I’d ask him about it later—I didn’t go into detective work because I was content to let questions go unasked, or unanswered—but this was neither the time nor the place.

Simon contrived to look offended. “I merely thought—”

“Either you’re here to hurt me or you’re here to help me,” I said. Something about my tone seemed to get through; he fell silent and sank back a bit on the couch, watching me warily. “I have plenty of evidence that you’re here to hurt me. You put me in a stasis spell and you tried to transform one of my housemates into a fish, which, I don’t know if that’s your go-to spell or what, but you should know that that one really bothers me, so I’d avoid it if I were you. Just to be sure that I don’t accidentally hit you over the head with a lead pipe and bury you in a shallow grave in Muir Woods.”

“Queen Windermere probably wouldn’t mind too much,” said Quentin.

“I assure you, I am not here to hurt you,” said Simon gravely. “I acted in haste before. I did not expect . . . any of what happened in that kitchen, I swear. It was as much a surprise to me as it was to you.”

“Kinda doubt that, since you came to me, and that was the first surprise of the day,” I said, unable to keep a note of sour impatience from my tone. “It’s been a day just full of surprises.”

“I would agree,” said Simon. “You are much more your mother’s daughter than I had been led to believe.”

“No thanks to her,” I said.

Simon didn’t comment on that. I guess having his stepdaughter insult his wife wasn’t something he felt he needed to get involved in. Instead, he looked past me to Quentin, and said, “Since you are only known to keep company with two teenage boys, and this one lacks fangs, he must be your squire. Hello.” He shifted his position slightly, making it somehow clear that I was no longer the focus of his attention. “I understand you were originally fostered in Shadowed Hills, in the care of my brother. That must have been a great change for you.”

“Didn’t you used to date Oleander de Merelands?” asked Quentin. He sounded every inch the sullen teenage delinquent, his usual courtly—and yes, princely—graces abandoned. I could have hugged him in that moment. If Simon didn’t already know who he was, there was no need to give him reason to suspect.

As for Simon, he hesitated, stiffening, before finally nodding and saying, “I kept company with the lady you have named many times over the centuries. It was generally at the behest of our mutual . . . employer.” He choked on the final word, as if even saying that much was difficult for him. After a pause that lasted only a few seconds, he managed to continue, “Our relationship was perhaps more intimate than my lady wife would have preferred, but as Amandine and I were unavoidably separated at the time, she and I have never been forced to discuss the matter. I was very sorry to hear of Oleander’s death.”

“Oh?” asked Quentin. “Why, because she didn’t manage to take any of us with her?”