The Winter Long

“I know,” I said, and sniffled, fighting the urge to cry. “Let’s get the hell out of here. We still have way too much work to do.”


“If I may?” Tybalt leaned forward and tapped the collar of my shirt. I looked down at my bloody shirt, then back up again to him. “You need to change your clothing. Your house is five minutes’ drive from here. You will feel better if you’re not covered in someone else’s blood. I will feel better if you’re not covered in your own blood.”

“I’d just like it if no one was covered in blood for a little while,” said Quentin.

I paused before sighing and saying, “All right, I’ll give. Let’s go get me some clothing that can’t stand up on its own—and then it’s back to the Library, all right? Maybe we can still shake something out of the stacks. And if not, at least we’re somewhere safe while we figure out our new plan.”

“As my lady wishes.” Tybalt sketched an elaborate bow before stepping around the car and sliding back into the passenger seat. Quentin ran after him, and I actually smiled as I got behind the wheel. Clean clothes would be a blessing. Getting the Luidaeg’s blood off me would be even better.

Tybalt’s estimate wasn’t perfect: we pulled into the small covered garage next to the house about ten minutes after leaving the Court of Cats. Quentin was the first out of the car, as usual. What was unusual was the way he froze halfway down the path, shoulders going tense and back going ramrod straight. I was out of the car in an instant, hand going to my knife as I ran toward my squire and whatever threat had caused him to stop in mid-step. Tybalt was right behind me, and he would have been in front of me if the path had allowed him to pass without shoving me to the side.

Not Quentin, I thought fiercely. I couldn’t be sure of raising the dead twice in one day—I wasn’t even willing to count on doing it once under most circumstances—and I would throw myself in front of whatever bullet was coming for him before I allowed him to be harmed. It wasn’t just the whole “Crown Prince” thing; that was a relatively new development. He was my squire and my friend and he would not be harmed if I could prevent it.

I stumbled to a halt as I pulled up alongside him, blinking at the back porch. Tybalt was more decorous about his confusion; he strolled to a stop, rather than skidding like the rest of us, and frowned in bewilderment. Normally, I might have teased him for looking so openly baffled. This time, I couldn’t blame him.

The sight of Simon Torquill sitting on my steps with his arms full of roses was plenty confusing, after all. The fact that I was already able to tell him from his brother without thinking about it was worrisome to me, but that aspect of the situation was lost as I stared at the roses. He was holding at least fifty of them, long-stemmed and wrapped in a cone of tissue paper. Their petals were a dozen shades of blue and white, from the pristine shade of falling snow to the near-black color that lives at the heart of glaciers. Sprigs of a purple flower I distractedly identified as rosebay ringed the bouquet, protecting the roses from harm.

Simon stood, walking silently toward us. I shied back before I could think better of it, my shoulder bumping against Tybalt’s chest. I felt his sternum vibrating from the slow, rumbling force of his growl. It was comforting. This time, if Simon decided to raise a hand against me, it wouldn’t be me and one Raven-maid with a baseball bat against his transformation magic.

He stopped a respectful distance away from the three of us and held out his bouquet. When I didn’t move to take it, he cleared his throat and said, “I would be most grateful if you would accept this small token of apology for the trouble that I have caused to you and yours.”