The Winter Long

“Yeah, but there’s a lot of accurate risk assessment. How far?”


“To the coast. My Court ends at the water—but from there, we should be able to use the Shadow Roads with less strain. Even if it’s only a few miles, those miles are ones where we will not be running through the darkness, unprotected.”

I paused, really looking at him for the first time since I’d hung up. “This is about protection. You don’t want to leave the Court until we have to.”

“I’ve lost you once today,” he said quietly. “Please forgive me, but I’m in no hurry to repeat the experience.”

“No forgiveness needed,” I said. “Lead the way.”

So far as I know, there’s never been a real map of the Court of Cats: it’s an essentially impossible place, made up of pieces of so many other places that you’d need a genius cartographer to devote his life to mapping the Court as it is now, and you still wouldn’t have a map of the Court as it will be tomorrow. Tybalt and Raj pulled slightly ahead, scouting as they made sure that we were walking into stable hallways, places that were firmly connected to where we needed to go. Tybalt walked with the tight-shouldered prowl that I recognized from all the times I’d upset or annoyed him over the years. He was worried. I couldn’t blame him.

Quentin lagged, bringing up the rear of our little procession. I caught Tybalt’s eye before jerking my chin very slightly back toward my squire. Tybalt nodded understanding, and I slowed my steps enough to let Quentin catch up to me.

We walked side by side like that for several minutes, falling into the easy rhythm of one another’s steps, before Quentin abruptly said, “She brought me here.”

“What?” I glanced at him, sidelong, as I kept walking.

“The Countess Winterrose. She’s the reason I’m in San Francisco.”

I frowned. “But you were fostered at Shadowed Hills. Evening’s never been connected directly to Shadowed Hills. She and Sylvester have known each other for centuries, and he thought of her as a friend, but she was an ally at best, and a political opponent at worst.”

“I know. Sir Etienne told me about her when I showed up on Duke Torquill’s doorstep—not literally, the fosterage process takes longer than that—but she was the one who started the process. My father had decided I needed to be fostered in order to make me a better king,” he stumbled slightly over the word, which had only recently entered our shared vocabulary, “someday, and in order to protect me and Penthea. I was declared his heir before they sent me away. That way there was no point in somebody threatening or subverting her if they couldn’t find me.”

I whistled. “Okay, I know your parents are pretty cool and everything, but that? That is cold.”

Quentin shrugged. “That’s kingship. I’m not in any hurry to start taking up my duties as the Crown Prince . . . although I wouldn’t wish those duties on my sister, either.”

“Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown. I get that,” I said. “What did Evening do?”

“She contacted my father,” Quentin said, eyes fixed on the hall ahead of us. His accent grew stronger, like he was remembering a time when everyone around him sounded like home, and not like the California coast. “She came to our court. I’d never seen her before, and then one day there she was, during private audiences, standing in front of the dais.”

“Are you sure it was Evening?” I hated to question my squire’s memory, but under the circumstances, I would have questioned my own.