“I stole your cat,” said Amandine airily. “No child of mine would ever willingly wed such a beast. It’s not my fault your little masquerade went on too long and was derailed.”
Attacking her would be the height of foolishness, second only to the moment when Simon had lunged for the Luidaeg. I knew that. I still put my hands on the hilts of my knives and said, very softly, “I know how to kill one of the Firstborn, Mother. I killed Blind Michael for what he did to me. Don’t think I won’t do the same to you, if you force my hand.”
Amandine actually looked surprised. “You would make an enemy of me?”
My laughter was hot acid in my mouth, spilling over my lips before I could suck it back down. “Are you serious? You made an enemy of me when you came into my home and stole my lover.” I took a step forward. “I want Tybalt back. I want Jasmine back. I want them both back right now, and if you don’t return them, we’re going to dance, you and I.”
“You’re too human,” she said dismissively.
“Humans have weapons, too,” I said.
August’s eyes widened. Quickly, she reached out and grabbed Amandine’s arm, causing our mother to turn and look at her.
“She has an iron knife, Mama,” she said. “She can hurt you. She can kill you. If you told her you’d return these people for bringing me home, just . . . just do it. Give them back to her. Let her take her beasts and her baggage and go.”
Amandine hesitated.
“Please,” said August.
That was the final straw. Amandine reached out and cupped her face in both hands, pulling August close to her. “As you like, my darling. As you like.” She turned and looked at me, and there was no love in her eyes. That was fine. I wasn’t looking for it anymore. “The kitchen. You remember the way.”
She slipped her arm around my sister’s shoulders and led her into the tower. The door slammed shut behind them. Quentin turned to me, eyes wide.
“You’re just going to let her leave?” he demanded.
“She told us where to go,” I said, and started around the tower. “Come on.”
He came. Side by side, we walked toward what we’d lost, and we were almost halfway there before I broke into a run, not slowing down, not looking back.
Please, I thought. Maeve, Oberon, Titania, anyone who might be listening, please.
Please let them be okay.
TWENTY-SIX
THE TOWER WAS MUCH less elegant, and much less intimidating, when seen from the rear. The stone was still pristine and the architecture was still grand, but the white flowers of the front garden fell away, replaced by green beds of neglected herbs, some still labeled with tiny, faded signs. The bed closest to the garden wall was a riot of surprising color, bright orange California poppies straining toward the distant light of the moons above. I remembered planting them when I was still a little girl, thinking that if they could thrive here, so could I.
The poppies had blossomed. I hadn’t. Not until I’d fled the Summerlands for the mortal world, where time passed the way my human blood wanted it to, and where the sun remembered how to shine.
I didn’t slow down to smell the flowers or check to see if Mom had bothered doing any weeding in the last twenty years. I just kept running, practically vaulting up the back porch steps and slamming the door open to reveal the kitchen.
It was small, rustic, and homey: nearly the antithesis of the rest of the tower. Like the garden, it seemed to belong to a different person. Amandine would never have designed a kitchen like this . . . at least not the Amandine I knew. In many ways, August’s Amandine had been someone else. Someone kinder.
The table, bench, and chopping board were all polished redwood, and the stove was an antique copper thing, surprisingly efficient for something that looked like it had been stolen from a movie about Puritan New England. Copper pots and kettles hung from hooks set into the exposed overhead beams. There were even loops of drying herbs and spices, perfuming the air with sweet, contradictory fragrances.
But there were no cages. Not on the table; not on the counter; not on the hearth in front of the fireplace. I froze in the doorway, hands clenched at my sides, fear and fury flooding through me like a hot wave of bleach. If not for August, I would have been fae enough to breathe in and know they were here, that they were safe. If not for August, they would never have been taken in the first place. Suddenly, hating my sister seemed like an easy thing to do.
Quentin touched my arm. Lightly, but enough to remind me he was there and real; that there was still someone who could help me save the ones who needed saving.
I took a shaky breath, looking one more time around the kitchen. The cages wouldn’t fit in the cupboards, and the shelves were open: I would have seen them if Amandine had stuffed them there. They weren’t hanging from the ceiling. That left . . .
“The root cellar,” I said, and ran across the room to the narrow wooden door half-hidden behind a bend in the wall. It was dusty when I grabbed it and wrenched it open. Amandine had never been much for cooking, not when she could transform a plate of berries into a pie with a wave of her hand, or just wander over to Shadowed Hills to demand her lunch from Sylvester’s kitchen. With me gone, she must have stopped entirely.
The stairwell on the other side was a slice of absolute darkness leading down, away from any prayer of the light. I dug my phone out of my pocket and hit the button to activate the screen, casting its watery electronic glow over the steps. They looked solid enough. Not that it mattered. Right now, I would have risked a broken neck rather than let this go on for a minute longer than it had to. Legs shaking, I gripped the bannister with my free hand and began to descend.
There was a loud ringing beside my ear. I nearly laughed with relief as the pixies that had been riding in my hair since their attack on August launched themselves into the air and began to fly precise loops over the stairs ahead of me, lighting the way. I tucked my phone back into my pocket.
Quentin gasped as he made it far enough down the stairs to see the basement. The sound made my blood run cold. He was a pureblood. He could see in the dark better than I could. Whatever he saw . . .
“Quentin, do I need to give you my knives?” I somehow managed to make the question sound natural, even reasonable. Did I need to disarm myself for the sake of not killing my mother? Because I would. If she had hurt them, if we were walking toward two corpses and not two captives, I would kill her. I had silver. I had iron. Even the Firstborn will fall before that combination. I’ve never wanted to be a murderer. I’ve killed people before, but I like to think I’ve managed to avoid earning that label. And if she had hurt them, I was going to become a murderer today.