He hesitated before saying, “I don’t think this is the time. Tybalt—”
“Would want me to know what you don’t want me to know.”
Sylvester closed his eyes. “It’s not what I don’t want you to know, October,” he said softly. “It’s what I’m afraid to ask.”
“What?”
“My brother.” He opened his eyes again. “Where is my brother?”
Oh, oak and ash. I had been so focused on Jazz and Tybalt that I hadn’t stopped to think of things from Sylvester’s perspective. I had left Shadowed Hills with Simon. I had returned without him. “He’s lost,” I said.
There was a pause before Sylvester asked, “He’s dead?”
“No. He’s lost.” Quickly, I explained what had happened: how the Luidaeg had taken August’s way home for the sake of a candle, how Simon had forced the Luidaeg to transfer August’s debts to him, as her father. How, once his way home was lost, Simon had regressed to the man he’d been under Evening’s control, calculating and cold, willing to do whatever was required to escape.
When I finished, Sylvester looked at me and said, in a soft tone, “This is what I feared. He’s awake now, and free to do whatever he desires. What will keep him from waking his mistress? Before, Amandine’s disapproval was a weapon we could use against him, keeping him from committing even greater transgressions than those he already has. Now, he’s lost.”
“I know,” I said. “I tried to stop him. He was trying to be a hero. He was trying to save his daughter.”
“If only he had been a hero when he decided to endanger mine.” Sylvester started walking again. “When this is done, when your people are restored, it might be best if you stayed away for a time.”
“Sylvester—”
“Etienne can come to you for Quentin’s lessons. I’ve managed to keep Luna from knowing that Simon was awake. It helps that she would rather avoid your company, when she has the option. But she’s going to find out soon enough, and she’s going to be angry. Do you understand how angry she’s going to be? I love you. I can’t choose you over my wife. Not when she has every right to be furious.”
“I understand,” I said, and I did, I truly did. We all had to choose which family came first. Sylvester was my liege lord and my mentor and my sometime father figure, but Luna was his wife and the mother of his child, and if she had reason not to want me around, I would stay away.
Every time it seemed like my strange little family was starting to heal, something else would come along to split it apart. Maybe that was how things were going to be from now on. Maybe we were never going to be whole again. Sometimes things fall apart, and that’s just the way it is.
Sylvester didn’t look like he shared my acceptance of the situation. He started walking again, still faster than was strictly necessary, the dogwood flower and daffodil smell of his magic crackling in the air around him as it rose in response to his unhappiness. I hadn’t realized how much I depended on the magic around me to read the situation.
A blank wall came into view ahead of us. Sylvester touched it, and a patch of it went misty, creating a temporary door. He looked at me gravely.
“I know you can do this, October,” he said, before he turned and walked away, leaving me alone.
Right. I took a deep breath and stepped forward, through the misty wall, which turned solid again behind me, leaving me standing in the garden, surrounded by warm artificial sunlight that did nothing to cut through my cloud of trepidation and foreboding.
Jin was sitting on a nearby bench. I walked toward her. She raised her head, wings vibrating, and smiled a sad, relieved smile when she saw me.
“October,” she said. “You’re back to normal.”
“Queen Windermere brought the hope chest,” I said, like that was normal, like everybody had queens running errands for their convenience.
Jin nodded. “Good. I can’t reach him.”
I didn’t need to ask who she meant. Even if I hadn’t known, the weary sorrow in her voice would have been enough to tell me. “Where is he?”
She pointed to a patch of white-and-purple irises. I nodded and walked toward it, keeping my steps as light as I could. When I was close, I stopped and crouched, and peered into the depths of the vegetation.
There was Tybalt, crouched low, paws tucked in tight against his body and tail wrapped around his legs. The look he gave me was pure animal fear. Once again, the urge to kill my mother surged up and threatened to overwhelm me, and once again, I pushed it down and away. This wasn’t the time. I needed to focus on what mattered. I needed to focus on finding one more way home.
“Hi,” I said, lowering myself to the ground until I was stretched out with my cheek flat on the grass.
Tybalt stayed where he was.
I let my eyes drift half-shut, trying to find the strands of magic I knew had to be surrounding him. This wasn’t an outside transformation, like the one that Simon had hurled at Jazz the first time I had pulled a spell apart with my hands. It wasn’t a geas, either, forced into Simon’s blood and body by someone else. This was Tybalt’s own magic, being used against him by my mother and by the trauma he had endured.
This would have been easier if I’d had access to his blood. Everything is easier, always, when I have access to blood.
I froze. The idea I’d just had seemed farfetched, but what about this wasn’t? It was worth trying. Anything was worth trying, if it brought him back to me. This garden was mostly gentle plants, but Luna has never shied away from roses; they grew tucked among the ferns, low, lush-smelling tea roses spreading their tattered petals wide. Not sitting up, keeping my motions as slow and easy as I could, I reached over and ran my fingers along the nearest stem.
The thorns were small but sharp, breaking my skin easily. I brought the hand back, faster this time, and stuck my bleeding fingers into my mouth before they could heal. Drinking in as quick and deep as I could, I focused not just on the blood itself, but on the specific memory I wanted: the moment when, in Arden’s halls, I had tasted Tybalt’s blood on his lips and felt Tybalt’s magic thrumming in my veins.
All memory is contained in the blood. All memory, and all magic. The memory of magic wasn’t enough to give it to me—I’m no alchemist, and this was like a copy of a copy, faded, distant, and thin—but I fell through my blood memory and into his, catching a glimpse of my own face as I watched him die in front of me. Grief swept through me, strong enough to make my heart stutter. Not strong enough to wash away the triumph.