An Artificial Night
Page 13
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The girl at the ticket booth looked up at our approach, blinking. “Whoa,” she said, in an exaggerated California drawl. “It’s, like, Toby Daye and Tybalt.” She was every inch the Valley Girl, from her feathered blonde hair to her pink tank top. Her makeup was an expertly applied mix of pale green and bubble-gum pink; she looked like she wouldn’t recognize a changeling if it bit her. It’s a good cover. After all, it fooled me the first time we met.
“Hey, Marcia.” She looked human, but she wasn’t quite. Somewhere in her family tree was just enough fae blood to pull her over the line into a world where glass burned and children vanished in the night. A pale gleam surrounded her eyes, betraying the amount of faerie ointment she was wearing. With blood as thin as hers, she needed it.
She squinted at Tybalt, making an effort to see through the don’t-look-here he had covering Karen. Her faerie ointment was good enough to tell her he was carrying something, but not good enough to see through it. She finally gave up, asking, “What are you two up to?”
“Just stuff,” I said. “What’s the admission today?”
“Is Lily expecting you?”
“No.” I rarely phone ahead. It’s not that I enjoy surprising everyone I know; it’s more that I almost never know where I’m going before I actually get there.
“No charge.” She grinned. “Lily complains all the time that you never come to visit.”
“Uh-huh.” Between the missing children and my burned hands, I didn’t feel particularly social. Judging by Tybalt’s expression, neither did he. “We’ll go on in.”
“Any time.” She waved us through before resuming the intent filing of her nails. Like most people who live on the outskirts of Faerie, she knew a “thank you” when she didn’t hear it. One of the stranger tenets of the fae moral code says that the phrase “thank you” implies an obligation beyond the acts already performed and is thus to be avoided at all costs. Faerie is fond of avoiding obligations. I guess that’s part of why the mortal world has always dismissed us as flakes and tricksters; we only thank you if you owe us.
The Tea Gardens are always beautiful in the fall. The Japanese maples turn pale shades of orange, red, and gold, dropping the occasional leaf into the koi ponds to float decoratively on the water. The lilies are in bloom, and you can see the shining shapes of the fish darting beneath them. Wooden trails wind between high, elegant bridges. Unfortunately, wood is slippery when wet, and the trails get wet a lot. If I’d been carrying Karen, odds are good that we’d have ended up in a pond. Tybalt didn’t miss a step, making his way quickly down the paths to the base of the moon bridge that marks the entry into Lily’s knowe.
The moon bridge is built in an almost perfect semicircle, rising steeply into the air. Its apex vanishes behind a curtain of cherry branches, making it look like it goes on forever. The illusion is more accurate than most people realize.
Tybalt continued up the bridge without a pause, not even hindered by the fact that his arms were full of an unconscious child. I muttered, grabbing the rail and beginning the climb. The moon bridge has never been my favorite part of the Tea Gardens, and I’m usually making the climb with unburned hands. Spike bounded ahead, chirping as it raced for the top.
The branches grew more and more tightly interlaced overhead, filtering out the sun until the sky was gone, replaced by a woven willow ceiling. Fireflies and pixies glittering with a dozen shades of pastel light illuminated the air. I took another step. The bridge dissolved, leaving me on a cobblestone path winding through a marshy fen. We had entered Lily’s knowe.
Faerie knowes are little pieces hewn out of the Summerlands, carved to fit fae needs and desires. They generally reflect the personalities of their keepers. Some knowes are hollow hills and some are castles; one, in Fremont, is a labyrinthine computer company where the floors blend in an endless series of cubicles and hallways. Lily was an Undine, a river spirit bound to the waters of the Tea Gardens, and her knowe mirrored her nature. It was a twisting realm filled with moss and small streams, entirely at ease with itself.
Tybalt knelt on the nearest patch of relatively dry land, settling Karen on the moss. She was still asleep. He rose and stepped back as I hurried over to them. Dropping to my knees, I pressed my hand against her cheek to check her temperature. She was cold. I shrugged out of Tybalt’s jacket, spreading it over her. Maybe it wouldn’t do any good, but I didn’t see where it could do any harm, either.
“October—”
“Don’t.” I kept my eyes on Karen, not looking at him. If I saw pity in his face, I was going to scream. “Just don’t.”
An awkward silence fell between us. There were never silences like that before he followed me to Fremont. There were never silences at all. He insulted me, I sniped at him, and things stayed simple. Things didn’t feel simple anymore—my feelings were a long way from simple, and his feelings could be just about anything—and I had no idea what to do about it.
The sound of gentle splashing from behind us was a relief. I turned to see a column of water lifting itself out of the pond. “Hi, Lily,” I said.
The water flowed closer to the land, resolving into the diminutive form of the Lady of the Tea Gardens. The air around her molded itself into a dark blue kimono that gleamed like rain-wet stones. A series of jeweled pins secured her long, dark hair, trapping it in an ornate bun.
“October, Tybalt,” she said, sounding surprised. Her accent was thicker than usual; she’d just gotten out of “bed.” Undine are normally bound to their places of origin. Lily originated in Japan. One of these days I’m going to get her to tell me how she managed to move herself to San Francisco. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Sorry I didn’t call,” I said, rising. “Things have been a little hectic.” Tybalt snorted at the understatement.
Lily looked at Karen and frowned, the scales around her mouth tightening. “You have a sleeping child. Have I missed something?”
“She won’t wake up,” I said. “Her mother called me, and she—”
Lily raised a hand, cutting me off. “What have you done to your hands?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” said Tybalt.
“I burned them,” I said, grimacing.
“And how did you do this immensely clever thing to yourself?”
“Hey, Marcia.” She looked human, but she wasn’t quite. Somewhere in her family tree was just enough fae blood to pull her over the line into a world where glass burned and children vanished in the night. A pale gleam surrounded her eyes, betraying the amount of faerie ointment she was wearing. With blood as thin as hers, she needed it.
She squinted at Tybalt, making an effort to see through the don’t-look-here he had covering Karen. Her faerie ointment was good enough to tell her he was carrying something, but not good enough to see through it. She finally gave up, asking, “What are you two up to?”
“Just stuff,” I said. “What’s the admission today?”
“Is Lily expecting you?”
“No.” I rarely phone ahead. It’s not that I enjoy surprising everyone I know; it’s more that I almost never know where I’m going before I actually get there.
“No charge.” She grinned. “Lily complains all the time that you never come to visit.”
“Uh-huh.” Between the missing children and my burned hands, I didn’t feel particularly social. Judging by Tybalt’s expression, neither did he. “We’ll go on in.”
“Any time.” She waved us through before resuming the intent filing of her nails. Like most people who live on the outskirts of Faerie, she knew a “thank you” when she didn’t hear it. One of the stranger tenets of the fae moral code says that the phrase “thank you” implies an obligation beyond the acts already performed and is thus to be avoided at all costs. Faerie is fond of avoiding obligations. I guess that’s part of why the mortal world has always dismissed us as flakes and tricksters; we only thank you if you owe us.
The Tea Gardens are always beautiful in the fall. The Japanese maples turn pale shades of orange, red, and gold, dropping the occasional leaf into the koi ponds to float decoratively on the water. The lilies are in bloom, and you can see the shining shapes of the fish darting beneath them. Wooden trails wind between high, elegant bridges. Unfortunately, wood is slippery when wet, and the trails get wet a lot. If I’d been carrying Karen, odds are good that we’d have ended up in a pond. Tybalt didn’t miss a step, making his way quickly down the paths to the base of the moon bridge that marks the entry into Lily’s knowe.
The moon bridge is built in an almost perfect semicircle, rising steeply into the air. Its apex vanishes behind a curtain of cherry branches, making it look like it goes on forever. The illusion is more accurate than most people realize.
Tybalt continued up the bridge without a pause, not even hindered by the fact that his arms were full of an unconscious child. I muttered, grabbing the rail and beginning the climb. The moon bridge has never been my favorite part of the Tea Gardens, and I’m usually making the climb with unburned hands. Spike bounded ahead, chirping as it raced for the top.
The branches grew more and more tightly interlaced overhead, filtering out the sun until the sky was gone, replaced by a woven willow ceiling. Fireflies and pixies glittering with a dozen shades of pastel light illuminated the air. I took another step. The bridge dissolved, leaving me on a cobblestone path winding through a marshy fen. We had entered Lily’s knowe.
Faerie knowes are little pieces hewn out of the Summerlands, carved to fit fae needs and desires. They generally reflect the personalities of their keepers. Some knowes are hollow hills and some are castles; one, in Fremont, is a labyrinthine computer company where the floors blend in an endless series of cubicles and hallways. Lily was an Undine, a river spirit bound to the waters of the Tea Gardens, and her knowe mirrored her nature. It was a twisting realm filled with moss and small streams, entirely at ease with itself.
Tybalt knelt on the nearest patch of relatively dry land, settling Karen on the moss. She was still asleep. He rose and stepped back as I hurried over to them. Dropping to my knees, I pressed my hand against her cheek to check her temperature. She was cold. I shrugged out of Tybalt’s jacket, spreading it over her. Maybe it wouldn’t do any good, but I didn’t see where it could do any harm, either.
“October—”
“Don’t.” I kept my eyes on Karen, not looking at him. If I saw pity in his face, I was going to scream. “Just don’t.”
An awkward silence fell between us. There were never silences like that before he followed me to Fremont. There were never silences at all. He insulted me, I sniped at him, and things stayed simple. Things didn’t feel simple anymore—my feelings were a long way from simple, and his feelings could be just about anything—and I had no idea what to do about it.
The sound of gentle splashing from behind us was a relief. I turned to see a column of water lifting itself out of the pond. “Hi, Lily,” I said.
The water flowed closer to the land, resolving into the diminutive form of the Lady of the Tea Gardens. The air around her molded itself into a dark blue kimono that gleamed like rain-wet stones. A series of jeweled pins secured her long, dark hair, trapping it in an ornate bun.
“October, Tybalt,” she said, sounding surprised. Her accent was thicker than usual; she’d just gotten out of “bed.” Undine are normally bound to their places of origin. Lily originated in Japan. One of these days I’m going to get her to tell me how she managed to move herself to San Francisco. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Sorry I didn’t call,” I said, rising. “Things have been a little hectic.” Tybalt snorted at the understatement.
Lily looked at Karen and frowned, the scales around her mouth tightening. “You have a sleeping child. Have I missed something?”
“She won’t wake up,” I said. “Her mother called me, and she—”
Lily raised a hand, cutting me off. “What have you done to your hands?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” said Tybalt.
“I burned them,” I said, grimacing.
“And how did you do this immensely clever thing to yourself?”
