Rosemary and Rue
Page 39
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Luna’s ears flattened against her head. “Dead?” she whispered.
Raysel’s sudden laughter cut off any answer I could have given. We all turned to stare at her as she released her husband’s arm, sweeping out of the room on the tide of her own merriment.
“What—” I said.
“Connor, go with her,” said Luna. It wasn’t a request.
Nodding dolefully, Connor shoved his hands into his pockets and trailed after his wife. He caught my eye as he passed, and the look on his face was sad, almost beaten. Raysel’s the one with the Kitsune blood, but he was the one who looked like a whipped puppy.
The three of us stood for a moment in uncomfortable silence before Luna glanced to Sylvester and said, “She’s still a little unstable from everything that . . . from everything. My family has always been subject to . . . well. We don’t recover quickly from the sort of things she was forced to go through. It’s just our way.” She shifted as she spoke, refusing to meet my eyes.
No one seems to know what “things” Luna and her daughter went through during their absence, but the haunted look in Luna’s face told me they might have been worse than I’d ever dreamed. “Of course,” I said, feeling somehow embarrassed to have witnessed Raysel’s outburst, and turned to Sylvester.
The color had drained from his face, leaving him pale and shaking. He didn’t seem to have noticed Raysel’s dramatic exit. “Dead?” he said.
“Murdered,” I said, looking down, trying to avoid the shock I knew I’d see in his expression. Too late. “They shot her, then slit her throat with an iron blade.”
A sharp silence fell over the room. I raised my head, meeting Sylvester’s eyes. “Iron?” he said.
“Yes. She died from her wounds.” Not from anything more merciful.
“So there’s no way it was anything but murder.” There was something broken in his tone. The purebloods have to stick together, because they have nowhere else to turn, and so every death hits them hard. Changelings don’t work that way. We’re too scattered and too different, and it can take us years, sometimes, to find out when someone dies. Death is more of a danger for us, and that makes it seem less impossible. That doesn’t make it any better.
“I’m sorry,” I said lamely.
“I . . . yes. Yes, of course.” His fingers sought Luna’s and gripped them hard. “Oh, Evening. Was there . . . was that all you had to tell?”
“Before she died, she asked me to find her killers,” I said, watching him carefully. “I’m here because I wanted you to know. And because I have to ask for help.”
“I wish you’d come sooner,” said Luna, very quietly. “We’ve missed you, and no homecoming should be darkened by this sort of news. It’s an ill omen.”
Sylvester’s concerns were more immediate than ill omens. Expression sharpening, he asked, “You said yes?” All I had to do was nod. Sylvester knew my word would bind me, whether or not I wanted it to. I didn’t see a reason to tell him about the curse; he was already going to worry enough. “Oh, Toby. Why did you agree?’
“Because I didn’t have a choice.” I folded my hands behind my back. “If you don’t want to help, I’ll understand.”
“I didn’t say that. I . . . damn. Can you give us a few minutes? Please?” His voice was tight with the strain of holding back tears. He didn’t want to cry in front of me anymore than I wanted to watch him cry.
“I haven’t been here in a while,” I said, taking the hint. “I’ll go see what Luna’s done with the gardens. Send for me?”
Sylvester nodded, mutely. Luna echoed the gesture, ears still pressed flat.
Seized by a strange impulse, I darted forward and hugged them both at once, one with each arm, before I turned to run out of the room, gathering my skirt in both hands. I was lucky; I got out fast enough. No matter what else might happen before I left the knowe, I wouldn’t have to see him cry.
TWELVE
I DIDN’T WORRY ABOUT PROPRIETY as I came running out of the audience chamber; I just dropped my skirts and let my forehead rest against the cool stone of the nearest pillar, taking deep breaths as I struggled not to break down and cry. I’d been avoiding the Torquills for six months because I didn’t want to face Sylvester, and all I’d been doing was letting him sink further into his own guilt. Had I been doing anybody any favors with the way I’d been behaving?
The page was gone when I looked up. Good. It had been a long week—one that kept getting longer—and I didn’t trust myself to be polite, especially not after what had just happened with the Torquills. My manners have always been the first thing to go when I get upset, and some people say that they stopped coming back a long time ago.
Slicking a few wayward wisps of hair back from my face, I turned to start down the hall, and nearly tripped over the hem of my dress. Cheeks burning, I picked up my skirt and started again, swearing under my breath. I hate Court attire.
At least the irritation lifted my mood, making it harder to dwell on how wrong I’d been about Sylvester’s reaction to my return. I walked around the corner, stepping over a hopscotch grid some kid had finger painted on the marble floor and opened a door at random. The walls of the hall on the other side were papered in a tasteless pattern of yellow mustard and flowering heather, and I nodded, satisfied that I was going the right way. I kept walking.
The first time I came to Shadowed Hills, I was nine years old, and I was awed. Then I was annoyed, and then I was lost. The halls bend back on themselves and loop in long, impossible curves; doors you’ve seen before lead places you’ve never been, and doors that weren’t there yesterday take you right back where you started. It’s like a giant labyrinth with a sense of humor, and it can be really annoying. I learned to find my way around the place by memorizing landmarks, combining practice with sheer good luck, and sometimes I still found myself wishing for a pocketful of bread crumbs.
The yellow-and-purple walls gave way to plain stone, cobblestones replacing the checkerboard marble of the floor. Rose goblins watched me from windowsills and the corners of rooms, replacing the more common cats that tend to lurk in knowes. Sylvester, ironically enough, is allergic. Luckily, his wife’s gardens provide plenty of spiny replacements for the standard feline. Rose goblins look like cats, act in a similar fashion, and shed thorns instead of fur. The perfect hypoallergenic pet.
Raysel’s sudden laughter cut off any answer I could have given. We all turned to stare at her as she released her husband’s arm, sweeping out of the room on the tide of her own merriment.
“What—” I said.
“Connor, go with her,” said Luna. It wasn’t a request.
Nodding dolefully, Connor shoved his hands into his pockets and trailed after his wife. He caught my eye as he passed, and the look on his face was sad, almost beaten. Raysel’s the one with the Kitsune blood, but he was the one who looked like a whipped puppy.
The three of us stood for a moment in uncomfortable silence before Luna glanced to Sylvester and said, “She’s still a little unstable from everything that . . . from everything. My family has always been subject to . . . well. We don’t recover quickly from the sort of things she was forced to go through. It’s just our way.” She shifted as she spoke, refusing to meet my eyes.
No one seems to know what “things” Luna and her daughter went through during their absence, but the haunted look in Luna’s face told me they might have been worse than I’d ever dreamed. “Of course,” I said, feeling somehow embarrassed to have witnessed Raysel’s outburst, and turned to Sylvester.
The color had drained from his face, leaving him pale and shaking. He didn’t seem to have noticed Raysel’s dramatic exit. “Dead?” he said.
“Murdered,” I said, looking down, trying to avoid the shock I knew I’d see in his expression. Too late. “They shot her, then slit her throat with an iron blade.”
A sharp silence fell over the room. I raised my head, meeting Sylvester’s eyes. “Iron?” he said.
“Yes. She died from her wounds.” Not from anything more merciful.
“So there’s no way it was anything but murder.” There was something broken in his tone. The purebloods have to stick together, because they have nowhere else to turn, and so every death hits them hard. Changelings don’t work that way. We’re too scattered and too different, and it can take us years, sometimes, to find out when someone dies. Death is more of a danger for us, and that makes it seem less impossible. That doesn’t make it any better.
“I’m sorry,” I said lamely.
“I . . . yes. Yes, of course.” His fingers sought Luna’s and gripped them hard. “Oh, Evening. Was there . . . was that all you had to tell?”
“Before she died, she asked me to find her killers,” I said, watching him carefully. “I’m here because I wanted you to know. And because I have to ask for help.”
“I wish you’d come sooner,” said Luna, very quietly. “We’ve missed you, and no homecoming should be darkened by this sort of news. It’s an ill omen.”
Sylvester’s concerns were more immediate than ill omens. Expression sharpening, he asked, “You said yes?” All I had to do was nod. Sylvester knew my word would bind me, whether or not I wanted it to. I didn’t see a reason to tell him about the curse; he was already going to worry enough. “Oh, Toby. Why did you agree?’
“Because I didn’t have a choice.” I folded my hands behind my back. “If you don’t want to help, I’ll understand.”
“I didn’t say that. I . . . damn. Can you give us a few minutes? Please?” His voice was tight with the strain of holding back tears. He didn’t want to cry in front of me anymore than I wanted to watch him cry.
“I haven’t been here in a while,” I said, taking the hint. “I’ll go see what Luna’s done with the gardens. Send for me?”
Sylvester nodded, mutely. Luna echoed the gesture, ears still pressed flat.
Seized by a strange impulse, I darted forward and hugged them both at once, one with each arm, before I turned to run out of the room, gathering my skirt in both hands. I was lucky; I got out fast enough. No matter what else might happen before I left the knowe, I wouldn’t have to see him cry.
TWELVE
I DIDN’T WORRY ABOUT PROPRIETY as I came running out of the audience chamber; I just dropped my skirts and let my forehead rest against the cool stone of the nearest pillar, taking deep breaths as I struggled not to break down and cry. I’d been avoiding the Torquills for six months because I didn’t want to face Sylvester, and all I’d been doing was letting him sink further into his own guilt. Had I been doing anybody any favors with the way I’d been behaving?
The page was gone when I looked up. Good. It had been a long week—one that kept getting longer—and I didn’t trust myself to be polite, especially not after what had just happened with the Torquills. My manners have always been the first thing to go when I get upset, and some people say that they stopped coming back a long time ago.
Slicking a few wayward wisps of hair back from my face, I turned to start down the hall, and nearly tripped over the hem of my dress. Cheeks burning, I picked up my skirt and started again, swearing under my breath. I hate Court attire.
At least the irritation lifted my mood, making it harder to dwell on how wrong I’d been about Sylvester’s reaction to my return. I walked around the corner, stepping over a hopscotch grid some kid had finger painted on the marble floor and opened a door at random. The walls of the hall on the other side were papered in a tasteless pattern of yellow mustard and flowering heather, and I nodded, satisfied that I was going the right way. I kept walking.
The first time I came to Shadowed Hills, I was nine years old, and I was awed. Then I was annoyed, and then I was lost. The halls bend back on themselves and loop in long, impossible curves; doors you’ve seen before lead places you’ve never been, and doors that weren’t there yesterday take you right back where you started. It’s like a giant labyrinth with a sense of humor, and it can be really annoying. I learned to find my way around the place by memorizing landmarks, combining practice with sheer good luck, and sometimes I still found myself wishing for a pocketful of bread crumbs.
The yellow-and-purple walls gave way to plain stone, cobblestones replacing the checkerboard marble of the floor. Rose goblins watched me from windowsills and the corners of rooms, replacing the more common cats that tend to lurk in knowes. Sylvester, ironically enough, is allergic. Luckily, his wife’s gardens provide plenty of spiny replacements for the standard feline. Rose goblins look like cats, act in a similar fashion, and shed thorns instead of fur. The perfect hypoallergenic pet.
