The Winter Long
Page 62

I grabbed his arm before he could let Chelsea know she had company. “Let them sort it out,” I said quietly. “Raj is a cat, remember? He’ll want to know how she reacts.” And if Etienne didn’t let him get a reaction out of her, he was likely to start slinking around, trying to surprise her. My own relationship with Tybalt—back when it had been a simple game of cat-and-mouse, before it turned more serious—had given me plenty of proof of the indefatigability of Cait Sidhe.
Raj stopped directly behind Chelsea, almost resting his chin on her shoulder as he peered at the laptop. Chelsea leaned forward and tapped the space bar. That must have stopped the video, because she removed her headphones and said, without turning, “It’s called ReGenesis. It’s Canadian, you probably haven’t heard of it.”
“My best friend is Canadian, and Ellen Page is extremely attractive, for a human,” replied Raj primly. “I have heard of it.”
“Wow,” I said. “Fae hipsterism. Hi, Chelsea.”
Chelsea flashed me a shy smile. “Hi, Toby,” she said.
“Have you met Raj?” I asked.
“Not officially.” Chelsea turned on her stool, giving Raj a brightly appraising look before sticking out her hand and saying, “Hi. I’m Chelsea Ames. Nice to meet you.”
Raj looked nonplussed as he took her hand and gingerly shook. “My name is Raj. I am the Prince of Dreaming Cats, and an associate to October.”
“Are you related to Tybalt?”
“He is my uncle.”
“Cool.” Tybalt had been involved in the rescue party that had finally been able to bring Chelsea home. She twisted back around on her stool, saying, “Mom went to dig out some sweaters. She said something about you looking like a drowned rat? I don’t think you look like a drowned rat, but you can borrow my hairbrush if you want. Your hair is sort of a mess.”
“Brushing my hair has been low on my priority list so far today,” I said, amused. It was almost relaxing to deal with someone who had no idea what the fae community in the Mists had been like four years ago—and more, probably couldn’t care less. Chelsea was adjusting to enough without worrying about the centuries of history she’d managed to miss.
She seemed to be adjusting well, at least. She shared Etienne’s deep tan complexion, and her skin was glowing with health, which was a nice change from her exhausted pallor when we’d first met. She no longer wore unnecessary glasses to hide the copper-penny color of her eyes, and she was growing out her glossy black hair, which she had pinned back to either side of her sharply pointed ears. Her magic had been suppressed for a year in the process of saving her, and so she left no traces in the air; when the potion that bound her powers wore off, she would smell like smoke and calla lilies, and her training would begin in earnest. For now, she was getting a much-needed rest, and getting it in the company of both her parents.
Watching Raj size her up, his expression faintly wary in the way it always was when he was dealing with someone new . . . it made me wish we could have given that same luxury to all the kids I knew. “Here you are, sweetie, here’s a year where you can’t do anything for Faerie, and so it’ll leave you the hell alone.” It was a silly dream that could never be realized. That didn’t keep me from having it.
Etienne’s eyes narrowed as he looked around the room. “October,” he said, in a tone which implied that he knew perfectly well he wasn’t going to appreciate my answer, “where did your troublesome swain and your squire go?”
Guess Etienne hadn’t received the “Quentin is the Crown Prince” memo. Good. That was supposed to be a secret, no matter how bad we were proving to be at keeping it. While Etienne was currently as powerless as his daughter, his sense of etiquette had always been top-notch, at least where the power structure of the Divided Courts was concerned. “Oh, they just went to do me a little favor,” I said airily. “Don’t worry about it. Quentin knows the servants’ halls really well; they won’t get caught.”
“And what, precisely, is the nature of this ‘little favor’?”
“They’re getting the Duchess.” Etienne gaped at me. I sighed. “Come on, Etienne, did you really not see that one coming? Luna was raised by two of the Firstborn. My mother is Firstborn. I need to talk to Luna.”
“But why?”
“Because October believes the previously dead woman is actually the Firstborn of the Daoine Sidhe,” said Raj, abandoning his study of Chelsea in favor of watching how Etienne took the news. “I am assuming she suspects herself of being resistant to Evening’s manipulations because she had to learn to ignore her own mother, and wishes to verify this with the Duchess.”
“Something like that,” I said. Etienne was frowning at me again. I sighed. “Now what? I told you she was the Daoine Sidhe Firstborn.”
“You’re serious,” he said. “You said that before, but I assumed it was some sort of strange jest. The Countess Winterrose may be an intruder, but she is not Firstborn!” He sounded affronted. I understood the feeling.
“Well, why not?” I spread my hands in a helpless gesture. “The Luidaeg lives here. My mom lives here. Blind Michael’s skerry is anchored here. If the Firstborn are grouping together, it makes sense that there might be more than we’ve been able to identify.” There were so many other reasons for me to be right—and I knew they were true, I knew it, just like I knew that this answered a dozen questions I’d barely recognized about why Evening’s blood always tasted just a little different than the blood of the other Daoine Sidhe. I’d been too weak and too far in denial over my own nature to understand what was in front of me.
That wasn’t true anymore.
Bridget returned through one of the open doors, a burgundy sweater over one arm and a pair of socks in her hand. “I hope this will fit you,” she said, without preamble. “We’re not much of a size, but you can wear your sweaters a little large, and it won’t hurt you any.”
“I appreciate it,” I said, automatically dodging the “thank you” the sentence wanted to contain. “Can I leave my jacket here for a little while? I’m going to want it back.” I hated to leave my jacket behind for even a short period, but wearing wet leather wasn’t doing anything for my core temperature—or my sense of smell, since the pungent odor of tanned hide dipped in ocean was trying to overwhelm everything around it.