The Winter Long
Page 9

I stepped into the kitchen.
“Ah, good,” said Simon, who was putting a kettle on the stove. “I found your tea, but is there honey? I wasn’t sure.”
“Look in the basket next to the toaster,” I said. It was too domestic and peaceful to be real. I glanced around, hoping for a second that I’d see Karen, the oneiromancer daughter of my friend Stacy, come to help me through my nightmare. There was no one there but Simon and me. I was awake, Oberon save and keep me.
“There it is. Very good.” Simon held up two mugs. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No, that’s okay.” I dug my nails into my palms, fighting the urge to grab a knife from the dish drainer and start screaming for him to get out of my house. “I’m not a tea drinker. I keep it around for company.”
“Oh, yes. You’re more of a coffee girl, if I remember correctly.”
I opened my mouth to say that no, I wasn’t even drinking much coffee these days, and paused, eyeing him. “You’re not even trying, are you?”
“Excuse me?” Simon turned to face me. He had a squeeze bottle of honey in one hand. It was shaped like a bear. Somehow, that struck me as unutterably hysterical.
“I said, you’re not even trying. You haven’t done anything to make me believe that you’re Sylvester. You can drop the illusion, Simon. I know who you are.”
He blinked, disappointment flashing in his eyes. “I never claimed to be my brother, you know,” he said. “I actually thought you were inviting me inside.”
“I’d kiss the Luidaeg before I’d do that.”
“And she’d let you, assuming the stories are true.”
“What stories?” I asked, unable to stop myself.
“The ones that say you’ve finally decided to start finding allies, learn your place in this world, and grow into your potential.” Simon dropped a teabag into his cup before taking the kettle off the stove and pouring water over it. There hadn’t been time for the water to boil—the stove wasn’t even on—but it came out hot and steaming all the same. “It’s been a great relief. I’d been worried that you were going to break your mother’s heart.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Don’t talk about my mother. You don’t have any right to talk about her.”
“October, believe me. If anyone is allowed to talk about Amandine, it’s me.” He added a generous amount of honey to his tea, releasing the illusion that had made him look human at the same time. The smell of smoke and rotten oranges filled the room. The change did nothing to make him look less like his brother. Raising an eyebrow, he asked, “Well? Will you do me the same courtesy?”
“I don’t want to do anything for you,” I said, through gritted teeth. I released my illusion all the same. It was a small thing, and antagonizing him wasn’t going to do me any good.
For a moment—less than a second, but long enough for me to see—his expression changed, arrogance and calculating coldness turning into something that looked almost like longing. The moment passed as quickly as it had come, and he nodded. “Yes, this is much more what you should have been from the start. I’m sorry, my dear, but Amy did you no favors when she spun the balance of your blood from gold into straw on the wheel of her powers. It seems you’ve done better for yourself, now that you’ve taken the spindle in your own two hands.”
“You know, as metaphors go, you probably couldn’t have chosen a much creepier one.”
“Sometimes ‘accuracy’ and ‘creepiness’ go hand in hand.” Simon sipped his tea, made a face, and added more honey. “You’re surprisingly calm. From the reports I’d heard, I expected you to attack me as soon as you realized who I was.”
“I’ve learned some self-control,” I said. “I can’t beat you. I know that.”
“So you’re giving up in the face of a greater adversary?”
When he put it like that, it stung. That didn’t make it the wrong decision. “You haven’t attacked me yet. I figured I’d wait for you to make the first move.”
Simon sighed. Then, slowly, he put his tea and the bear-shaped bottle of honey down on the counter, seeming to stretch the action out so that it took longer than was strictly necessary. Finally, he turned back to me, spread his hands, and said, “I am not the enemy you think I am.”
I stared at him. “What?”
“I know you’ve painted me as some great bogeyman, some terrible threat, but—”
“You kidnapped your brother’s wife and daughter, you stranded them in a realm of eternal darkness that drove Rayseline out of her mind, and you turned me into a fish.” I didn’t mean to argue with him. The words came out anyway, dragged forth by years of anger and fear. “You laughed. You turned me into a fish and you left me there to die. How dare you tell me that you’re not the enemy I think you are? You are exactly the enemy that I think you are.”
“It’s true. I did those things. But, October, if you’d just listen to me—”
“What do you want, Simon? What are you doing here? I didn’t invite you here. I never wanted anything to do with you. Now tell me what you’re trying to accomplish, or get out.”
“October.” His tone was chiding, the sort of voice you’d use for a wayward child or an unruly pet. “Is that any way to treat a guest?”
“You’re not my guest!” My temper finally snapped. I lunged for the dish drainer, fumbling for the knives.
Simon’s stasis spell caught me before I was halfway there. I froze, arm outstretched, one foot off the ground. Gravity no longer seemed to be a factor. The smell of smoke and rotten oranges was heavy in the confined kitchen air.
“I’d hoped we could do this in a more civilized manner,” said Simon. I heard the faint clink of his mug against the counter as he picked up his tea, followed by footsteps as he walked around me. He stopped where I could see him. “You are your mother’s daughter. I mean that in the best way and the worst way at the same time. She always inspired contradictions.”
Held by his magic, all I could do was glare, and rage silently against the horrible symmetry of his intrusion. The last time my life had seemed to mean something, Simon Torquill had come and taken it all away from me. It made perfect, horrible sense that he would do it again.