Chimes at Midnight

I forced the veil of her thoughts aside, grabbed the last threads, and pulled. The fight went out of her; the Queen went limp in my arms. She felt smaller somehow, frailer. I raised my head, spitting to try to clear away any traces of her blood before I could be hit with another wave of her memories. Then I looked around the room.

Everyone was staring at me.

“What?” I dug the sap out of one ear with my free hand. “Haven’t you ever seen that trick before?” I spat again. “Anybody have any mouthwash?”

“October . . .” Tybalt approached cautiously, looking like he expected me to cut and run at any second. I swallowed back a sudden twinge of fear, remembering his claws at my throat.

“Hey. Take her, will you?” I pushed the unconscious Queen toward him. He caught her easily, hoisting her onto the throne. My assessment had been correct: it looked like she’d lost at least a foot in height, becoming slimmer and even paler, impossible as that seemed. What little color she’d had must have come from the Siren side of the family. “Has anybody checked on May?”

“Jin is with her now,” said Tybalt. “Toby . . .”

“Good.” I turned to scan the room. Everyone seemed to be in one piece—mostly, anyway. “Can you go and get Lowri and Nolan? I think Arden’s going to want to see her brother.”

“All right,” said Tybalt, sounding defeated.

I glanced back to watch him walk away. And then I moved toward Arden, who was still standing behind the throne, looking stunned. “She violated Oberon’s Law, even if it didn’t stick,” I said. “She attacked you in your home.”

“What did you do to her?” she asked.

“I made her stop.” I shrugged. “It’s what my line is good for. We’re like hope chests with thumbs.”

Arden started to respond, but stopped as she looked past me, eyes widening. “Nolan!” she cried, and took off running. I turned. Tybalt was dragging the Queen’s guards who had been at the door. Lowri was carrying Nolan, her hooves slipping in the pools of blood that covered the floor. The receiving room looked like a slaughterhouse. Between me and May, we’d basically bled our way into a private abattoir.

This was my life. One compulsion-induced torn throat didn’t change that. I ran after Arden, veering off at the last moment to bring myself into collision with Tybalt, rather than with Lowri and Nolan. Tybalt blinked at me, clearly startled. There was a moment of hesitation, a shadowed fear in his eyes. Then he beamed and dropped the guards onto the bloody floor, catching me in his arms as I flung myself at him and kissed him like the world was on the verge of ending.

There was a lot of cleanup left to do, both literally and politically. The former Queen would have to be contained, and Arden’s claim to the throne would have to be formally recognized. I needed to find out where Tybalt had put the hope chest, and return it to the Luidaeg, who should have had it in the first place. Comfort would need to be given, questions would need to be answered, and wounds would need time to heal. But right here, right now, it was over.

Tybalt locked his arms around my waist and kissed me again, and everything was right with the world.

THIRTY

MAY HUMMED AN OLD ENGLISH FOLKSONG about decapitated women as she fussed with her hair, which was streaked with white, blue, and electric green for the occasion. I eyed her before going back to checking the fit of my own spider-silk gown in the mirror. I didn’t need to bother—the dress fit like it was made for me, and always would, because that’s what spider-silk does. It was the most formal dress I owned, black with gold and silver highlights, cut straight across the chest and with a knee-length skirt. I’d worn that dress the night I first met Patrick and Dianda Lorden. It was my “try to avoid a war” dress. It seemed appropriate to the occasion.

“You weren’t decapitated, you know,” I said. Stacy had done my hair, curling it gently before pulling it off to one side with a ribbon. Somehow, it didn’t make me look like an escapee from a 1980s teen comedy. It was elegant, simple, and perfect.

“Close enough,” said May. Her dress was rainbow taffeta, likely rescued from a thrift store somewhere in the Mission District. It didn’t match the black velvet band she had tied around her throat. She was healing, but slowly. It would be months before she could go out in public without either fabric or illusions covering her.

There was a knock at the door. I turned to see Sylvester standing there, in full formal regalia, looking embarrassed to have interrupted. “Are you ready?” he asked. “I’m trying to gather everyone who needs to be on time.”

“I’ll catch up,” said May.

“Then I’m ready.” I walked over and placed one gloved hand on Sylvester’s arm, allowing him to lead me from the room.