Chimes at Midnight

There was so much left to do. We needed to clean up the remaining goblin fruit before anyone else got hurt; I still had a hope chest in my hall closet, along with the flagon and cruet I’d taken from the old Queen’s treasury. Arden needed to build a Court, and somewhere along the way, she’d need to start disassembling the puppet government holding Silences. I needed to find the Luidaeg and pay my debt to the Library. Worst of all, I needed to meet Quentin’s parents.

All that was for later. Right now, I held Tybalt’s hand and put my arm around Quentin’s shoulders, and cheered for the new Queen, who was taking her throne at last.

Long may she reign.

NEVER SHINES THE SUN

Here never shines the sun; here nothing breeds . . .

—William Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus

SAN FRANCISCO. SUMMER, 1959

SEVEN YEARS IS A classic length of time in Faerie. Most enchantments last for seven years, or some multiple of sevens. When people disappear underhill, it’s almost always for seven years, no less, no more. Most of all, seven years was long for me to be patient.

It was long enough to wait.

I still felt a little guilty as I settled on the park bench and pulled a bag of breadcrumbs out of my coat pocket. I began scattering them on the sidewalk, trying to look like I was just another part of a perfectly normal scene. Pixies and pigeons swarmed in from all directions and started snatching the food, squabbling amongst themselves all the while. Most of the pixies were content with the bread; a few were clever enough to recognize that it had other uses. They began making a heap of crumbs at the very edge of the feeding frenzy, luring a fat pigeon in their direction. I nodded approvingly. Reducing the pigeon population of the city wasn’t going to hurt anything—except for maybe the pigeon in question—and it would teach this particular colony of pixies that being clever could lead to eating better. Given enough time, they might surprise a lot of people.

My attention was only half on the impending slaughter that was being staged in front of me. The rest was fixed on a tall, statuesque figure in a polka dot day dress, her platinum blonde hair pinned back in a sensible bun. She was trudging across the lawn with a picnic basket in one hand and a towheaded little girl running rings around her. Amy would be furious if she saw me. That couldn’t keep the smile off my face. Seven years was more than long enough to wait. Amy wanted her privacy. That was fine with me. It was selfish and horrible and stupid of her, but it was still fine. I just wanted to meet my niece. I don’t have very many of those anymore.

Amy put down her basket, opening the lid and pulling out a battered olive-green army blanket. She spread it over the grass with a practiced flick of her wrists, looking so domestic that it made my chest ache a little. She was living a lie. We both knew it, even if I was the only one who was willing to admit it. But she’d been living it for so long, and it was covering up a hurt that was so great . . . how much did that lie really mean to her by this point? How far would she go to preserve it?

The little girl chirped something I couldn’t make out, voice high and sweet and shredded by the wind. I heard Amy laugh—she always had the most beautiful laugh; all her lies couldn’t change that—and then the little girl, my niece, was running as fast as she could for the playground equipment, her pigtails streaming in the wind. What was her name again?

Oh, right. October. One more page in the ongoing calendar of our tangled lives.

“You never could resist giving that knife one more twist, could you, Amy?” I asked aloud.

The pixies didn’t answer. I hadn’t actually expected them to.

I dumped the rest of my breadcrumbs out of the bag as I stood, dusting my hands against my legs. My mouth was dry, and my heart seemed to be beating just a little bit too fast. You would never have been able to make me admit it, but I was nervous. Hell, I was bordering on scared. Here was my youngest sister’s kid, throwing herself down the slide in a public park like there was no such thing as getting hurt, and I had no clue what I was going to say to her. “Hi, I’m your Aunt” seemed a little weak, and like a good way to bring the wrath of Amy down on my head. All I wanted to do was meet her. I wouldn’t introduce myself, I wouldn’t interfere, I’d just . . .

I’d just meet her. That would be enough.

Besides, it’s not like I’ve ever been famed for my patience. If something went wrong, Amy was going to have to suck it up and admit that waiting seven years had required a herculean effort on my part. She should be proud of me for even trying.