Page 50 of The Innocent Sleep

“When I can,” I said “They are pleasant people, by and large, clever and interesting to speak with. Well, to, in the case of Sir Grianne—she doesn’t speak much with anyone.”

Simon laughed. “No, I suppose she wouldn’t.”

“Candela never do,” said Sylvester.

Simon turned then, setting his half-empty goblet on the tray of a passing server. “It seems that time, in passing, has left me at a disadvantage. Rand, it was a pleasure to meet you. Brother, I shall see you upon my return.”

“Your master calls?” Sylvester asked, with a slight sneer.

“My liege and patron desires me to attend her celebrations, and how can I deny her?” Simon’s smile was dazzling. “I am fortunate to be called to serve the Countess Winterrose. I would never think to disrespect that calling by refusing to attend on her. I will see you both quite soon, I’m sure.”

With that, he stepped down from the dais and vanished into the crowd, moving toward the door. I looked to Sylvester.

“Is he always so quick to go?”

“Since we were children,” said Sylvester, and sighed heavily. “He means well. He just doesn’t handle idleness gracefully, and his wife’s duties leave him with too many idle hours. So he hurries about when he’s free to do so, and that contents him.”

“Well, it was a pleasure to meet him at last, after so many years of seeing him only as a face in the crowds of Goldengreen. But I think you wear that face better, sire.”

“You already have the hospitality of my house through the end of the holiday, Rand; there’s no need to flatter for further,” said Sylvester. “Go, and enjoy the night, and if you move on with the rest come the end of Moving Day, I won’t blame you. Surely, you’ve near to exhausted the local possibilities in your search.”

“I have good reason to believe it will soon be drawing to a close,” I said politely. “Still, I have appreciated your patience and your kindness to a stranger. I won’t forget it.”

I wouldn’t, either. As I turned and made my way toward the balcony, I considered the irony of it all: for the first time in our adult lives, Sylvester and I were getting along, and all it had taken was erasing the whole of our shared history from his mind. Perhaps we could have been on good terms all along, if he’d just taken a strong enough blow to the head.

The balcony was populated with celebrants seeking a respite from the noise indoors. There might not be as many dancers as there would have been at a truly fashionable party, but the string quartet played as loudly as they would have for twice the crowd or more, and the sound had a way of swelling to fill the space available. A few of the courtiers I knew from the knowe nodded in polite recognition, while others looked at me with calm assessment, trying to take my measure.

The temptation to let my control slip, just a little, and flash them a hint of fang or a shadow of my stripes was strong. How would they react, these defanged pets of Titania’s, if I reminded them of the real Faerie?

But no. No, I wouldn’t. It was almost Moving Day—three days more, and everything would be over. I would have my life back, or I would be in the horrible aftermath of this frozen period of unwanted patience. Either way, antagonizing people who had no idea what had been done to them was unkind.

Fireworks exploded across the sky, briefly blotting out the stars. Unlike their counterparts in the mortal world, they left no falling embers or smell of gunpowder in their wake, only scintillating brilliance that obscured, however briefly, the fact that the clouds moving overhead weren’t clouds at all, but vast swarms of pixies heading south, away from the Mists.

Pixies almost always relocate on Moving Day. I’ve known only a few colonies to put down roots so deep that they refused to move when the opportunity arose; something in the old rhythms of Faerie lives on in their blood, calling them to follow. Those who don’t can provide stable havens for their kin but are all too often shunned because of their refusal of tradition. The political lives of pixies can be surprisingly complicated.

I watched the fireworks burst in the sky above, and watched the pixies fly between the flashes, and wondered how many rhythms we moved to that we didn’t even register any longer, tides that were baked into our blood and our bones, immutable. The party went on around me, and the clock ticked down toward midnight, and the Moving Day festivities had begun.

FOURTEEN

THE PARTY LASTED UNTIL the small hours of the morning. Several times, my guilt led me to wander into a dark corner, beginning to reach for the shadows, only to pull myself back. Ginevra and Raj knew where I was. They had known even before I left that I wouldn’t be back until well into the next day, assuming I came back at all. This might be the day they lost me. So much hinged on Amandine’s wards, and any other protections the tower might have, because I was going in. Oberon himself couldn’t have held me back any longer.

As the revelers began to make their apologies and slip away, I joined their crowd, letting them sweep me toward the gates. Grianne saw me amongst them and nodded, bidding me a silent farewell, and otherwise did nothing to attract attention to me. I smiled over at her as I continued onward, not pausing. The time for pausing was well and truly finished.

And then I was outside the bounds of the knowe, the nobles either stepping out of the Summerlands to return to their cars or taking the arms of Tuatha courtiers who would be able to portal them to their destination. A few Tylwyth Teg who had attended the celebration mounted yarrow branches they had brought for precisely this moment—although none of the ones who’d worn a dress or gown to the party, I noted. In the end, I was the only one who chose to walk.

Of course, I walked because my destination was so near. Heading through the woods and across the fields, toward the white spire of Amandine’s tower. I was near the edge of the wards when I saw a small group of people shuffling away from the garden gate, shoulders slumped and postures weary.

They seemed oddly familiar. I hurried in their direction, pausing when I recognized the man at the head of their group. Eion and his family, the rest of whom I had not been given the opportunity to meet during my visits to the Library.

“Eion!” I called.

He looked up, and motioned the others to a halt as I trotted the rest of the distance over to meet them on the road.

“My friend,” he said.

“What happened?”

“We walked here, as we had planned,” he said. “But the woman who answered the door offered only the barest hospitality, and had clearly been well coached to avoid implying the offer of more. She left us no openings to ask. We were given food, and direction to a place where we might take root for the night, but when I saw that she was a changeling, I admit, I hoped for more.”