“Yes, there were Roane among the Selkies of Beacon’s Home when the choice was being made,” said Nessa, with some pride in her voice. “My home Kingdom,” she explained a moment later, in case her accent hadn’t been indication enough. Beacon’s Home is another of the Kingdoms counted among the High Throne’s holdings, and it corresponds roughly with the Canadian province of Nova Scotia. One of the largest Selkie clans—now Roane colonies—is centered there.
“Good to know,” I said neutrally.
“The Roane told the convocation debating the location of the ruling seat that Ash and Oak would be lost to rust and ruin within a generation, and war would follow if the seat had to be relocated once it had been established,” she said smoothly. This was something she had practiced, whether in front of visitors or in her own mirror. Did Gwragedd Annwn use mirrors? The stories I’d heard said they could stun even themselves if they weren’t careful.
But then, they would need to know what they looked like to cast the spells that allowed them to interact safely with the rest of us, so presumably, mirrors were involved somehow.
“We were very fortunate in that the monarchs attending the convocation, some of whom were already entangled with the ongoing stirrings of revolution among the Colonies, agreed that placing the seat in their infant America was less essential than placing it in a location which would bring stability and prosperity to our new High Kingdom, and keep us from fighting a losing war against Europa when they sensed both weakness and wealth to be had. This continent had suffered enough from Europa’s attentions. We deserved to be left alone to prosper or perish. It was due to the intervention of the Roane that we were able to open this knowe and dig its roots into the bedrock of the world, where they would never be sundered.”
Quentin pulled a face. So we were getting a sterilized version of the ten-cent tour, and would get the rest of it later, when we were safely behind closed doors. Not a shock but, still, good to know.
“The Roane are good that way,” said the Luidaeg, in a neutral tone.
“Yes, they were,” said Nessa, clearly heedless of the danger she was putting herself in with that casual statement.
That seemed a little odd. She should have been up to date on everything that was happening within her liege’s demesne. Or maybe my standards were skewed by the fact that things seemed to happen so quickly around me.
Not that my standards were what put that murderous expression on the Luidaeg’s face. Maybe it wasn’t nice to wander around the royal knowe of the Westlands with an undercover Firstborn, but since her father, the literal King of Faerie, was also with us, I was pretty sure we weren’t breaking any laws, written or unwritten, which might indicate that hospitality demanded immediate disclosure. And the Luidaeg had accepted the hospitality of the house, if only through her silence, which meant she had to wait seven days before she’d be allowed to turn anyone inside-out for insulting her descendants.
Dean coughed. “I’m Count Dean Lorden of Goldengreen?” he said, somehow turning the statement of his identity into a question. Nessa gave him a polite look, like she was asking how that was relevant. “My mother is Duchess Dianda Lorden of Saltmist?”
Nessa blinked. “Isn’t that an Undersea Kingdom?” she asked.
Dean began to bristle. Before he could do much more than look annoyed, Raj stepped in, saying, “Duchess Lorden will be attending the wedding, and is a daughter of the Merrow, madame.”
“Ah,” said Nessa, still sounding bemused. “But the Count is, by all appearances, Daoine Sidhe.”
Oh, this was potentially about to take a hard left turn into some seriously deep and dangerous waters, and one or more people might wind up badly hurt, hospitality or no. “The ducal consorts are Daoine Sidhe,” I said hurriedly. “Dean takes after his father.”
Nessa nodded. “I’ve heard such can happen,” she said. “Well, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, young Count, and I am glad for all our sakes that you are here to witness such a grand historic event as the marriage of a King of Cats.”
My gut twisted. Hearing my own wedding referred to as a “grand historic event” was never going to stop being upsetting.
“But, um, since I grew up in an Undersea demesne, I can say with some assurance that the Roane are absolutely still around,” he said doggedly. “There are more of them than there used to be, even, since the Selkies fulfilled their bargain with the sea witch.”
Nessa blinked. “Oh,” she said faintly. “Well, I don’t get home very often these days, or down to the coast. So I suppose I may have missed some soundings from the sea. My apologies if I’ve given offense to you, or to Saltmist.”
It wasn’t Dean she needed to be worried about, although the Luidaeg now looked merely annoyed, not murderous. It was a distinct improvement.
“Neither to me nor to my mother’s holdings,” said Dean, with the graceful precision of the born diplomat. He might only be a minor noble as such things were measured, but he had been raised to smooth over troubled waters—something that was probably much more essential in the Undersea, where going to war is practically the local hobby. They do slaughter the way land fae do unnecessary balls, or at least that’s the impression they all try to project. Maybe it’s all fluffy sea-lambs and tea parties when they aren’t putting on a dangerous face.
I doubt it, though. Dianda Lorden is scary as hell when she wants to be.
Sweet Titania, I love that woman.
Nessa bobbed her head, less in agreement and more in evident relief that we were finally moving on from her possible faux pas. “As I was saying, the debate over where to seat the High Kingdom had come down to Maple or Ash and Oak, and when the Roane spoke for Maple, the future was sealed. The first High King, long may his memory be a grace and a guidance, and never become a burden, felt it was important to show through the choices made in designing the knowe that we were proud as a people of where we had settled ourselves. That Canada was not ‘second choice’ to the Colonies, and we would do our best to live with this land, not hold ourselves superior to and apart from it.”
“Does that mean there’s a Tim Hortons in your banquet hall?” asked Raj dryly. “I can think of several among our number who would be relieved by such easy access to donuts.”
Quentin glared daggers at him. Whether it was due to the implied insult to his childhood home or because he hadn’t been the one to ask the question was less than clear.
“Unfortunately, no,” said Nessa. “Although the High King might install one if he could get the fryers to work reliably on this side of the hill. The original designs that grace our halls were created by fae artisans, and as the knowe has expanded, it has incorporated their ideas and added a few embellishments of its own.”
“So you believe the knowe is alive?” I asked.
“When you complain on Monday that you can’t find a place in the library with decent light and on Tuesday a door that has always led to a rather nondescript storage closet opens on a library annex lit by glowing crystal spires, it’s difficult not to credit the knowe with at least some small degree of personal agency,” said Nessa gracefully.
The hall had been gently curving as we walked, and Nessa paused as it finally opened up like a fern, shooting off half a dozen halls in varying directions that would have seemed jumbled and contradictory had they not been so effortlessly organic. “Quarters have been arranged for the lot of you,” she said, indicating the hall in front of us. “You may arrange yourselves as you wish. I had originally wanted to assign rooms, to be sure no one was slighted the honors due to their station, but the High Queen assured me that you would be happier seeing to your own needs.”
“That’ll be great,” I started. “Just give us a little time to settle in, and—”
“But for the bride and groom, we have arranged a special suite,” she said before I could get any further.
Oh, if they were planning to split us
up, they were going to get a nasty surprise. I couldn’t take my toys and go home, not with thousands of miles between us and California, but I could drag Tybalt and Quentin in front of a justice of the peace in Toronto as easily as I could in San Francisco, and Quentin only had to see me married, not see me married in his parents’ knowe, to get the potion that would give his real face back.
“Meaning what, precisely?” asked Tybalt, before I could say anything and get us into trouble.
“You’ll still be on the same hall as your party, you’ll just be in a room specifically intended for you,” she said reassuringly as she started down the hall. Lacking any better plans, we all followed her, some with more alacrity than others. May looked enthralled by the whole process of getting to what were effectively very fancy, very exclusive hotel rooms; Raj looked faintly amused, like this was nothing impressive; the Luidaeg and Oberon looked like tourists on their first trip to Disney World, when the Luidaeg wasn’t glaring for one reason or another. Only Walther and Nolan looked entirely at ease, like this was neither impressive nor something they needed to make a show of disdaining.
That made sense. They had both grown up in regional equivalents of this place, and unless it had some pretty big tricks up its sleeve, it wasn’t going to impress them much.
Nessa stopped at a door that looked like every other door in the hall, touching it lightly where the peephole would have been, if it had possessed one. The door seemed to sigh, which was impressive for a piece of architecture, and the doorknob turned, the door swinging inward to reveal a single room larger than the entire first floor of my house.
There was a bed big enough for most of us to have slept in at once, if we had been holding that kind of party. There was a sunken tub set into the floor, more than ten feet across and steaming gently. The walls were lined in bookshelves and velvet curtains, which wasn’t quite enough to obscure the fact that more of those raw amethyst geodes peeped out from between the maple panels. It was like the owner’s room at the largest bordello the world had ever known.
“I was told you would be bringing a squire,” she said, and indicated one of the three smaller doors off the main room. “Squire’s quarters are through here. There’s also an en suite bathroom, and a small kitchen, if you’re struck by the need to snack during the day. Only tell the icebox what you expect it to contain, and it will be present for you.”
That was an interesting form of magic, one I’d have to poke at later at my leisure. “Your hospitality is a credit to your liege,” I said solemnly, dredging the phrase out of the depths of my courtly education. From the startled but approving looks on both May and Tybalt’s faces, I had gotten it right for once. “These quarters will be more than satisfactory for us. Will we be summoned for dinner?”
“Yes, as soon as the High King is ready for you,” said Nessa. “I’ll leave you to your preparations.” And she was off, turning on her heel and striding off down the hall, moving with long, smooth strides, as effortless as a bubble floating over the surface of clear, cool water. When she was well clear of us, she snapped her fingers at the level of her cheek, and the sway of her hips became abruptly infinitely more compelling, making it almost impossible to look away.
“I’ve always pitied the Gwragedd Annwn,” said the Luidaeg, voice low. “They’re my sister’s descendants. Black Annis was terrible to look upon, even for those of us who loved her more dearly than life itself, and so her children were so beautiful that they slew anyone who looked upon them without protections. Their children were less beautiful, thankfully, but still painful to behold. She used to say that anyone who thought beauty was a burden should try ugliness instead, and she handed out a lot of curses.” She sighed heavily. “I miss her.”
Oberon settled his hand on her shoulder. “I miss her, too,” he said, and his words carried the weight of centuries of mourning for the lost, who might linger for a time among the night-haunts, but who would inevitably disappear forever.
“I need to talk to you,” said Quentin, positioning himself in the doorway of the room I was going to be sharing with Tybalt.
I blinked at him. “Okay. Does it need to be in the hall for some reason?”
“No,” he allowed, pulling the suitcases into the chamber to allow me to follow him. I stopped once I was clear of the door, crossing my arms and looking levelly at my squire.
He glanced quickly around, as if reassuring himself that all the people in earshot were people he knew and trusted—and who knew who he really was—before he said, voice low and tight, “Something’s wrong with Nessa. I don’t know what it is, but she’s not acting right.”
“And you couldn’t say anything before because you’re supposed to be meeting her for the first time,” I said. “I was wondering about the way they trained the courtiers here. Do you think she’s dangerous?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to hope not, but . . .” He shook his head. “This would be easier if I could talk to the High King.”
“Lucky for you, I can talk to the High King,” I said, and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll ask him what’s up after dinner.”
“Discreetly, please?”
“Am I ever anything other than discreet?”
Quentin snorted and started hauling my suitcases toward the bed. He was barely halfway there when the door to what would be his room burst open, disgorging a frantic Stacy.
“Mom!” exclaimed Cassandra.
“Can’t talk, fashion emergency in progress,” said Stacy, and kept running until she was close enough to grab my wrist and yank me into the room. She didn’t stop there, continuing to drag me toward the squire’s quarters, which she had apparently co-opted at some point.
Tybalt didn’t try to grab me back or defend me. He actually laughed. Traitor. “Mistress Brown,” he said, inclining his head to Stacy, who was wearing a floor-length linen dress the color of her name, albeit a delicate and flattering shade of same. It was trimmed in white so bright that any dentist would have envied it, with laces in the same color. Simple, elegant, and remarkably practical—just like Stacy herself.
“Sir Cat,” she said, voice tightly clipped. “The rest of you need to be getting ready now,” she snarled, before yanking me into her purloined dressing room and slamming the door.
Inside, the room looked like an explosion in a vintage clothing store. Dresses, corsets, undergarments, and accessories covered every surface of what had been a pleasant if not palatial chamber suited for your ordinary squire—and this answered the question, quite handily, of whether Nessa had been aware that I was going to be bringing the Crown Prince with me; she would have made it nicer if she’d known it was going to be Quentin—turning it into a closet-slash-dressing room.
Apparently taking my shellshocked expression as criticism, Stacy scoffed.
“Quentin was going to be sneaking off to his boyfriend’s room as soon as the lights went down for the day and you know it,” she said dismissively. “At least this way he doesn’t have to sneak back in to get his toothbrush.”
I opened my mouth to argue, paused, and closed it again, shrugging. She was right. There was no real point in pretending she wasn’t. “When did you get here?” I asked.
“Long enough ago to know how important it is that we get you ready and presentable ASAP. Kerry could only promise me twenty minutes.” Stacy grabbed the bottom of my shirt and tugged. “Off with this abysmal rag. Quick now, and we’ll see if you can’t keep your bra.”
I blinked at her as I pulled my shirt off over my head, leaving my stick-straight hair ruffled and jutting up in all directions, like I’d gotten overly amorous with a light socket. Then I scowled. “I’m keeping my bra.”
“One nice thing about pureblood fashion grinding to a halt somewhere around the start of World War I, most of the dresses I have here either come with built-in stays or have matching corsets,” said Stacy serenely, taking a step back and eyeing me thoug
htfully. I lowered my arms, forcing myself to keep them by my sides. If I tried to cover myself, she’d just yank my hands down and snap at me for getting in her way, and it wasn’t like I had anything she hadn’t seen before. We’d been getting naked around each other since we were skinny-dipping in the pond between Shadowed Hills and my mother’s knowe.
“Hmm,” she said finally. “You know, your mother did you no favors with your coloring.”
“Um, thanks?” I said.
“Not your fault, I know, but she could have given you more pigment than your average baby bird,” she said. “I’ve seen your wedding dress, so we don’t want to go with anything too light, but if we go too strong, we can wash you out easy.”
I resisted the urge to ask her what I was going to be wearing to my wedding. Knowing Stacy, she wouldn’t tell me anyway.
After almost a minute of studying me, she nodded decisively, said, “Lose the bra,” and stomped over to the door, wrenching it open and shouting, “She’s wearing the black ombre,” into the room before slamming the door again and returning her attention to me. I hadn’t moved, and her eyes narrowed at the sight of my bra.
“You asked me to be your lady’s maid for the duration of this trip,” she said. “I distinctly remember a two pm phone call where you wailed about how you thought Tybalt was going to make you do something big and fancy and you had no idea how to do your hair. Do you remember that?”
“I do,” I said slowly. “But that doesn’t mean you have to dress me the whole time we’re here.”
Stacy looked at me flatly, her expression saying several unflattering things about my intelligence. “Bra, off, now,” she said.
I removed my bra.
“Good girl.” She dug her hands into the pile of undergarments, digging down through the pile of fabric and lacings, until she produced a lightweight corset in a modern enough style that I was sure it wasn’t meant to be seen. My suspicions were confirmed a second later when she beckoned me forward, and said, “Let’s get you laced up.”
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