The lights were off as we approached the mortal side of Muir Woods, the state park having closed at sundown and all the rangers having long since gone home. Even the streetlights were off, presumably to dissuade local teens from breaking into the parking lot to sit in their cars and make out. I slowed down as we approached the chained-shut gates. Tybalt hopped out of the car as soon as it was safe to do so, trotting over and muttering quietly at the lock.
They used to use sturdy cast-iron padlocks on their chains, probably because the parks department has no budget to speak of, rather than out of any sincere desire to keep the fae away. Shortly after Arden reopened the knowe, the local office received a healthy security upgrade in the form of more modern materials. Chrome and stainless steel are iron derivatives. They don’t mess with fae magic or poison us nearly as dramatically as the pure stuff does. In a very short period of time, the lock clicked open and Tybalt swung the gates wide, gesturing for me to pull through.
I did so, laughing. Magic and people who are willing to use it on your behalf can make life so much simpler. I should have learned about having friends and allies sooner than I did. It would have made things easier, if not always as overdramatic and violent.
There were a few cars already present, Danny’s among them, all concealed by simple charms designed to repel human eyes while leaving them visible to the fae, presumably because their owners didn’t want to play bumper cars in the parking lot. It was good to know that we weren’t going to be the only ones suffering tonight.
Once we were parked and Quentin and I were out of the car, Tybalt strolled over and calmly offered me his arm. “Ready to change the world again, milady?” he asked, tone mild.
“As long as you’re doing it with me, always ready,” I said, smiling, and the three of us walked on.
TWENTY-THREE
THE FOREST WAS ONLY DARK to mortal eyes. Globes of witch-light bobbed among the trees, while swarms of bright-winged pixies flitted from bough to bough, chiming like bells, sending trails of glittering dust to drift down over everything they passed. I held Tybalt’s arm as we walked, not quite trusting my balance on the slippery walkways. Arden’s knowe is accessed through the public side of Muir Woods, something I have to assume was by design; otherwise why would the patch of forest adjacent to the royal seat of the Mists be one of the only stretches not sliced down during the human expansion through the state, when settlers decided that clear-cutting California’s redwoods to make room for their European ideas of home and community was a really great idea?
Humans don’t like falling into streams or gullies any more than I do, and like me, they lack the preternatural grace of pureblood fae. So they cut trails into the hillsides and built wooden boardwalks over the wetlands, doing their best to make as little impact as possible on the slivers of nature that they chose to preserve. It was a small kindness on top of a huge cruelty, and enough to make me think that there was less difference between them and the fae than anyone wanted to pretend. But Muir Woods was still a healthy riparian woodland, near the beach, and dampness was one of the many great gifts to which it was absolutely heir. The wood was slippery with dew and the paths were slippery with mud, and even holding onto Tybalt, he still had to catch me several times to keep me from spoiling all May’s hard work.
“You could have worn more sensible shoes,” he murmured, after the third time he had to set me back on my feet.
“Oh, and you would have let me leave the house in this dress and a pair of sneakers?”
“He might have, but I wouldn’t,” said Quentin, from the path just ahead of us. Primly, he added, “There are standards in this world, even if you think they mostly apply to other people. They need to be respected.”
“See? I’m doing the best I can.”
“Indeed you are, milady,” said Tybalt, and lifted me off my feet to keep my skirt clear of a particularly squishy-looking patch of ground. “You have my sincere apologies for the inconveniences of fashion.”
“I hold you personally responsible.” I took my hand away from his arm in order to grasp the handrail along the stairway cut into the side of the hill that would take us to the next hiking trail. It wouldn’t get us all the way to the door to Arden’s knowe—that required a much less dignified ascent, using a series of tree roots in place of a stairway—but it would get us close enough that if I had to be carried, I wouldn’t feel too bad about it.
The pixies were getting more frequent, the globes of witch-light brighter. Arden had pulled out all the stops for tonight, or as many as she could on the mortal side of the knowe. I wondered briefly whether the Luidaeg had warned her about her potential bonus guest, or whether this was just a reaction to the idea of hosting two Firstborn at the same time. Then we reached the top of the stairs and confronted the climb up the ladder of tree roots, and I no longer had time to worry about Arden’s hospitality.
Sometimes, surrender is the better part of valor. I turned to Tybalt and spread my arms. “Get me to the top?” I asked.
He laughed as he swept me off my feet and braced me against his hip. It was a little awkward, but not as bad as a bridal carry would have been. “As milady wishes,” he said, and started nimbly up the side of the hill, Quentin now following close behind us, presumably to step in if Tybalt slipped.
The day when a Cait Sidhe slips and falls on their way up a muddy hillside will probably come—I’ve seen my cats do clumsier—but it wasn’t going to be tonight. When we reached the top, Tybalt set me back on my feet, waiting while I smoothed my dress with the heels of my hands, then offered me his arm. I took it decorously, and the three of us walked slowly forward.
The doors to Arden’s knowe were already visible and open, set into the body of an ancient redwood tree that could probably have accommodated my first apartment within the interior of its trunk, if we’d been willing to damage the tree by carving it out. Guards in her livery stood to either side of the door, one an unfamiliar Bridge Troll whose massive shoulders strained against his uniform, the other a petite Glastig who smiled at the sight of us.
“I wondered when you’d be showing up,” she said brightly, her Welsh accent stronger than usual, either because she was pushing it forward, or—more likely—because she’d stopped trying to hide it since shifting her fealty to Arden. “Fashionably late, as always.”
“The command to appear said the declaration wasn’t going to happen until midnight, and I really didn’t feel like mingling and eating canapes while my mother glared at me from the other side of the room.” I smiled at her. “Hi, Lowri. Still enjoying the Queen’s guard?”
“More than I will if you linger out here and cause your mum to take offense at your absence,” she said. “I don’t want to be called to intervene. Get in there.” She stomped one delicate cloven hoof for emphasis, and I swallowed my laughter.
“We’re getting,” I said, and waved for the boys to follow me as I made my way through the doors into the knowe.
The entry hall was paneled in redwood bas reliefs, each piece carved to show some significant event in the Kingdom’s history. Much of the knowe had been conceived and crafted by actual artisans, but this section was solely the knowe itself, making its opinions about what did and did not matter known. The panels changed on a regular basis, even the oldest ones; now, when I looked at them, I could see Simon among the carven crowds with much more frequency than had been the case when the knowe was first reopened. I paused, smiling, at a panel that showed what I assumed was Patrick and Dianda’s wedding: they were standing in front of a man whose carved face looked enough like Nolan Windermere to be the late, much-mourned King Gilad.
Simon was there, among the carved figures in the crowd. My mother was not. Surprisingly, the Luidaeg was, and I wondered whether Dianda realized the sea witch had been at her wedding.
The sound of music drifted down the hall from the main ballroom. This felt more like a party than I’d expected, possibl
y because so many people had to attend to make what was supposedly a fairly simple process as legal as possible. We walked in that direction and were hit about halfway there with the smell of roast meat and mulled wine. There was a strong undercurrent of sugar, implying the presence of at least one dessert table.
An implication that was proven when we stepped through the door into the crowded room. If someone had told me this was a ball, my only question would have been why there was a fiddle player standing next to a harpist on the dais, rather than a full band. The fiddle player was a plump, blue-haired Daoine Sidhe, dressed in long skirt and leather corset, while the harpist was clearly Merrow, due to her current lack of legs. Her fins were tucked under her chair, well out of the way of the fiddler’s feet and her own harp, and she looked blissful as she played.
People crowded the room, not so densely as to be remarkable, but enough so as to make me suspect something else was going on here tonight. Arden was near her throne, speaking with Dianda and Patrick, both of whom were dressed with utter formality. So was Arden. She was even wearing her crown, a narrow-banded concoction of braided metal and shining jewels, which I almost never saw outside of its protective case.
I started in that direction. Quentin peeled off almost immediately, presumably because he’d spotted Dean or one of his other friends in the crowd. Tybalt paced me, and together we approached the Queen, pausing about five feet away. I bowed. Tybalt did not. Arden looked amused.
“You realize that once you’ve set your own crown aside and married one of my subjects, you’ll be expected to bow to me like a normal person,” she said.
“Yes, but in the moment, I remain a King of Cats, and we do not bow to anyone,” he said primly. They both grinned, clearly amused by what had long since become a familiar interplay.
I am never going to understand the relationship they have with one another, and that’s fine. They get along, which is more than can be said of most monarchs of the Divided Courts and Kings or Queens of Cats.
“It’s almost midnight,” said Dianda.
Arden nodded. “I know. Are you sure about this?”
It was an odd question for her to ask, given that Dianda wasn’t one of the people getting divorced. Dianda nodded anyway, expression determined.
“We’ve discussed it at length, and we’re certain,” she said.
“Very well, then.” Arden turned and began making her way up the shallow steps to her throne. The room quieted, everyone turning to map her progress with their eyes. The musicians stopped playing. She ignored them all, settling on the cushion, looking every inch the queen.
Gone were the days when she felt comfortable receiving her court in sweatshirt and jeans, and I couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or a bad one. Her dress was form-fitting and flawless, crafted from spider-silk the deep blue-black of the night sky, fading into rose around her hips and finally a pure, clean gold at her knees. The dark portion of the dress glittered with captive, impossible stars, forming constellations across her bodice and midriff. It was stunning and eye-catching and not at all what a bookstore clerk from San Francisco would wear to something like this. The dark waves of her hair blended with the fabric at her shoulders, and she was a Faerie Queen: there could be no question of that. In a room filled with nobles and luminaries, Arden shone.
Tilting her head toward the few people still speaking, Arden snapped her fingers. The sound was impossibly loud in the hush of the room. They stopped immediately, and everything was silence.
“We are here tonight to discuss the marriage of Simon Torquill, landless Baron, most recently in service to the Court of Countess Evening Winterrose, who is unable to be with us tonight due to her untimely death,” Arden’s expression was a challenge for anyone who knew the truth about Evening to contradict her, “and Amandine, called the Liar by her siblings and descendants. Simon has requested an end to their union, and as both their daughters are present tonight, the marriage is hereby declared eligible to be dissolved. Does anyone object?”
“I do,” shouted a familiar voice. I turned. Mom was standing near the courtyard doors, her cheeks flushed with unusually hectic color, her lips set into a hard, indignant line. August was beside and a little bit behind her, head bowed. Both of them wore bone-white gowns that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Waterhouse painting, although Mom’s was at least embroidered in gold and belted below her breasts. It didn’t do much for her. It did nothing for August, who looked like a child who’d been raiding her mother’s closet.
I remembered feeling that way when I was Amandine’s shadow. For the first time, I actually felt bad for my sister, who didn’t have my options for getting away.
“My husband was stolen from me by a woman who made him impossible promises, and twisted his thinking out of true,” Mom continued, stepping forward. The light struck prismatic gleams off her near-white hair. She was beautiful, even in her ill-chosen dress, and she knew it well enough to use it to her advantage. “I did nothing to betray his faith while he was running around in her service, bedding Oleander de Merelands, and behaving like a common ruffian.”
“You lay with a human,” drawled an insouciant voice. I glanced to my left. Raj was standing on the edge of the crowd, arms folded, looking annoyed.
“Humans don’t count,” snapped Amandine. “I lay with a human because I was lonely, and because I didn’t want to betray my husband as he had betrayed me. I never banned him from my bed. He could have come home at any time.”
“So you object to this divorce on the basis that you did nothing wrong, and so your husband should not be allowed to change his mind?” asked Arden.
“Yes,” said Mom. “And on the basis that my father is Oberon himself, and I do not choose to let Simon Torquill go.”
A gasp ran through the room. A surprising number of people didn’t know that Mom was Firstborn. Well, that cat was well and truly out of the bag now. Mom would never be able to go back to pretending to be just another Daoine Sidhe. August shot her a look, seemingly torn between horrified and surprised. It wasn’t just a matter of Mom outing herself, after all. Both of us were marked now as a Firstborn’s daughters.
“That isn’t the etiquette we all stood witness over when first a marriage was dissolved, Amy,” said a familiar voice. The Luidaeg stepped forward, the crowd parting before her. She was wearing her surging sea dress again, and it broke around her feet like the ocean crashing on the rocks. She lifted her chin, looking down the length of her nose at Mom. “What you want matters not at all. What he wants matters, and the choice your children make today. They’re both here. That means the divorce proceeds, whether you agree with it or not.” She turned to look imperiously at Arden. “There are no valid objections. Continue.”
Arden looked for a moment like she wanted to argue, then thought better of the impulse. People who argue with the Luidaeg once don’t usually get to make a habit of it, assuming the word “people” even applies once they’re done. Instead, she cleared her throat, and said, “There are no valid objections to this divorce proceeding. The two named children of Amandine the Liar and Simon Torquill are August Torquill and October Daye. Will August and October please step forward?”
So they weren’t going to force May to declare. That was a good thing. I moved to the center of the floor. August moved to meet me, and we shared a brief glance that was still the longest interaction we’d had since I refused her request to bring Simon home. She twisted the skirt of her ill-fitting dress between her fingers, honey-colored eyes filled with weary shadows. Not for the first time, I wondered what it was like bearing the full weight of our mother’s attention. From the way August’s shoulders drooped, I had to assume it wasn’t much fun.
“Before a marriage can be dissolved, all living children must choose which line of descent and inheritance they will belong to,” said Arden. “They must declare for one parent over the other. This isn’t a question of love
or of compassion; it’s a question of who inherits what in the unfortunate circumstance that someone stops their dancing. It’s a question of where you will belong. October Christine Daye, daughter of Amandine the Liar, for whom do you declare?”
“My father,” I said, picturing my father, my real father, with as much clarity as I could. I’d been so young the last time I’d seen him, and I had no pictures. But he had loved me completely and without judging how strong my blood was, and I knew that if he were here, he would have forgiven me for choosing Simon over Mom. “I declare my line for Simon Torquill. I shall only ever be of his descent, and Oberon’s, for I cannot set my blood aside.” That part of the declaration had been dictated to me by May, a serious expression on her face and a mascara wand in her hand. I couldn’t refute Oberon, even if I’d wanted to. Mom was another story.
Mom scoffed. “No great loss,” she said. “Let Simon found his dynasty on a mongrel child, if that’s what he wishes. I release my claim on her.”
I didn’t look in her direction, just dipped a shallow bow toward Arden and walked back to my original place.
Now for the hard one. “August Torquill, daughter of Amandine the Liar and Simon Torquill, for whom do you declare?” asked Arden.
August looked at me, and then at Mom, before scanning the crowd, presumably searching for Simon. He had to be present. As one of the people involved in the divorce, he was required to be here for it to move forward. I didn’t see him. After a few seconds, it became apparent that she didn’t either. Her face fell, and she returned her attention to Arden.
“Am I allowed to ask to face my father as I declare my choice?” she asked.
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