Authors: Seanan McGuire
Rosemary and Rue (3 page)
“Oh, oak and ash,” I hissed, and scrambled backward—or tried to. That was the order I gave to my legs, which were suddenly not obeying my commands. I staggered into the open, dropping to my knees. I tried to stand. I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything but wait.
Lily, where
are
you?
I thought desperately. She was the Lady of the Tea Gardens; this was her fiefdom and her domain. She should have been there by now, rallying her handmaids and running to my rescue, but she was nowhere to be seen. There weren’t even any pixies in the trees. The mortal tourists looked at us the way they would have looked at air. I had never in my life been so afraid, or so alone.
are
you?
I thought desperately. She was the Lady of the Tea Gardens; this was her fiefdom and her domain. She should have been there by now, rallying her handmaids and running to my rescue, but she was nowhere to be seen. There weren’t even any pixies in the trees. The mortal tourists looked at us the way they would have looked at air. I had never in my life been so afraid, or so alone.
Simon’s smile was almost warm as he knelt, placing one hand beneath my chin and raising it until our eyes were level. I tried to struggle, to find some way to look away from him, but couldn’t force myself to move.
“Hello, my dear,” he said. “Did you enjoy our little walk?”
“Go . . . to . . . hell,” I managed through gritted teeth.
Oleander laughed. “Oh, she’s a sassy one.” Her expression darkened, mood shifting in a heartbeat. “Make her pay for that.”
“Of course.” Leaning forward, Simon pressed a kiss against my forehead and whispered, “I’ll make sure someone finds your car in a week or two, once they’re ready to give up hope. Wouldn’t do to make your family wait for you too long, now, would it?”
If I could have, I would have screamed. All I could do was snarl behind clenched teeth, breath coming hard and fast as panic gripped me. I had to get out of there. Cliff and Gilly were waiting for me, and I had to get away. I just couldn’t see how. I couldn’t even drop the don’t-look-here that was guaranteeing no one would see what was happening. I was bound too tightly.
Simon stood, putting his hand on top of my head and shoving downward, whispering and moving his free hand in a gesture I couldn’t quite see. I made one last wrenching attempt to pull away. Oleander laughed again, the sound cold and somehow distant, like it was being filtered through a wall of ice. Without any warning or fanfare, I forgot how to breathe.
All magic hurts. Transformation hurts more than anything else in the world. I gasped for breath, trying to break out of Simon’s enchantment. My own meager powers were giving way, and I felt myself warping and changing, melting like a candle left too long in the sun. His binding relaxed as the change entered its final stages, and I flopped against the path, gills straining for another breath, for anything to keep me alive for just a few more seconds. My eyes were burning so that I could barely focus, but I could still see Simon, right at the edge of my vision. He was smiling, and Oleander was laughing. They were proud of what they were doing to me. Oberon help me, they were
proud
.
proud
.
“Hey!” shouted a voice. “What are you people doing?” Then there were strong hands underneath me, boosting me off the wood, down into the water. I dove, driving myself deep into the water, away from the air, from the fear, from my own existence. The instincts of my new body took me into the cool darkness under the reeds while I was still trying to make my head stop spinning. All of the other koi watched with disinterest, and promptly forgot that I hadn’t always been there. Fish are like that.
All
fish are like that, and thanks to Simon, I was one of them. I managed to force myself back to the surface once, frantically looking for help, and not finding it. Simon and Oleander were gone. I was disposed of, as good as dead, and they didn’t need to worry about me anymore. The fish I had become was taking me over, like ink spreading through paper, and as it pulled me down, nothing really mattered. Not Sylvester and Luna, not Cliff, waiting forever for me to come home. Not my name, or my face, or who I really was. Not even my little girl. There was only the water, and the blessed darkness that was my home now, the only one I’d know for fourteen years.
fish are like that, and thanks to Simon, I was one of them. I managed to force myself back to the surface once, frantically looking for help, and not finding it. Simon and Oleander were gone. I was disposed of, as good as dead, and they didn’t need to worry about me anymore. The fish I had become was taking me over, like ink spreading through paper, and as it pulled me down, nothing really mattered. Not Sylvester and Luna, not Cliff, waiting forever for me to come home. Not my name, or my face, or who I really was. Not even my little girl. There was only the water, and the blessed darkness that was my home now, the only one I’d know for fourteen years.
ONE
December 23, 2009: fourteen years, six months later
There’s fennel for you, and columbines;
There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me. . . .
You must wear your rue with a difference.
—William Shakespeare,
Hamlet
Hamlet
DECEMBER HAD COME to San Francisco in fits and starts, like a visitor who wasn’t sure he wanted to stay. The skies were blue one minute and overcast the next; tourists overheated or shivered in their prepacked wardrobes, while residents traded sweaters for tank tops and back in a single afternoon. That’s normal around here. The Bay Area exists in a state of nearly constant spring, where the color of the hills—brown with a strong chance of brushfire in the summer, green and suffering from chronic mudslides in winter—is the only real difference between the seasons.
It was half past six in the morning, and the Safeway grocery store on Mission Street—never much of a happening nightspot, no matter how you wanted to slice it—was virtually deserted. The usual rush of drunks and club kiddies had passed through several hours before, and now all we had was an assortment of early risers, grave-shift workers, and homeless people looking for a warm place to spend the tail end of the night. By silent, mutual agreement, the homeless and I ignored each other. As long as I didn’t admit I could see them, I wouldn’t need to ask them to leave, and we both got to avoid the hassle.
I’m getting good at ignoring things I don’t want to see. Call it an acquired skill. It’s definitely one I’ve been working on.
“Paper or plastic, ma’am?” I asked, not bothering to conceal the weariness in my tone. Half an hour and my shift would be over, leaving me with just enough time to get home before the sun came up.
“Plastic’s fine, honey,” said the woman occupying my lane. Running a hand through oily black curls, she gestured toward my name tag. “Is that really the name your parents gave you?”
Plastering a smile across my face, I began bagging her groceries with the automated ease that comes with long practice. “It is.” She was buying six pints of gourmet ice cream and a twelve-pack of Diet Coke. I’ve seen stranger.
“Hippies, huh?”
No; a faerie woman and her Irish accountant husband. But that was impossible to explain, and so I simply nodded. “Got it in one. That’ll be eighteen fifty-three.”
She swiped her Visa with a grunt, barely waiting for the machine to catch up before she was grabbing her groceries and heading for the door. “You have a good night, honey.”
“You, too, ma’am,” I called. Grabbing her receipt off the register, I held it up. “You forgot your—”
Too late; she was gone. I crumpled the receipt and dropped it into my trash can, leaning against the divider separating my lane from the next. She could come in later and complain to my manager about not getting a receipt, if she felt like it. With my luck, she’d feel like it, and I’d wind up with another black mark on my record. Exactly what I didn’t need. This was my third job since I won free of the pond; the first two were abject failures, largely thanks to my limited working hours, general lack of cultural awareness, and incomplete understanding of modern technology. Who would’ve believed that it could take so much computer know-how to be the night clerk at a 7-Eleven? Not me, that’s for sure, until my inability to reboot the register got me fired. Checking groceries on the graveyard shift might not have been my last chance, but it sure felt like it. At least at Safeway, there was a manager to fix things when they broke.
My fellow employees were nowhere to be seen. Probably hiding in the stockroom again, smoking Juan’s reportedly excellent marijuana and trusting me to hold the front of the store. I didn’t mind. I didn’t take a job as a check-out girl because I wanted to make friends; I did it because I wanted to be left alone.
A flock of pixies was circling the display produce near the side door, flitting in wide circles as their sen tries watched for signs of danger. Dressed in scraps of cloth and bits of discarded paper and armed with tooth-picks and sandwich-spears, they looked ready to go to war over a few grapes and an overripe pear. I braced my elbows on the conveyor belt and dropped my chin into my hands, watching them. I don’t care much for pixies as a rule. They’re pretty but savage, and they’ll attack if you provoke them. Maybe that doesn’t sound like much of a threat, considering that the average pixie is about four inches tall and weighs three ounces soaking wet. They’re like mice with wings and thumbs, except for the part where mice don’t usually come armed with knives carved from broken beer bottles and homemade spears that may have been dipped in equally homemade poisons. At the same time, I had to admire the way they’d adapted. They had an entire community thriving inside this downtown grocery store, and nobody knew about it but me.
Me, and the members of San Francisco’s fae community who chose to shop here. I’d chosen this store specifically because it was so far away from the likely haunts of the people I’d known in my other life. I hadn’t considered the fact that some of them might come looking for me.
“Is this lane open?”
The voice was gruff, familiar, and more than enough to shake me out of my reverie. I jerked back, one arm going out to the side abruptly enough to knock my chin against the conveyor. Vainly trying to recover a shred of my dignity, I forbade myself to rub it as I straightened up, pasted on a smile, and turned toward the source of the voice, replying, “Yes, sir. Just put your groceries on the belt.”
The man at the end of my lane stared at me, concern evident in his expression. “Root and branch, Toby, didn’t that hurt?”
I forced my smile to stay in place. It wasn’t easy. Through my teeth, I said, “I’ll put some ice on it later. Can I have your groceries, sir?”
The man sighed, beginning to unload his cart. “Are we still doing this? I really hoped we’d be done by now. You sure you don’t want to be done? I can wait around. You can come home with me after your shift. I’m off for the night, and Stacy would love to see you. She’d even make pancakes if I called and told her you were coming . . .”
I didn’t answer him, busying myself instead with running his groceries across the scanner. I’d been doing the job long enough that it didn’t require any concentration to take care of such a simple task. That was a good thing, because he didn’t take my lack of answer as a reason to shut up; he kept rambling, trying to catch my interest as I focused on ringing and bagging his groceries.
Once upon a time—not my favorite phrase by a long shot—I let myself admit that the man now standing in front of my register had a name. Mitch Brown. We were kids together in the Summerlands, the last of the fae countries, the place that exists on the other side of every mirror and beyond every unpierced veil of mist. We were both changelings, mixing human blood with stranger things; Nixie and Hob in his case, Daoine Sidhe in mine. We were about the same age, and both of us were struggling to figure out who we could be, living in a world that was nothing like the one we’d started out in. It was natural that we’d latch onto one another, and to the other changelings who came our way—Kerry, half Hob, half airhead; Julie, half Cait Sidhe, all trouble; and Stacy, weak-blooded Stacy, my best friend and his eventual wife.
“That’ll be twenty-six fifteen,” I said, looking up.
Mitch sighed, brushing colorless blond hair back from his forehead. “Toby . . .”
“Cash or charge, sir?”
Mitch paused before sighing again and pulling out his wallet. “You can’t do this forever, you know,” he said, as he handed the money across to me.
“Three eighty-five is your change,” I replied, putting it down on the divider between us. “Thank you for shopping at Safeway.”
“You have the number,” he said, taking the change and shoving it into his pocket without looking. “Call when you’re ready. Please. Call us.”
Then he was gone, walking toward the exit with broad shoulders clenched tight and grocery bags dwarfed by the size of his hands. Hobs are usually tiny people, but in Mitch’s case, his human heritage won out: he could give your average Bridge Troll a complex. Stacy’s barely five foot three. I’ve never understood how the two of them worked things out, but they must have done it somehow, because they had one kid before I vanished and four more while I was gone. I didn’t want to know that. Mitch told me, just like he insisted on telling me everything else I didn’t want to know. He was trying to pull me back into my life while all I wanted to do was run away from it.
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