The Winter Long (19 page)

“October?” Tybalt sounded alarmed. I didn't exactly blame him. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me toward one of the room's three fireplaces. “Raj, get her a blanket and some dry clothing.”

“Yes, Uncle,” said Raj. The smell of pepper and burning paper rose again, and he was in cat form before he finished going around the corner. I guess that was a faster way to move around the court.

Tybalt was continuing to pull me along with him. I gave up any pretense of resistance and let him tug me along, my teeth chattering. The analytical part of my mind identified the issue as shock, both physical and emotional, coupled with hypothermia and blood loss. My body recovers quickly from physical damage, but that doesn't mean it's easy on me, especially when I'm not sleeping or eating properly.

He got me settled on the end of the bench nearest to the fire, sitting down beside me and wrapping his arm around my shoulder as he tried to loan me the body heat that I so desperately needed. Raj came back in human form with a thick wool blanket, which Tybalt took and draped around me. I unclenched my hands enough to grasp the blanket and pull it tighter, trying to ride out the shock, which felt more psychological than physical. It had been a long day, filled with surprises that I hadn't been looking for and wasn't really equipped to handle.

“October?” Tybalt's hand touched my shoulder, pressing down to be felt through the heavy wool. “Is there anything else we can do?”

“The person who raised the wards on Goldengreen—the reason we fell into the sea—it was Evening.” I kept my eyes on the fire as I spoke. That made it easier, somehow. The fire didn't have any opinions on the matter; it wouldn't judge me or think that I was seeing ghosts.

Tybalt went still. After a long pause, he asked cautiously, “Evening?”

“Evening Winterrose, the former Countess of Goldengreen. That's how she was able to control the wards—she's the one who designed most of them.” I shivered again, turning to face Tybalt. Quentin and Raj were behind him, both looking faintly bemused. “She was the first person I saw when I got out of the pond—the first fae person, I mean. She was the one who helped me get my PI license back. I stopped running away from Faerie because I had to solve her
murder
.”

To my profound relief, Tybalt didn't immediately tell me I had to be mistaken. Instead, he blinked, a slow frown spreading across his face as he considered what I had said. Finally, he asked, “Could it have been a doppelganger, or someone else pretending the right to her face?”

“I tasted her magic; that's how I knew who she was. Even without the confirmation, I don't think a doppelganger could have convinced Goldengreen to close the wards like that,” I said. “Dean was inside at the time, and the knowe has accepted him as Count.
I
couldn't have snatched the wards away from his control, but she was able to. So either she's incredibly powerful, or she's attuned to the knowe on a level that none of us can match.”

“But you said you talked the knowe into letting you in,” said Quentin.

I glanced his way. “That's also part of why I don't have any trouble believing it was really Evening. I don't think Goldengreen ever
liked
her very much. Remember how upset the pixies and bogeys were when we came to reopen the knowe? They were afraid, because they'd been treated badly.” Evening had used pixies to power her lights. I would never forget their small, shriveled bodies, preserved behind the glass that had imprisoned them until they died. It was inhumane. And Evening, the real Evening, had done that.

I took a deep breath. “So, yeah. It was her. Evening Winterrose is alive.” Saying the words out loud made them feel more real. My shock began to splinter, replaced by a slow, growing anger. “She nearly killed me with the binding she used to make me solve her murder, and she was never dead. That b—”

“What did you say?” Tybalt's voice was like a whip crack, tight with sudden tension.

I turned to look at him, frowning. “I said she nearly . . . oh.” The blood drained from my cheeks as I finally put together the implications of my own words. I couldn't believe it had taken me so long to see it. The binding, the message in the flowers Simon brought to the house, all of it. “She bound me. She used the old forms, and she bound me so tight that I nearly died getting rid of the ropes she used.”

“Simon is bound, as is the Luidaeg, by someone who knew all three of you, and who is still among the living,” said Tybalt. “Does the once-Countess Winterrose fit this description?”

“She's still a Countess, she's just landless now,” I said automatically, before nodding. “But yes. She and Simon were both frequent attendees at the false Queen's Court. That crazy bitch was one of the only people who could tolerate them. And the Luidaeg . . .” I hesitated, trying to remember exactly what the Luidaeg had said when I told her about Evening's murder. The sea witch couldn't lie. That didn't mean she couldn't talk her way around the truth, when she had to. “She talked about Evening like she knew her. I think they've met.”

“So she fits the bill,” said Tybalt.

“Yes,” I said again. “The roses Simon brought—the
winter
roses, from Luna's
winter
garden. He wasn't telling us there was danger at Goldengreen. He was trying to tell us that
Evening
was the danger at Goldengreen. It was her all along.”

The statement was simple. Its implications were anything but. I went still, trying to steady my breathing as I considered everything that it could mean. Finally, I said, “You know, the Luidaeg tried to tell me. All the way back when we first met, she tried to tell me. She kept referring to Evening in the present tense. And I never saw her among the night-haunts. How could I have been so
stupid
?”

“You're very good at being blind to what you do not want to see,” said Tybalt, a trifle wryly.

I shook my head. “This is too big. I should have seen it.” I pushed myself away from the bench, letting the blanket fall as I stood, and began to pace. My waterlogged leather jacket was heavy, but I didn't take it off. “I feel like I'm still missing something.”

“The dead are walking,” said Raj. “I didn't realize we'd be living in a fairy tale this week. I would have packed tights.”

I stopped mid-step, turning to face him. “Say that again.”

“What?” Raj blinked at me. “Do you have an objection to men in tights?”

“The first part.”

“I didn't realize we'd be living in a fairy tale this week?”

“That's it. Shit. Oak and ash and shit and damn and we are so screwed.
So screwed
.” The Luidaeg always referring to her in the present tense; the way that she, and a bunch of other people, had called her “the Winterrose,” rather than using her given name. It all pointed to a conclusion that I had never actually drawn, in part because it was impossible.

“Toby?” said Quentin, sounding uncertain.

“Just give me a minute here, okay? I can figure this out.” I fumbled in my pocket until I found the damp rectangle of my phone, only realizing when my fingers touched the plastic that it might have been killed by its encounter with the Pacific Ocean. Still . . . “Quentin, when April modified these for us, did she make them waterproof?”

“I think so,” he said. “I know she said she was making yours extra-durable, since she's, you know, met you.”

“Works for me.” I pulled up Li Qin's number, hit “connect,” and raised the phone to my ear, waiting anxiously as it rang.

Finally, just as I was about to give up, Li Qin answered with a genial, “Hello?”

“Li, it's Toby. Also, wow, you should tell April her work is top-notch, because I'm calling you from the Court of Cats, which means she managed to design a phone that can connect through like, three completely different layers of reality, and that's after being dunked in the Pacific Ocean. Can you call Mags over at the Library and ask her to call me, please? And maybe convince her to give me her phone number? This thing where I have to call you to get to her is getting old.”

“Yes, but you'd never call me if you didn't need me to reach the Library, so cutting myself out of the loop isn't in my best interests,” said Li Qin, sounding bemused. “Are you all right? You sound worried.”

I couldn't quite prevent a burst of jagged laughter from escaping my lips. “Oh, man, Li, you have no idea how loaded a question that is. I will explain everything later, assuming we live, but right now, I have to ask Mags something. It's super-important. Please, can you get her to call me?”

“I'll do my best,” said Li Qin. The line beeped as she hung up. I lowered my phone, turning to face my bewildered companions.

“I think I know what's going on,” I said carefully. “I mean, the pieces have been there for a while now—maybe even since the beginning, with the Luidaeg refusing to actually say that Evening was dead. But I don't want to tell you what it is until I'm sure.”

“Because you don't trust us?” asked Raj, looking affronted.

“No,” I said. “Because I'm terrified.”

My phone rang.

I stared at it like I had never seen it before. Once I answered the phone and asked my question, everything was going to change. Or maybe that was the wrong way of looking at things. Once I answered the phone and asked my question, everything was going to be revealed for what it had been all along. And Oberon forgive me, but I genuinely did not want to see.

I answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Er, October? Li Qin called and said that you wanted to speak with me. Is everything all right?” Mags sounded faintly puzzled, but I was coming to accept that as the Librarian's primary method of dealing with the world around her. Even when she knew exactly what was going on, she sometimes seemed like she didn't have a clue.

“Not really,” I said. “I have to ask you a question, and I need you to be really, really certain of your answer. It's sort of ‘everything depends on this'-level important.”

“Oh. Well.” Now Mags sounded flustered rather than puzzled. “I can certainly try.”

“Okay. Remember when I was having my little goblin fruit problem, and we asked to look at the book about the creation of the hope chests?”

She chuckled darkly. “How could I forget? That was the most excitement I'd seen around here in positively years.”

“Well, I think this may turn out to be more exciting. The hope chest that the County of Goldengreen was named after was given to some lady with a totally unpronounceable name, and you said that her big parlor trick was ‘playing Snow White.' Can you explain? Please?”

“Er. Do you mean Eira Rosynhwyr?”

“Yeah, that's the totally unpronounceable name I meant.” I looked toward Tybalt. He was watching me talk, his face utterly devoid of expression. He knew what I was asking and why I was asking it, I could tell, just like I knew he would let me finish the conversation before he started demanding details. “What did you mean about playing Snow White?”

“Just that she was rumored to be nigh-impossible to kill, even for one of the Firstborn,” she said. “She could suffer an incredible amount of damage and recover completely without outside aid, providing she was given time to sleep. She favored cold places for her recovery . . .”

No shortage of those in the modern world, where anyone could rent a walk-in freezer for less than a thousand dollars a year. “Okay. One last question. What does ‘Eira Rosynhwyr' mean?”

“Uh. It's Welsh, it means . . .” There was a pause, and the rustle of pages. I didn't bother wondering too hard how it was that she had a book of names close at hand. She was the Librarian, and she was in the Library. She could have anything she wanted close at hand. “‘Eira' is a Welsh female name meaning ‘snow.' ‘Rosynhwyr' is a compound word. It doesn't have a direct translation—the closest I can get is something ‘rose that has been frozen.' Why do you ask?”

“Because we're all too stupid to live, and that's why we're all going to die soon,” I said slowly. “Mags, I need you to do me a favor now, if you possibly can. I need you to close the Library.”

“What? October, I don't think you understand what you're asking me to—”

“I need you to close the Library,” I repeated, cutting her off before she could fully launch into her explanation. “I have every reason to believe that Eira Rosynhwyr is not only alive, but in San Francisco right now, and she's not playing nicely with the other children. You need to defend yourself. Close the Library.”

“I . . . what?” Mags sounded frightened now. Good. Fear might be the only thing capable of keeping her alive if Evening came to the Library on whatever strange errands were driving her. “I'll try. I've never closed the doors without changing locations before, and I can't change locations intentionally unless someone is actually trying to burn the place to the ground.”

“If the doors won't close, call me,” I said. “I'll show up with matches.”

Maybe that was what finally convinced her that I meant business. “All right,” she said. “Is there anything else?”

“Yeah. If you see a woman with skin as white as snow and hair as black as coal . . . run.” I hung up the phone without saying good-bye, stuffing it back into my pocket as I turned to face the others. They looked at me with varying degrees of understanding—Tybalt, who knew best out of all of us how Faerie worked, looked resigned; Quentin looked faintly horrified; Raj, who had never known Evening, just looked bemused.

“Evening Winterrose is alive, and her real name is ‘Eira Rosynhwyr,' and she's the Daoine Sidhe Firstborn,” I said without preamble. “I don't know why she faked her own death, and I don't know why she bound Simon and the Luidaeg to silence, but I do know one thing.”