Page 48 of Night and Silence

“Yeah. We think her roommate, a thin-blooded changeling named Jocelyn, may have been involved.” I paused. “Actually, that reminds me. Marcia, do you know how to make anti-fae charms? Herbal sachets and the like?”

She shook her head violently. “No, I don’t, and I wouldn’t want to learn if someone offered to teach me.”

“Why not?”

“You think changelings are only allowed to be a part of the community on the sufferance of their ‘betters’?” It was impossible to miss the sarcastic twist in her voice. “Talk to the thin-blooded sometime. They’re a step above merlins, but there’s a lot of prejudice there, and they’re not covered by the Law. In fact, some people think the Law should be interpreted to mean all thin-blooded changelings should be killed on sight, because they’re so close to being merlins. If they marry human, the bloodline goes into the mortal world, almost undetectable, and magic emerges later, dangerous and unpredictable and not within the purebloods’ control. Too many of the old ones remember the war against the merlins. They remember how many purebloods died. Thin-blooded changelings are only a part of Faerie because it would be too much trouble to kill them all. Learning how to work magic that actively repels the fae is a good way to make it seem worth the trouble after all.”

I frowned. “Are you in touch with any of the other thin-blooded fae in the city? Do you know if any of them might not agree with you?”

“I have more power and more privilege than any other person I know who wears the fairy ointment,” said Marcia. There was an unusual chill in her voice. “Half the thin-blooded changelings in the city are here in Goldengreen, Toby, because I’ve asked them to be, and the Count is happy to have me handle staffing if it means he doesn’t need to think about it. They sweep floors and polish furniture and sleep in real beds and eat real food, and they’re happy. There’s no conspiracy brewing.”

“I didn’t think there was,” I said firmly. “We found anti-fae charms in Gillian’s things, and the letter Jocelyn left for me said she’d be in the place I ‘gave away.’”

“And Goldengreen fit the bill,” concluded Marcia. Her cheeks reddened. “Sorry if I jumped to conclusions a little bit there.”

“There’s no need to be sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to sound like I was accusing you of anything. We just needed to be sure everything was okay. We needed to be . . .” I faltered. With everything happening so fast, I had yet to tell anyone but Tybalt what I’d smelled in that burnt-out old house. I wasn’t sure I wanted to open that can of worms without more evidence. Awkwardly, I finished, “We needed to be sure.”

“I’m sure I’m going to need to make more coffee, if your squire is waking Count Lorden,” said Marcia wryly. “I know you don’t drink coffee anymore, Toby, but what about you, Tybalt? Would you like a cup?”

“Much as I would love to linger over your hospitality—and see my lady consume a good breakfast to replace what she’s lost—I doubt she’ll allow that sort of indolence under the circumstances,” said Tybalt, with what sounded like genuine regret. “Another time, perhaps? You can explain the art behind your fabulous icings, and I can look attentive and ask unclever questions.”

“Flatterer,” she said. Then she looked to me and sobered. “You were the first people to come through the wards since sunrise. I don’t know where your daughter is, but she isn’t here, and neither is this ‘Jocelyn’ girl. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I said. My stomach snarled again. I finally picked up my cinnamon roll. “We’ll find her.”

Footsteps behind us heralded the return of my Fetch, who walked into the kitchen, picked up Tybalt’s cinnamon roll, and announced, “Dean has an incredible fastball for a guy who grew up on the bottom of the sea.”

“Patrick must have played catch with him,” I said. “What did he throw?”

“Conch shell. They’re pointy.” She took a bite of cinnamon roll before saying, around her mouthful of dough and icing, “Quentin’s behind me.”

“Jocelyn isn’t here. Neither is Gillian. If Quentin is satisfied of Dean’s safety, we need to move along.”

“To where?” asked Marcia. I glanced at her. She was watching me anxiously. “What other places have you given away?”

“Depending on how you want to interpret it, a lot.” I had given up my apartment when I moved into the house Sylvester provided for me; I had given up Home when I left Devin for Cliff. I had even given up Amandine’s tower when I ran away from her to start my own life in the mortal world.

The thought of Gillian’s kidnappers taking her to Amandine would have been chilling if I’d believed, even for a second, that Amandine would have allowed them to approach her tower. She was enmeshed deep in her reunion with my beloved older sister, and no one who wasn’t welcome was going to get through her wards. Give it a year or two and she might be a threat to me and mine, but right now? She was a monster on the horizon, worthy of fear and respect, but not coming to cause problems. Not yet, anyway.

Sometimes I feel like my life is turning into one long game of chess with the Firstborn. Every time I manage to get one of them out of the way for five minutes, another one pops up to take their place. It’s enough to make me want to crawl into bed and stay there.

Quentin appeared in the kitchen doorway, making no effort to conceal the relief on his face. “Dean’s fine. He says good morning, and begs your indulgence, but he was up late, and he needs to sleep a little longer.”

“Did he really beg our indulgence, or did he tell us to go piss up a rope?” I asked.

“He didn’t do either of those things,” said Quentin stiffly. “I’m allowed to interpret. You do it for Tybalt all the time.”

“She does?” asked Tybalt, with a sidelong glance at me.

“You talk like a romance novel,” I said. “I’m doing you a favor. The cinnamon rolls are excellent, Marcia, but we need to get moving. Gillian is out there somewhere. I have to bring her home.”

“Open roads, Toby,” she said.

“Kind fires,” I replied, and started for the door. Then I paused, darted back, and grabbed a second cinnamon roll.

Her laughter followed us all the way to the exit. Quentin pulled a don’t-look-here down over the four of us, and we were gone, heading back into the world, back on the trail of my daughter.

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