Page 35 of Sleep No More

Before she changed someone’s blood, she weighed it out by breathing it in, which made a certain sense; the smell of a person’s blood carried their magic, and Mother had always been sensitive to the scent of magic, more so even than August or myself, and we were more sensitive than anyone else we knew. Even I, the changeling, could identify magic with an unerring precision that used to annoy the other children when we were young. They were purebloods, come to the tower only because their parents sought to cultivate a closer relationship to Mother through August, and through showing kindness to the useless younger daughter. They had always resented that I was better than them at something.

I lowered the knife, stepping closer to Chelsea, and breathed in deeply.

I started coughing almost immediately. Covering my mouth with one hand, I turned away. “She’s most definitely yours, Sir Etienne,” I said, sounding somewhat choked. “Sycamore smoke is not the same as cedar, but I can still recognize it.”

Someone with a less-refined sense for magical signatures could have taken either or both of them for simple woodsmoke or the smoke of a recently extinguished candle. To me, though, they were utterly dissimilar and distinct, as was my father’s magic from the both of them.

“Is that what her magic smells like?” asked Bridget.

Etienne nodded.

Bridget turned to Chelsea, eyes narrowing. “And is that why your room smells like candles half the time? Chelsea Grace Ames, have you been experimenting with your magic again? I thought we agreed that it was too dangerous!”

“If you knew you could do something, would you not want to understand it?” demanded Chelsea.

I turned to her again, having caught my breath. “Sorry,” I said. “That was stronger than I expected. Let me try again.”

Closing my eyes, I inhaled a second time, reaching for her magic, reaching for the balance of her blood, the delicate interplay of paternity and maternity that would have initially created her. What I found was sycamore smoke and calla lilies, and not a drop of mortality at all. She had no human heritage.

That didn’t make sense. I opened my eyes, studying her as carefully as I could. She looked boldly back, clearly anxious, no sign of deception in her eyes.

The curves of her face were familiar to me, too soft to be fae, too sharp to be human. Her ears were hidden by her hair, which wouldn’t have been possible if they’d been as long or sharply pointed as Etienne’s. Even her eyes, with their coppery sheen, weren’t the clean, unburnished metallic I would have expected from a pureblooded Tuatha de Dannan. She was beautiful. She was a changeling. Except that her blood told me she wasn’t, which meant this was an illusion I didn’t understand.

I turned to Etienne. “If this is a prank, it isn’t funny. If it’s been an attempt to test my loyalty, I would like you to remember that I was brought here without being told what the ‘help’ you wanted would entail, and all I agreed to do was try. Technically, you’ve broken no rules, and neither have I. But whatever you’re doing, I’d like you to stop now, please.”

Etienne looked startled. “What do you mean?”

“The illusion you’ve cast on this girl. She’s clearly a relative of yours—the magic tells me that—but I don’t know if she’s your daughter or your sister or what, or why you thought you needed to push me into a position where I’d agree to do blood magic for you.” I shook my head. “She’s not a changeling. She has no human blood in her. What the hell is this?”

Bridget said nothing, looking horrified.

Etienne stood, almost knocking over his chair in the process. “She is my daughter, and this is her mother, and I swear, there is no trick, October. I asked for help because I needed to find a way to save her, before—”

He cut himself off before he could go any further. I frowned. “Before what, Etienne?”

“Nothing. Only rumors in the Court of the Queen. I attend on Duke Torquill’s behalf, to represent Shadowed Hills, and some of the courtiers have looser tongues than is good for them.” He looked away, no longer facing me. “I assure you, Chelsea is my child, and Bridget is her mother. I was present for her birth. All three of us were. She is as changeling as you are. Help her.”

“Why is this so urgent all of a sudden?” I asked. “What did you hear?”

“Nothing!” He still wouldn’t look at me. “Your mother is Firstborn, your beloved uncle a Duke, your father the dogsbody of one of the most powerful women in Faerie. I heard nothing that applies to you.”

“But you heard something, Etienne,” said Bridget. “Please. Tell the woman you’ve asked for aid. Tell us. We’ve known for some time that Chelsea would need to find a way into Faerie for her to live a proper life, and not spend her days in hiding. It’s never been urgent like this before. You’ve never tried to force the issue.”

“Changelings are born when fae and humans meet,” said Etienne, very slowly. “Once, they were born mostly out of love, like our girl was. Today, they’re born mostly out of duty, nobles trying to follow Titania’s edicts and please her, either by creating their own servants or by ordering their lower-ranked subjects to do it.”

I wondered, like a brief, bright bolt of light, whether that had been the case with the family of Hamadryads I’d seen earlier. They had clearly loved their girls, but had they borne them because they were ordered to do so? I’d always known that was something that happened, but had done my best not to think about it unless I absolutely had to.

“Titania feels . . . as our Queen, the True Queen, the one who stands above all petty monarchies and regional divisions . . . she understands the need for changelings, and their inevitability, which is why she orders their creation. When Oberon left us, he somehow sealed the doors to deeper Faerie, and even she, perfect in her power as she is, has been unable to crack them open. We’re trapped in the Summerlands, adjacent to the mortal world, with no way to remove ourselves from temptation. And like a hungry changeling left alone with a goblin-fruit bush in full fruit, some of us will inevitably cross even the most forbidden lines. It’s the nature of the heart.”

“Are you saying you’re sorry I was born?” asked Chelsea.

“No!” responded Etienne, so quickly and clearly that I had no question of his sincerity. “You are most precious to me, the greatest thing I’ve accomplished in this world or any other. I love you beyond love itself. But Titania, who ordered the birth of most of Faerie’s changelings, begins to feel as if we’ve become too accepting and accommodating of our changeling children. She fears another uprising, as happened before the breaking of the Three, when she ruled flanked by almost-equals, and not alone. There are whispers in the Court. Whispers of a change to her command, of a Wild Hunt, and a purge to come.” He finally looked at me. “They may come to nothing. They may come to everything. Either way, to be a changeling without the protection of a Firstborn parent or a strong noble house is to be a changeling in deep danger. Please, October. I know you’re new to blood magic. You’re confused. But please, help my child.”

I stared at him for a moment, trying to absorb the enormity of what he’d said. There hadn’t been a Wild Hunt in centuries, and certainly not one targeted against the most powerless of Faerie’s denizens. If he was right about this, my friends, all the staff at Shadowed Hills—so many people were going to be in danger.

And he’d only cared about saving his own child. There was the Sir Etienne I knew. Married to the rules until he needed them broken.

I glanced at Chelsea, on the verge of telling him to figure it out himself, and stopped when I saw the naked pleading in her eyes. She was terrified, as well she ought to be, and like anyone else faced with the possibility of her own death, she didn’t want to take the risk. I could walk away to punish him. I couldn’t walk away to punish her, or her mother, who deserved so much better.