Page 46 of Sleep No More

“Well, after the earful his kid’s been giving him, I think he’d be a little more accommodating than he would have been yesterday. Either you have the scariest mind-magic I’ve ever heard of, or you’ve proven something about your descendant line that we’ve been trying to figure out for ages. It’s part of why Their Majesties are so excited to meet you.” Arden started down the hall, clearly trusting me to keep up.

“But we really are going to have to work on that conditioning,” Arden continued, almost idly. “It was bad when Dad was in charge, but these days, yeesh. I don’t understand why we haven’t had an exodus long before this. You people should have run ages ago.”

“We people?” I asked blankly.

“Changelings.” She waved a hand. “You’re still people, even if you’re part human, and humans are pretty cool. You can’t run an agrarian society without understanding the land you’re working with, and the Summerlands mirrors the human world closely enough that we stay in pretty steady contact with the human locals. Oh, they don’t know about Faerie, but they know about planting seasons and the best mix for your chicken feed. You meet your share of assholes, of course, but for the most part, humans don’t suck.”

“Oh,” I said, blankly.

“So it’s kinda shitty to act like they just exist to breed shorter-lived versions of ourselves that we can throw away without consequence.” Arden paused, a complicated look crossing her face. “I know Oberon’s gone, and he’s not coming back any time soon, if he ever does, but I can’t help thinking this isn’t what he wanted for us. The old stories say he used to try to keep the peace between his Queens, and that some of the first changelings were born to them. Those changelings even went on to serve as Firstborn of their own descendant lines. Humanity’s in us, all the way back to our roots, and we’re not helping by pretending that it’s not.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything as we turned down another, grander hall. This one had gold filigree around the windows, etched out in patterns of fruit and grains; one was surrounded by corn, another by grapes, all of them gilded and glorious. The windows were stained glass, abstract and artful, and they filled the space with light.

This hall ended at a tall pair of double doors, flanked by two silent Daoine Sidhe wearing the heraldry of the Golden Shore. Arden gestured me forward.

“Through there,” she said.

“You’re not coming?”

“This is a private party,” she said, taking a step back. “Strays and orphans blessedly not invited, although we get to crash the dinner afterward. Have fun!”

Then she was gone, stepping through one of those circles in the air and vanishing. I frowned for a moment at the place where she’d been. She and her brother both seemed to use the ability to move through space as a way to get out of potentially uncomfortable conversations, and while I envied it a little, I couldn’t say that I exactly cared for it.

Alone in the hall of an unfamiliar, presumably royal knowe, I turned slowly to look at the Daoine Sidhe flanking the door. Neither of them acknowledged my presence. I started closer. They appeared to have been put in place as a matched set: their hair was the same shade of purple, lilac at the roots and darkening as it grew out, they were the same height, had virtually identical features . . . if not for the fact that one had visible breasts, I wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart. It was almost eerie.

“I’ve been dealing with the Windermeres,” I complained aloud. “Does this Kingdom only present people in pairs so it can confuse your guests, or what?”

“We were coincidental,” said the Daoine Sidhe on the left. “The Windermere children are not twins; we are.”

I perked up. You don’t meet a lot of twins in Faerie. Father and Uncle Sylvester were the only ones I knew. “Oh.”

“Quite,” said the one on the right. “You are?”

“Uh . . .” I wasn’t normally called upon to introduce myself. Either I was an accessory of my parents, or I was a changeling at work, and thus beneath notice. “October, daughter of Simon and Amandine Torquill?”

“Was that a question or an appellation?”

“It was . . . my name.” I took a breath and stood up straighter, trying to look confident. “That is who I am, and Arden Windermere brought me here because she said the Queen on the Golden Shore was requesting my presence. I request admission.” I managed to hold my posture and my composure for several seconds before I sagged and added, more meekly, “If it please you.”

“That’s better,” said one of the twins. “It’s okay, kid. Things don’t work here the way they do where you’re coming from, and it’s going to get better. Just keep your chin up, keep breathing, and don’t freak out.” She leaned over to grasp the handle of her door, and pulled it toward her.

Her twin did the same, and together they revealed the grand court on the Golden Shore.

True to the Kingdom’s name, the room was golden. The walls were paneled in polished golden oak, pale and gleaming, panels separated by carved friezes of fruit and grains that mirrored the hall, down to the gold leaf used to pick out the details and emphasize the delicacy of the carving; the floor was gold slate, doubtless mined in the demesne, and the styling continued up into the high rafters, which continued the theme of exposed beams and pixie-lit chandeliers. Windows at least fifteen feet in height occupied much of the two far walls, the top five feet or so of them done in panes of carnival glass, and lush gold velvet curtains hung beside them. It should have been monotone. Instead, somehow, it was glorious.

The room was large enough to have held the receiving room at Shadowed Hills three times over, and all but empty. A dais stood at one end, supporting two large golden thrones, each one occupied by a golden hind. I blinked. Arden hadn’t mentioned anything about meeting the King.

But then, were two monarchs really worse than one? I kept moving forward.

Like their guards, Theron and Chrysanthe were virtually a matched set, although I knew their similarities were not due to close relation. Both of them were muscular and tan, with the lower bodies of gold-furred deer and the upper bodies of pointy-eared humanoids. Theron’s hair was wheat-gold and cut reasonably short, his crown shaped to account for his small but visible antlers, while Chrysanthe’s hair was white-gold and waist-length, and she had no antlers at all. Both of them looked over as the door swung shut behind me.

There was a small crowd gathered by the foot of the dais, and they turned as well, and my manners deserted me, because I momentarily forgot that I was in the presence of a king and queen, instead bursting into tears and bolting across the room toward the group, gathering my kirtle in my hands to keep it from tripping me as I ran.

To my burning relief, the figure I was running for detached herself from the group and ran toward me, the two of us slamming into each other as we wrapped our arms around each other and held on for dearest life. August was shaking. I was already crying. I buried my face against her shoulder and waited to feel like I could safely talk again.

She wasn’t saying anything either. Father approached us, the comforting smell of smoke and cider accompanying him as he moved to put his hands on our shoulders, my right, August’s left. He didn’t say anything, either, and without letting go of August, I managed to move my head to press my forehead against his arm.

“I’m sorry, Father,” I whispered.