Page 7 of Sleep No More

“There’s rumors been going around, about a change in the way the Kingdom trucks with changelings,” she said, dropping her voice to keep August from hearing. “Not sure they’d apply to you, given who your mother is, but she’s protective enough that I’d expect her to keep you close to heel regardless.”

August was on the other side of the balcony with a small, brightly frosted cake, her attention focused on a bronze-haired Daoine Sidhe who scowled at my glance in their direction. He wore the arms of the Duchy on the left side of his jerkin, and I silently cursed my sister as I turned my face away.

She hadn’t told me Quentin was Sir Etienne’s new squire.

The boy had been sent to Shadowed Hills as a blind foster when he was twelve years old, and the seven years he’d spent in local company had done nothing to improve his demeanor, nor his fondness for changelings. Rumor said he was the son of some high-up noble house, perhaps even royalty, but I tried to give as little credence to rumors as I could manage. Gossip only hurt the people who indulged in it.

Regardless of his parentage, it was well known that he hated changelings, no matter how necessary Faerie found us, and that he thought my parents allowed me too much freedom to consort with my betters. He wanted me to know my place.

Oh, I knew it. I knew it better than he would ever dream.

The pile of stoneware shards was large enough that I stopped sweeping and looked to Kerry. “Do you have any gloves?”

“I’m sorry, no,” she said, her face falling as she realized what I was actually asking. “We weren’t able to obtain any from the groundskeepers. Do you want me to handle the mess?”

“She can do it,” said a voice behind me. I turned. Quentin had crossed the balcony to stop only a few feet away, watching me with disdain in his cold blue eyes. “She’s a changeling. This is the work she was made for.”

“Of course, milord,” said Kerry, dipping a curtsey. There would be no further defense from her quarter.

I kept my eyes cast down as I said, “My apologies, milord, but the edges are sharp, and I—”

“You? You’re a changeling charmaid doing the work she exists to complete.”

Where was August? Slightly frantic, I looked past him to where my sister had been only a few seconds before. She was gone. This was Shadowed Hills, my uncle’s demesne, and I was among my own kind; she had every reason to expect me not to be abused.

Shrinking back a little, I mumbled, “My mother forbids me to break my skin.”

“Well, then, you’ll have to be careful, won’t you?” Quentin grabbed a dustpan from a nearby wall and shoved it into my free hand. “Clean up this mess.”

There was nothing for it but to follow a direct order from my superior. “At once, milord,” I said, and turned back to the pile of shards.

It looked even larger than it had a moment before, its myriad edges wickedly sharp. I bent to begin sweeping with as much care as I could manage.

The first two swipes of my broom were smooth and easy, and I kept my fingers well clear. I was beginning to think I might be able to achieve this without incident when something pressed against the small of my back, shoving me forward. My broom struck the edge of the dustpan, sending shards flying in all directions. I flinched as they struck my hand and arm, but managed not to drop the broom, only stood there, shaking, while I watched to see if I had broken the skin.

No blood rose, but I smelled it anyway. I glanced to Kerry in a panic, and saw my expression mirrored in her eyes.

“Meriel will get that, come now, let’s go see Mama in the kitchen,” she said, moving to grasp my shoulders and guide me toward the door. I let myself be steered away, only glancing back to see Quentin sneering after us. He didn’t try to stop us, which only confirmed that his casual cruelty had managed to draw blood.

The smell of blood was getting stronger, but there was still no pain. Kerry led me into the knowe, away from the bustle and noise outside, toward a hidden door in the wall. She pressed her fingers against a decorative lily on the nearby mantel. With a click, the door swung open, and we were able to pass through it into the servant’s hall.

I started to hyperventilate as soon as I knew we were alone, letting all my panic out at once. Kerry grabbed my arms.

“Breathe, Toby, breathe,” she said. “You broke no rules. You touched no knives, plucked no roses. The cut was small. It’s already healed. Mama will wash your face, and you’ll be right as rain.”

“I bled,” I moaned. “I can smell it.”

“You did,” she said, voice soft. “You bled, and Mama will wash it away, dilute it in so much water that even an Undine could have no use of it. There won’t be a scar. Your sister didn’t see. No one will ever know.”

“Mother will know.”

“Not if we send you to take a load of laundry to Ilya. He can scrub you so clean that even Amandine won’t be able to catch the scent.”

Kerry was trying to sound reassuring, but I couldn’t let myself believe her. Mother was the greatest blood-worker Faerie had ever known, or ever would know. She could pick up the scent of blood on a knife that hadn’t been used in years but had been cleaned and polished a hundred times or more. She would know.

A thread of bitterness worked through my panic. August was allowed blood magic. August was allowed to learn to comprehend and control the gifts we had both presumably inherited from our mother. But I was not, for all that I was as much Amandine’s daughter as she was. I had only illusions, which failed as often as not, and nothing of the blood that I was born to.

Why the rules should bind me so, when most changelings were allowed to freely use their talents, I did not fully understand. But as they were set, so I must obey, and if she smelled blood upon me when she returned home, even a speck, the punishment would be dire.