Page 38 of The Innocent Sleep

“Devin? Kinda slimy, lives in San Francisco, runs a flophouse for changeling runaways, fences stolen goods?” Garm shrugged when he saw the way we were all looking at him. “My cousin’s kid ran away when he turned fifteen. He wound up at Devin’s place. Stayed there for about five years, then moved down the coast to Golden Shore. Most changelings do, eventually. Things are better for them there.”

“Fascinating,” I said. I could understand why Titania’s world wouldn’t function with Arden on the throne, and why she’d want her favorite daughter awake to rule by her side. What she could want with Devin was harder to see. He was a nuisance, always had been, a pesky reminder of a time when Faerie had been more lawless and people had all but belonged to the houses where they’d been born . . .

And just like that, it made sense. Parents often loved their children. I won’t say that as an absolute; between my father and October’s mother, I knew better than to assume parenthood was enough to guarantee affection. But more often than not, parents loved the people they created, and changeling or pureblood didn’t matter when they were your own flesh and blood. Some of them had to rebel against the system, even if their changeling children had been too ground-down by trying to survive it to dream of doing so on their own.

Devin provided a necessary safety valve for Titania’s system, and as Stacy, she’d been one of his kids, just like October had. She knew how his organization functioned, how he conducted his business, and how those things would need to be changed if she wanted to control him. He’d even had an alliance with Evening, before his death. That could no doubt be repurposed to better serve Titania’s needs. He was useful, and so she’d brought him back.

I stood abruptly.

“I need some air,” I said. “Madame Librarian, is it safe to go outside?”

“Put on a human disguise before you do; your stripes are showing,” she said. “But yeah, it should be fine. Wild Strawberries is a reasonably relaxed fiefdom, and the fact that we’re anchored here means the locals are used to seeing strangers pop in and out without much warning. Just try not to attract any attention if you can avoid it, and for the love of Maeve, don’t go telling anyone you’re Cait Sidhe. I’d rather avoid Titania’s notice for as long as I can.”

“Of course,” I said, and stalked away, back to the hall where we’d entered. I paused to throw a human illusion over myself, stripping away the feline aspects of my nature, blunting the fae elements under a veil of mortality, then stepped outside into the cool night air.

The stars were very bright, even this close to the city. I turned my face toward them, closing my eyes, and took several deep, anxious breaths. I hated this. I hated everything about it, and even more, I hated the fact that I was old and experienced enough to know that I couldn’t just charge back to Amandine’s tower, grab October, drag her onto the Shadow Roads, and confine her in the Court of Cats until this was all over.

Even if she would have eventually forgiven me—of which there was no guarantee—it would bring the wrath of Shadowed Hills, Simon Torquill, and a minimum of two of the Firstborn down upon my head. Amandine, I might have been able to survive. Her greatest weapons are in the manipulation of blood, and I am entirely Cait Sidhe, from one end of my descent to the other. But Evening . . .

The woman who commanded Simon might be a construct of Titania’s magic, designed to mimic her daughter. It didn’t matter. Construct or not, if she had a fragment of the Winterrose’s power, she would end me.

No, we had to approach this like sensible people, slowly and with care, and that was the last thing in the world I currently wanted to do.

Something rustled at the edge of the yard. I tensed, opening my eyes and lowering my head as I scanned for some sign that I was being watched. I didn’t see anyone.

The fence on the far side of the yard was partially obscured by a small cluster of ash trees, spaced widely enough for their roots to thrive but closely enough that they would eventually undermine the fence as they grew. I frowned and moved toward it. It was probably a raccoon, or a stray cat. If the former, I could startle it away. If the latter, they might know something that would benefit us.

Instead, as I approached, a man stepped out of one of the trees, looking at me with anxious eyes.

“My apologies, sire,” he said, words coming out rapid-fire, one atop the next. “I was told the Library was open for visitors, and did not intend to disturb anyone. I’ll come back tomorrow night. I sincerely regret disturbing you, and hope only that you won’t see the need to report me to the Duke.”

I blinked. “Report you? For what?”

“For being away from my station without leave,” he said, sounding as bewildered as I felt.

I glanced down at myself. I had, as was my custom, clad myself in leather trousers and a well-fitted shirt. The clothing was illusion anchored over my true traveling clothes, and cast out of habit; it always pleased October to see me so. At some point, that pleasure had become enough to dictate the appearance of my wardrobe, such as it was. But I could understand how he would have mistaken me for a visiting noble, seeing me come out of the Library so attired.

Sometimes I think the open hissing and snarling of the Court of Cats is infinitely cleaner and healthier than the intricate manners of the Divided Courts, which treat no one kindly, not even those they claim to serve.

“I am a visitor here, but not one who intends to make report to anyone,” I said, aiming to reassure. “My name is Rand, and I hail originally from Londinium. You are . . . ?”

“My name is Eion,” he said. “I, and my family, serve in the Court of Duke Carrig of Wild Strawberries.”

“Not entirely of your own free will?” I guessed. He shied back, eyes going wide. “Peace. It’s only that someone who serves a household voluntarily rarely fears being reported for being away from their station.”

I didn’t know Duke Carrig as he was in the real world, but I had never heard anything negative about the man. Certainly nothing that would leave a Hamadryad courtier flinching like a whipped dog over having been seen away from his post.

“I am . . . My family and I, we are . . .”

“Hamadryads?”

“Yes,” said Eion. “The Duke, in his mercy and grandeur, tends to our trees and keeps them in good health.”

Hamadryads are not like true Dryads; they can leave their trees for extended periods of time and, when necessary, can even break the bond between themselves and the trees, tying their life forces into a new vessel. Some call them the weaker strain of treefolk. I say they approach the matter differently but with no less honest connection to the soil of the Summerlands.

I frowned. “You say he tends to your trees. Does that mean he holds the land they grow on?”

Eion nodded, and said nothing.