Page 85 of The Innocent Sleep

She nodded with sudden resolve, and slashed the knife across the palm of her free hand. Like October, she cut with no concern for muscle or tendon; she would heal too quickly for any permanent damage to be done, and cutting her palm meant she could cup her fingers and capture some measure of the blood before it dripped away. Raising her hand to her mouth, she began to gulp down the blood, quickly, not allowing herself to hesitate.

Then she lifted her head and looked at Simon, reaching out with her bloodied, already-healed hand as if she were grabbing something hanging in the air between them, something the rest of us couldn’t see. Simon stiffened but didn’t scream. One more argument for memories that couldn’t be enchanted away.

So far as I was aware, Eira had never touched him physically. Oleander, however, had been more than commonly fond of pain, and there was no way she’d have been able to restrain herself for all their years together. He had been trained not to make a sound when he was suffering, even if he didn’t remember that training in any conscious way.

Sometimes I rather thought it was a pity that Oleander had died so quickly and relatively easily. Her poisons had not been kind. She had still deserved much worse.

Tears appeared at the corners of Simon’s eyes as he continued to stand rigid, staring at his daughter. August was nowhere near so stoic. Even as she increased her pulling gestures, she began to keen, a high, pained sound that rose and fell like a Banshee’s wail, lacking only its magical pull to complete the comparison. She kept pulling, the knife falling from her hand as she transferred to a two-handed grip, until suddenly she stumbled backward and began shaking her hands frantically, like she was trying to chase away a terrible case of frostbite.

Simon took an unsteady step forward before collapsing into the sand, barely managing to catch himself. Patrick pulled away from Dianda and rushed to help him up, while Dianda followed more cautiously, staying close enough to defend, but not close enough to interfere.

Simon moaned as Patrick pulled him upright, clutching at the other man’s arms like they were a lifeline, or an anchor that could keep him from blowing away in the storm that now raged in his expression. He lifted his face to Patrick’s, and for just a moment, his eyes cleared.

“Patrick,” he said, in a voice so filled with love and relief that I had to turn away. I longed to hear his daughter speak my own name in that tone.

Speaking of daughters, August was still shaking her hands frantically. I walked over to her and took one of them in my own, hissing at the feeling of her frigid fingers. “You’re freezing,” I said. “August, what . . . ?”

“Pulling the spell away was like trying to juggle snowflakes with my bare hands,” she said, fingers tightening around mine as she sought my warmth. There was nothing inappropriate or intimate about the gesture: she was a wounded animal, trying frantically not to freeze. “It hurt.”

Dianda had reached Simon and Patrick, and the three of them were clinging to each other, swaying slightly, like none of them were entirely confident in their ability to stay upright. Dianda murmured a question, and Simon answered, neither letting either of the other two go. It seemed, for the moment, that they were well-content as they were.

Which left only the exhausted, irritated Firstborn in need of my attention. I straightened, still allowing August to cling to my arm and leech my warmth as I turned to Amphitrite.

The water around her was starting to shimmer again, although the light this time was less silver-white and more petaled pink, like something red as roses was rising from the deeps. The glitter rose in a spray every time a wave broke nearby, scintillating in the air. It was a beautiful effect. It would have been easier to admire if I hadn’t been quite sure it presaged something dire.

Amphitrite met my eyes. “Did you call me here for a reason, cat, or did you simply want to facilitate the world’s most awkward and temporary reunion?”

“I wanted to tell you that we’d managed to locate October, and she and Ginevra are off to find your sister,” I said. “They have a Summer Roads key, and were able to open the door onto the Thorn Road, so they’re running somewhere in the dark now, trying to locate the sea witch wherever she’s been sealed away.”

“You sound remarkably calm about all this.”

“Oh, I’m not.” The admission came easy, and was possibly the most honest thing I’d ever said. “I am nothing but endless screaming and the sack of Gaul inside. She doesn’t know me. She looks at me and doesn’t know me. She doesn’t trust me, which shouldn’t be a shock when I’m a stranger, and yet hurts in a way I could never have anticipated. And still. Losing my temper does nothing to hasten this toward its end, and can do much to slow it. If I seem calm, it’s because I am reserving my rage for those who deserve to receive it, and while you, lady, deserve all good things in this world, I do not count my anger among them.”

Amphitrite threw back her head and laughed. It was something of a bittersweet joy, to realize that I could still make the Firstborn laugh.

When she calmed herself, she looked to me. “That’s the only reason you called me here?”

“I truly did hope you would be able to break the shell on the sea and assist us in stopping your mother. Beyond that, I must remain busy, and must keep my allies busy, or we’ll all go mad with fretting over the quests we can’t be part of, the dangers we can’t be shields against. I should have realized you would bring the Lordens. That I didn’t is entirely my error, and you have my apologies.”

“It seems to have worked out for the best,” she said, jerking her chin toward the trio.

“It may help convince August to unbind her sister, if nothing else,” I said. “She was afraid the enchanted would lose their memories of the world that never was if the spell was broken.”

“And she and October never had time in the real world to get to know each other,” said Amphitrite, with what sounded like genuine understanding. I blinked. She shrugged. “I’m the rejected daughter of possibly the worst mother to have ever lived—and it’s not like Faerie encouraged good parenting skills. I grew up with a few dozen of my stepsiblings to answer when I cried, and most of my mother’s other kids won’t even acknowledge me. They’re assholes, it’s not like I want a solid relationship with most of them, and yet it still hurts when they don’t want me. August has a shitty mom and only one sister, and in this world, that sister loves her. She wants to know her sister’s going to keep loving her when things go back to what you say is normal. It’s completely understandable.”

I glanced at August, who turned her face away, cheeks burning red.

“Everyone wants to be loved, Tybalt. You’re climbing the walls because your wife doesn’t love you here. This whole fake Faerie is just my mom trying to make people forget that she’s a shitty person and a shittier parent long enough to love her for a while. Well, August’s afraid that if October loves you, there won’t be enough love left for her.” Amphitrite stopped and grimaced, expression going pained. “Patrick, Dianda, bus is about to go back down below. I’m not sure I can leave you here, and if I’m not with you to blunt the impact, when Mom’s spell shoves you back to the bottom, it’s going to hit like an iceberg.”

“Wait, please—please, wait,” said Simon, as they began to pull regretfully away from him. “Take me with you. I want to go home. I don’t want to stay here with . . .” He grimaced. “If either of the women who think they hold my fealty calls upon me, I’m not sure I’ll be able to answer believably.”

“Simon, I need you to tell me something right now, and tell me truthfully,” said Dianda, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Has either of them touched you? At all? Even if you thought you wanted it at the time, if either of them has touched you, I’ll . . . I don’t even know. Amy is presumably as enchanted as everyone else, but I don’t know if that will let me forgive her.”

“Tybalt says the spell began four months ago,” said Simon. “That matches the texture of my memories. Everything before four months ago runs parallel to the things I know really happened, the things I lived through. Those memories have texture and weight. The memories Titania created are more like a film being projected on the wall. They’re still accessible, still mine, but they didn’t happen the same way. My memories of the last four months have the same texture and weight as my real ones.”

“You’re not answering me,” said Dianda.

“I’m trying to,” said Simon. “Please, love. Patience.”