Page 20 of A Divided Duty

“Mmm-hmm.” I could sort of see Bridget’s position, though. Teen pregnancy isn’t nearly as much of an issue in Faerie, and that’s not solely down to the lower birth rate. The fact that kids don’t become adults until they hit thirty seems to slow down their acts of teen rebellion, at least a little.

Also, in the human world, most teen pregnancies involve at least one person who’s already well into adulthood, and that really doesn’t happen in Faerie. Age gaps like the one between me and Tybalt are common, but almost no one over the age of thirty is really looking at someone under that age as a partner, or if they are, they’re planning for the future, not for Friday night. It keeps things a bit more under control, and I appreciate that. A lot of things about Faerie are terrible. That one isn’t.

“I need to go check on Ray,” said Chelsea, and hoofed it out of the living room before I could throw anything else.

I looked back to Tybalt, but the moment had passed, and I was all too aware that my daughter was somewhere in this house, out of my sight. “I need to go check on the baby,” I said, and started to slide off the couch.

“We both do,” agreed Tybalt reluctantly, and followed me.

Chelsea was already gone by the time we made it to the hall, and the lack of her magic in the air told me she was looking for Raysel on foot, not portaling around the house. That was a nice change. Since her magic unlocked, she’d been basically treating walking like it was something that happened to other people. Instead, the hall smelled like fresh-baked cake. I sniffed appreciatively, then made for the kitchen.

Miranda was sitting in her high chair—a relatively new development, since she’d only been able to sit up on her own for about a week, which was still an early developmental milestone—and trying to swallow her entire fist, while May was taking a cake out of the oven, preparing to place it on the cooling rack next to two others.

She lifted her head at the sound of the door, giving me a quick, assessing once-over. “I don’t see any blood,” she said. “It went pretty well?”

“It could have gone worse,” I said. “I sort of yelled at Sylvester. A lot.”

“Well, he’s sort of needed it for a while,” she replied. “How did he take it?”

“Surprisingly well,” I said. “I think there’s a chance he might actually listen, which would be amazing. If he does, then maybe we can get him back. I hate that he’s not really a part of our lives right now.”

“She fails to mention that we were also yelling at—and being yelled at by—the Duchess,” said Tybalt dryly. “Luna seems to believe that we are the architects of all her current misfortunes.”

“Well, that’s not much of a shock,” said May. “Luna’s been blaming you since before I existed. Or at least, she started blaming you right before I informed you that I existed. Are we even a little bit surprised that she’s yelling about it now that you’re refusing to give her daughter back to her?” She paused, seeing the look on my face. “Toby? You are refusing to give her daughter back, aren’t you? We’re not turning Raysel out.”

“No, we’re not,” I said. “We have another four months on the original term of offense, even if we wanted to pretend we were going to throw her out when that ended. Which we aren’t. She has a place here as long as she needs it.”

“Thank Oberon,” she said, fervently.

“Why are you making cake? And why is the cake pink?”

“It’s pink because it’s strawberry cake,” said May. “And I’m making cake because the Luidaeg is coming over, and she likes it when there’s cake.”

“She also likes it when she can find spiders in the garden outside,” I said, managing not to shudder. The Luidaeg is one of the oldest fae I’ve ever met, and her dietary quirks can be a little … idiosyncratic. Which is another way of saying “fucking weird.” “Why didn’t you bake a spider cake?”

“I’m not sure how to properly bake spiders, I hate that I just said that sentence aloud, and I want other people to be able to enjoy the cake too, since she’s unlikely to eat the entire thing,” said May. “She wanted to see her goddaughter, and I wanted to use up some strawberries before they went bad, so this seemed like a perfect opportunity for strawberry cake. I’m not worried about using up the spiders before they go bad. And oh, root and branch, there’s another terrible sentence. Go do something else before you inspire a third one.”

“Will do,” I said, and moved toward the high chair where Miranda was trying to eat her fist. “Hello, kitten. You want to come upstairs with Mommy for a little bit?”

She pulled her fist out of her mouth and waved it at me, making a happy chuckling noise. I smiled and unstrapped her, scooping her into my arms before wrinkling my nose.

“Come upstairs and get a fresh diaper,” I said. “Yes, that sounds like the way to do things. New diaper for Andi. Daddy will help.”

“Yes, he will,” agreed Tybalt. “I prefer our child to be clean whenever possible, and my diapering skills eclipse your own.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” I said, agreeably. “May, I’ll bring her back down in a bit, okay?”

“Sure thing,” she said. “I’ll call you when the Luidaeg gets here.”

“Great.” I flashed her one last smile and left the kitchen, heading for the stairs with Tybalt close behind.

The Luidaeg is the eldest among the Firstborn, not just the first child of Oberon and Maeve, but the first child, period, of any combination of the Three. She has the kind of magical power that cracks continents, but she’s tightly bound by a series of geasa laid on her by Titania, which keep her from accessing the full scope of her power unless it’s in the service of someone else. Most of the time, that service comes in the form of effectively granting wishes. Anyone can come to her and ask for anything, and if it’s within her power, she’s compelled to offer them a bargain. Meet her price, get what you want. Don’t meet her price …

I’ve never actually heard of that happening. Anyone who’s desperate enough to approach the Luidaeg in the first place probably has a pretty good idea of what they’re getting themselves into. I’ve made my share of bargains with her. So has virtually everyone else I know. When you have access to someone with near-infinite magical power and a compulsion to help, it can be hard to resist temptation.

But the more I’ve learned about her situation, the easier it’s become. Because see, the Luidaeg can’t say no. Even trying hurts her. And a lot of the things she’s been asked to do have been things that went against her own desires. She’s been forced to hurt friends and betray family, to destabilize kingdoms and worse. I’ve never asked her what the worst thing she’s done was. I know she can’t lie, and honestly, I’m too afraid of what she might say if I asked. I don’t really want to know.

We met after a former ally of mine, the Countess Evening Winterrose, was supposedly murdered. She wasn’t, of course—she was actually the Daoine Sidhe Firstborn in hiding, and the people who “killed” her hadn’t known the proper way of killing one of the First—but I’d believed she was gone forever, and I’d been trying to find out who was responsible. It had eventually led me to the Luidaeg’s door, and we made our first bargain that same day. Before that, I’d believed she was a story for children, the monster under Faerie’s collective bed, and now, she was my friend, my daughter’s godmother—and, technically, my aunt. The woman I was back then would never have believed any of that, and she certainly wouldn’t have been this calm about the Luidaeg intending to come to her house.