Chimes at Midnight
Page 7
My own VW bug was protected by anti-theft, anti-detection, and anti-bird-crap charms. You’d never have known to look at it, but my car had been basically totaled three months ago when an Afanc—a big beaver-looking monster from the deeper realms of Faerie—decided to take a nap on the roof. Thankfully, my friend Danny has a really good Gremlin mechanic, and my liege was footing the bill. After the repairs were finished, I was pretty sure my car was functionally indestructible. That would be a nice change, considering the fates my vehicles normally suffered.
“It’ll be fine,” said May.
“Tell me that in an hour,” I countered. I left my jacket on the front seat as I got out of the car. There was no point in tempting the Queen to turn it into a bolero or something.
We walked across the pavement to the sand and started down the beach in a ragged line. I didn’t realize Tybalt was beside me until he took my arm. I jumped, turning to face him. He smiled.
“Good evening, little fish.”
“You know, if you were anyone else, you’d have gotten decked just now,” I said. But I didn’t jerk my arm away.
“That is one of the many reasons I am thankful, each and every day, not to be anyone but myself.” Tybalt considered my ballet-style bun for a moment before he nodded. “It’s simple, but should avoid the Queen’s ire.”
“So glad you approve,” I said dryly.
“I just don’t want this to be harder than it has to be,” he said, sounding briefly quieter, more like the Tybalt I saw when I was alone than the hard, brilliant King of Cats. He turned to May and Jazz while I was mulling over the difference, and said, “You both look lovely tonight, but I believe this is where we part company. May I assume I’ll be seeing you inside?”
“Unless there’s a velvet rope now,” said May. “You crazy kids stay out of trouble, or at least wait until we get there to start it!”
“We’ll try, but I can’t promise anything.” I took Quentin’s hand in my free one. Tybalt led us forward, into the deepest shadows on the beach. Then we stepped through the wall of the world into darkness, and everything was cold, cold, and there was no air, but Quentin’s hand was warm in mine, and Tybalt’s body was warm beside me, and we were moving forward . . .
. . . into the sound and light of the Queen’s ballroom, where more than a few courtiers turned to look at us, some in surprise, some in more assessing disdain. I pulled my arm away from Tybalt, dropped Quentin’s hand, and looked down at myself. Then I sighed.
“You know, since the dress I was wearing was her work, I thought she might leave it alone. Silly, optimistic me.” My red silk gown was gone, replaced by an equally simple, equally floor-length gown. This one was gray silk, so pale it looked almost white when it wasn’t right against my skin. A complicated braid of red ribbons circled my waist. Even my hair had been restyled, my simple bun replaced by a waterfall of layers held separate by a thin net of ribbons. That was going to be hell to take out.
I pulled up the skirt to check my shoes, and blinked as I realized that they were still sneakers: all she’d changed were the laces, which were now red ribbons that matched my semi-belt. My ankle sheath was still in place, undisturbed by the Queen’s annoying obsession with changing my clothes. I let go of my skirt. “She left my shoes alone,” I said. “That’s weird.”
“At least she got us all?” offered Quentin, who looked annoyingly comfortable in his tunic and trousers.
I glanced toward Tybalt, and whatever I’d been about to say fled my mind, leaving me feeling more oxygen-deprived than our brief passage through the shadows justified. “Uh . . .”
He was wearing brown leather trousers, a darker brown leather vest, and a silk shirt that matched my dress. The sleeves were almost piratical in style, and the collar was unlaced. His boots were the same shade as his vest, a few shades lighter than his hair.
“Uh,” I said again, before managing, “Weren’t you wearing that the last time you came to Court?”
“She always dresses me in some variation of this attire,” said Tybalt. “I can’t tell whether she likes the look of it, or whether she’s trying to make a point. This would have been a stagehand’s garb, once upon a time, and nothing suited for a King.”
“Uh,” I said, for a third time.
Seeing my distress, Tybalt smirked, leaned in, and murmured in my ear, “I have a disturbing assortment of leather trousers, thanks to her. I’d be happy to show you, if you like.”
I could feel my ears turning red. But with embarrassment came annoyance, and annoyance and I are very old friends. I shook my head as I straightened and stepped away. “Let’s go see about talking to the Queen.”
It felt like every eye was on me as I led Tybalt and Quentin into the crowd. My sneakers made soft squeaking noises on the marble. A commotion near the main doors told me that Jazz and May had made it inside, but I couldn’t see them through the crowd. No matter; they’d find us soon enough. They always did, when it was important.
The ballroom was a study in white that seemed carved from a single piece of ivory. The only difference between the floor and ceiling was where you were standing. Both were polished until they verged on becoming mirrors. Cobweb ribbons of white spider-silk were wrapped around the filigreed pillars, eddying and dancing at the slightest breeze. It was like walking through a forest of ghostly tentacles, and it felt like it could turn hostile at any moment—if it wasn’t hostile already.
We walked until we reached a dais, as white as the rest of the room, but set in the center of a wide clear space. No one kept it clear; people avoided it of their own accord, unless they’d come to speak with the Queen. I looked around at the crowd, and realized how few people I’d ever seen come to seek her counsel. They’d come to her Court. They’d do the political dance. But they never talked to her, or encouraged her to talk to them. I knew I wasn’t the only one who had problems with the Queen. I was starting to wonder how many people didn’t.
The thought had barely crossed my mind when the air grew cold with the scent of rowan, and mist clouded the air above the throne. People stopped talking, turning toward the dais like flowers turning toward the sun. I stayed where I was, keeping my chin high, and waited.
I didn’t have to wait long. The smell of rowan intensified, then shattered, and the mist parted to show the Queen seated on her throne, as comfortable as if she’d been there for hours.
“It’ll be fine,” said May.
“Tell me that in an hour,” I countered. I left my jacket on the front seat as I got out of the car. There was no point in tempting the Queen to turn it into a bolero or something.
We walked across the pavement to the sand and started down the beach in a ragged line. I didn’t realize Tybalt was beside me until he took my arm. I jumped, turning to face him. He smiled.
“Good evening, little fish.”
“You know, if you were anyone else, you’d have gotten decked just now,” I said. But I didn’t jerk my arm away.
“That is one of the many reasons I am thankful, each and every day, not to be anyone but myself.” Tybalt considered my ballet-style bun for a moment before he nodded. “It’s simple, but should avoid the Queen’s ire.”
“So glad you approve,” I said dryly.
“I just don’t want this to be harder than it has to be,” he said, sounding briefly quieter, more like the Tybalt I saw when I was alone than the hard, brilliant King of Cats. He turned to May and Jazz while I was mulling over the difference, and said, “You both look lovely tonight, but I believe this is where we part company. May I assume I’ll be seeing you inside?”
“Unless there’s a velvet rope now,” said May. “You crazy kids stay out of trouble, or at least wait until we get there to start it!”
“We’ll try, but I can’t promise anything.” I took Quentin’s hand in my free one. Tybalt led us forward, into the deepest shadows on the beach. Then we stepped through the wall of the world into darkness, and everything was cold, cold, and there was no air, but Quentin’s hand was warm in mine, and Tybalt’s body was warm beside me, and we were moving forward . . .
. . . into the sound and light of the Queen’s ballroom, where more than a few courtiers turned to look at us, some in surprise, some in more assessing disdain. I pulled my arm away from Tybalt, dropped Quentin’s hand, and looked down at myself. Then I sighed.
“You know, since the dress I was wearing was her work, I thought she might leave it alone. Silly, optimistic me.” My red silk gown was gone, replaced by an equally simple, equally floor-length gown. This one was gray silk, so pale it looked almost white when it wasn’t right against my skin. A complicated braid of red ribbons circled my waist. Even my hair had been restyled, my simple bun replaced by a waterfall of layers held separate by a thin net of ribbons. That was going to be hell to take out.
I pulled up the skirt to check my shoes, and blinked as I realized that they were still sneakers: all she’d changed were the laces, which were now red ribbons that matched my semi-belt. My ankle sheath was still in place, undisturbed by the Queen’s annoying obsession with changing my clothes. I let go of my skirt. “She left my shoes alone,” I said. “That’s weird.”
“At least she got us all?” offered Quentin, who looked annoyingly comfortable in his tunic and trousers.
I glanced toward Tybalt, and whatever I’d been about to say fled my mind, leaving me feeling more oxygen-deprived than our brief passage through the shadows justified. “Uh . . .”
He was wearing brown leather trousers, a darker brown leather vest, and a silk shirt that matched my dress. The sleeves were almost piratical in style, and the collar was unlaced. His boots were the same shade as his vest, a few shades lighter than his hair.
“Uh,” I said again, before managing, “Weren’t you wearing that the last time you came to Court?”
“She always dresses me in some variation of this attire,” said Tybalt. “I can’t tell whether she likes the look of it, or whether she’s trying to make a point. This would have been a stagehand’s garb, once upon a time, and nothing suited for a King.”
“Uh,” I said, for a third time.
Seeing my distress, Tybalt smirked, leaned in, and murmured in my ear, “I have a disturbing assortment of leather trousers, thanks to her. I’d be happy to show you, if you like.”
I could feel my ears turning red. But with embarrassment came annoyance, and annoyance and I are very old friends. I shook my head as I straightened and stepped away. “Let’s go see about talking to the Queen.”
It felt like every eye was on me as I led Tybalt and Quentin into the crowd. My sneakers made soft squeaking noises on the marble. A commotion near the main doors told me that Jazz and May had made it inside, but I couldn’t see them through the crowd. No matter; they’d find us soon enough. They always did, when it was important.
The ballroom was a study in white that seemed carved from a single piece of ivory. The only difference between the floor and ceiling was where you were standing. Both were polished until they verged on becoming mirrors. Cobweb ribbons of white spider-silk were wrapped around the filigreed pillars, eddying and dancing at the slightest breeze. It was like walking through a forest of ghostly tentacles, and it felt like it could turn hostile at any moment—if it wasn’t hostile already.
We walked until we reached a dais, as white as the rest of the room, but set in the center of a wide clear space. No one kept it clear; people avoided it of their own accord, unless they’d come to speak with the Queen. I looked around at the crowd, and realized how few people I’d ever seen come to seek her counsel. They’d come to her Court. They’d do the political dance. But they never talked to her, or encouraged her to talk to them. I knew I wasn’t the only one who had problems with the Queen. I was starting to wonder how many people didn’t.
The thought had barely crossed my mind when the air grew cold with the scent of rowan, and mist clouded the air above the throne. People stopped talking, turning toward the dais like flowers turning toward the sun. I stayed where I was, keeping my chin high, and waited.
I didn’t have to wait long. The smell of rowan intensified, then shattered, and the mist parted to show the Queen seated on her throne, as comfortable as if she’d been there for hours.
