Late Eclipses
Page 49
Walther frowned. “I don’t like this.”
“I don’t expect you to. When do you think you can have results on that cup?”
“I can start testing it while the antitoxin for the Cat’s Court is brewing. Will you be careful, at least?” He put the jar down and reached for a scrap of gauze, wrapping it over the dressing Marcia had already taped in place.
“I’ll be as careful as I can. It’s not my first priority.”
“Not being careful doesn’t mean you have to be stupid.” He turned back to the flasks of chemicals littering the counter, beginning to mix something rapidly together.
“You’re right. It doesn’t, and I try not to be. What are you doing?”
“Helping.” He picked up the result of his efforts: a beaker half-filled with clear liquid. “Rinse your eyes with this.”
“What is it?” I asked, taking the beaker from his hand.
“Willow bark, rose oil, and a few other things, mixed together with a hedge charm whammy. It won’t counter the poison completely, but it should help a little.”
“Right.” I tilted my head back, drizzling the liquid into my eyes. “Ow. Stingy.”
“But good for you.”
I offered a smile instead of the forbidden thanks, blinking the excess liquid from my eyes as I handed the beaker back to him. “Find Tybalt when the antidote is ready. The Court of Cats usually has an anchor in the alley next to the Kabuki Theater outside Golden Gate Park. Failing that, ask Marcia. I’ll call when I finish dealing with Sylvester, and I’ll try to be careful.”
Walther nodded. “Deal. Open roads. If you have an accident, I’ll kick your ass.”
“Open roads,” I echoed. It was time to get moving. Oberon protect us all.
TWENTY
I TOOK THE ROADS BETWEEN BERKELEY and Pleasant Hill at a speed that would’ve made me public enemy number one in the eyes of most traffic cops, if they’d been able to see through my don’t-look-here spell. Walther’s little concoction did something right: my headache was almost gone, and performing minor magic was no longer an insurmountable problem.
Walther put a name to what was wrong with me: I’d been poisoned. Fine. I couldn’t fix it, but I could understand it, and it fit with Oleander’s way of operating. I needed to figure out how she’d been able to get to me during the Ball, but until then, I needed to keep moving and trust Walther to fix things as quickly as possible. I hadn’t known him long enough for the trust to come easily.
If I was being honest, I’ve never trusted anyone easily. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling, especially considering that Walther wasn’t the first: by putting my life in Tybalt’s hands, I’d declared my trust for him. That was unsettling. I trusted Tybalt enough to let him decide whether or not I should be allowed to live?
“When the hell did that happen?” I asked, and jumped, startled by the sound of my own voice. I started to laugh, relaxing even more. Did it matter when I started trusting Tybalt? It was too late to change it, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Either he’d betray me, or he wouldn’t. I needed to believe he wouldn’t.
I needed that to be enough.
I turned on the radio, scrolling through stations until I found one that promised “all eighties and nineties, all the time.” Those stations always play songs written after I disappeared, but I don’t mind the way I used to. It’s nice to hear bands I recognize, even if the songs are strange. If it weren’t for the DJs, with their modern phrasing and to-the-minute slang, I could pretend I was listening to radio transmissions from my own time.
The Paso Nogal parking lot was empty, and the afternoon air was cold, making me draw my jacket a little tighter. It wasn’t winter by a long shot, but the air felt colder than it should have, like it was promising worse things to come. The hillside was marshy, the ground softened by recent, unseasonable rain. It still took me less than ten minutes to race through the complicated approach to the knowe. Stress, anger, and mild panic will do that for a girl.
The door didn’t open when I knocked. I frowned, knocking again. The door usually swings open on its own if there’s not a page close enough to answer it, and even that almost never happens. The Torquills pride themselves on their hospitality. Unless the entire knowe was in mourning, someone should have answered.
The door opened when I knocked for the third time. I stepped through—and stopped dead.
Heavy curtains covered the entry hall windows, giving the room a haunted, funereal air. Flickering candles illuminated the room, their flames sending dancing shadows up and down the walls. I shuddered. Fear of the dark is a human phobia—or so I thought, before I got myself lost in Blind Michael’s lands. Now my heart tries to stop every time I see shadows dancing by candlelight.
Blind Michael is dead. I killed him myself. And when the lights are low and the shadows dance, it doesn’t matter, because I’ll be waiting for him to come back for the rest of my life.
I won’t be waiting alone. A small figure was curled in one of the entrance hall chairs, eyes closed, head tucked forward until his chin rested against his chest. I walked over and put a hand on his knee. “Hey. Wake up.”
His eyes opened immediately, betraying the shallowness of his slumber. He offered me a small smile that was fueled almost entirely by relief. “Toby.”
“In the too, too solid flesh.” I stepped away. “Come on. Let’s go see how Sylvester’s doing.”
“Okay.” Quentin scrambled out of the chair, sticking close to me as we started down the hall. He wasn’t looking at the candles either.
I glanced at him. “They’re bugging you, too?”
“They give me the creeps. It’s like . . . ”
“I know.” Admitting it seemed to help. “Can you take me to Sylvester?”
Quentin nodded. “He’s in the Duchess’ chambers. I can take you there.”
“Good. Has there been any change?”
“Rayseline’s been ranting a lot. It’s impressive. She seems to think she’s in charge because her parents aren’t coming out of their rooms. And we had to cancel the post-Beltane Court,” Quentin said. “I’m scared. What’s going to happen if Luna dies?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did.” I sighed, raking my hair away from my face. “It depends on whether Sylvester steps down, and whether Rayseline inherits, first off. If she becomes Duchess, things are going to change. How long are you fostered for?”
“I don’t expect you to. When do you think you can have results on that cup?”
“I can start testing it while the antitoxin for the Cat’s Court is brewing. Will you be careful, at least?” He put the jar down and reached for a scrap of gauze, wrapping it over the dressing Marcia had already taped in place.
“I’ll be as careful as I can. It’s not my first priority.”
“Not being careful doesn’t mean you have to be stupid.” He turned back to the flasks of chemicals littering the counter, beginning to mix something rapidly together.
“You’re right. It doesn’t, and I try not to be. What are you doing?”
“Helping.” He picked up the result of his efforts: a beaker half-filled with clear liquid. “Rinse your eyes with this.”
“What is it?” I asked, taking the beaker from his hand.
“Willow bark, rose oil, and a few other things, mixed together with a hedge charm whammy. It won’t counter the poison completely, but it should help a little.”
“Right.” I tilted my head back, drizzling the liquid into my eyes. “Ow. Stingy.”
“But good for you.”
I offered a smile instead of the forbidden thanks, blinking the excess liquid from my eyes as I handed the beaker back to him. “Find Tybalt when the antidote is ready. The Court of Cats usually has an anchor in the alley next to the Kabuki Theater outside Golden Gate Park. Failing that, ask Marcia. I’ll call when I finish dealing with Sylvester, and I’ll try to be careful.”
Walther nodded. “Deal. Open roads. If you have an accident, I’ll kick your ass.”
“Open roads,” I echoed. It was time to get moving. Oberon protect us all.
TWENTY
I TOOK THE ROADS BETWEEN BERKELEY and Pleasant Hill at a speed that would’ve made me public enemy number one in the eyes of most traffic cops, if they’d been able to see through my don’t-look-here spell. Walther’s little concoction did something right: my headache was almost gone, and performing minor magic was no longer an insurmountable problem.
Walther put a name to what was wrong with me: I’d been poisoned. Fine. I couldn’t fix it, but I could understand it, and it fit with Oleander’s way of operating. I needed to figure out how she’d been able to get to me during the Ball, but until then, I needed to keep moving and trust Walther to fix things as quickly as possible. I hadn’t known him long enough for the trust to come easily.
If I was being honest, I’ve never trusted anyone easily. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling, especially considering that Walther wasn’t the first: by putting my life in Tybalt’s hands, I’d declared my trust for him. That was unsettling. I trusted Tybalt enough to let him decide whether or not I should be allowed to live?
“When the hell did that happen?” I asked, and jumped, startled by the sound of my own voice. I started to laugh, relaxing even more. Did it matter when I started trusting Tybalt? It was too late to change it, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Either he’d betray me, or he wouldn’t. I needed to believe he wouldn’t.
I needed that to be enough.
I turned on the radio, scrolling through stations until I found one that promised “all eighties and nineties, all the time.” Those stations always play songs written after I disappeared, but I don’t mind the way I used to. It’s nice to hear bands I recognize, even if the songs are strange. If it weren’t for the DJs, with their modern phrasing and to-the-minute slang, I could pretend I was listening to radio transmissions from my own time.
The Paso Nogal parking lot was empty, and the afternoon air was cold, making me draw my jacket a little tighter. It wasn’t winter by a long shot, but the air felt colder than it should have, like it was promising worse things to come. The hillside was marshy, the ground softened by recent, unseasonable rain. It still took me less than ten minutes to race through the complicated approach to the knowe. Stress, anger, and mild panic will do that for a girl.
The door didn’t open when I knocked. I frowned, knocking again. The door usually swings open on its own if there’s not a page close enough to answer it, and even that almost never happens. The Torquills pride themselves on their hospitality. Unless the entire knowe was in mourning, someone should have answered.
The door opened when I knocked for the third time. I stepped through—and stopped dead.
Heavy curtains covered the entry hall windows, giving the room a haunted, funereal air. Flickering candles illuminated the room, their flames sending dancing shadows up and down the walls. I shuddered. Fear of the dark is a human phobia—or so I thought, before I got myself lost in Blind Michael’s lands. Now my heart tries to stop every time I see shadows dancing by candlelight.
Blind Michael is dead. I killed him myself. And when the lights are low and the shadows dance, it doesn’t matter, because I’ll be waiting for him to come back for the rest of my life.
I won’t be waiting alone. A small figure was curled in one of the entrance hall chairs, eyes closed, head tucked forward until his chin rested against his chest. I walked over and put a hand on his knee. “Hey. Wake up.”
His eyes opened immediately, betraying the shallowness of his slumber. He offered me a small smile that was fueled almost entirely by relief. “Toby.”
“In the too, too solid flesh.” I stepped away. “Come on. Let’s go see how Sylvester’s doing.”
“Okay.” Quentin scrambled out of the chair, sticking close to me as we started down the hall. He wasn’t looking at the candles either.
I glanced at him. “They’re bugging you, too?”
“They give me the creeps. It’s like . . . ”
“I know.” Admitting it seemed to help. “Can you take me to Sylvester?”
Quentin nodded. “He’s in the Duchess’ chambers. I can take you there.”
“Good. Has there been any change?”
“Rayseline’s been ranting a lot. It’s impressive. She seems to think she’s in charge because her parents aren’t coming out of their rooms. And we had to cancel the post-Beltane Court,” Quentin said. “I’m scared. What’s going to happen if Luna dies?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did.” I sighed, raking my hair away from my face. “It depends on whether Sylvester steps down, and whether Rayseline inherits, first off. If she becomes Duchess, things are going to change. How long are you fostered for?”
