Rosemary and Rue
Page 41
“Good. I was afraid there might be something wrong with her.”
“You mean there isn’t?” He sounded bitter and amused at the same time. It was a strange combination.
“Probably not,” I said, more slowly.
“You look lovely today. I wanted to remember to tell you.” He looked back at me, smiling. “This is the first time I’ve seen you in a dress where you didn’t come off looking like a bear on a leash. It suits you.”
I didn’t want him smiling at me like that. Not now. I stood and crossed to the nearest stand of love-lies-bleeding, resting my fingertips against a flower. “I like these, too, even though they don’t have thorns,” I said, hoping he’d take the hint and let me change the subject. “They go beautifully with the glass roses. Do they grow in the mortal world, or are they another of Luna’s creations?”
“They’re mortal flowers,” he said. He was allowing my incredibly transparent change of subject. Clever boy. “I don’t know about the bluegrass—it seems too literal—but the purple flowers are a human thing.”
“They have such a great name. Love-lies-bleeding. I wonder why they call them that.” I left my fingers resting against the edge of the flower, looking down. It was better than trying to look at him.
“Why do the humans do anything?” I heard him stand, feet scuffling on the broken quartz path. “Luna gave me a bunch for my birthday—this huge vase filled with love-lies-bleeding and love-lies-dying and six kinds of love-in-idleness. If she wasn’t my mother-in-law, I’d think it was a hint, but since she is my mother-in-law, I know it’s a hint.”
“What does she want?” I asked, not looking up. “Grandchildren?”
“What would Luna do with grandchildren? Plant them?”
I had to chuckle. “True enough. So do you know what she wants?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?” I said, finally looking over at him.
Connor brushed the dirt off his pants, looking at anything and everything but me. “You know, now that I think about it, bluegrass isn’t usually blue. It’s green. It has to be something she came up with.”
“Connor—”
He raised his hand. I stopped, just watching him. He looked back at me, seal-dark eyes grave, and said, “She wants me to fall in love with her daughter.” Suddenly formal, he bowed. “Have a good afternoon, Toby. Enjoy your roses. I’m sorry about Evening.” He turned while I was still gaping, openmouthed, and walked out of the garden, leaving me alone.
THIRTEEN
SILENCE CLOSED AROUND ME, drowning out everything else. I sat heavily back down on the bench, closing my hand around the rose petals Connor had dropped. They left stinging cuts on my palm and fingers, nicks too small to draw blood, but big enough to let me fight my way back out of the stillness Connor’s departure had created. I was there to get resources to help me solve the murder of a friend, not to fall for another woman’s husband, especially when that other woman was Rayseline Torquill, heir apparent to Shadowed Hills. Fae inheritance is nonlinear, but Sylvester and Luna didn’t have any better prospects.
I’ve never gone out of my way to collect enemies in high places, and I wasn’t there to fall in love. I was there because I had a job to do.
I don’t know how long I sat there before I heard footsteps approaching. I raised my head, petals slipping through my fingers to shatter on the path. It wasn’t Connor. The page who’d come to my apartment stood there, mouth pressed into a thin line. He winced at the sound of breaking glass, but covered the gesture almost before it was made. The purebloods train their courtiers well.
“The Duke requests your presence, if it suits you,” he said, keeping his eyes forward, away from me. I was willing to bet he’d received a dressing-down from someone—probably Etienne—for stopping me at the doors. Poor kid.
“Okay,” I said, and stood, aware that any chance I had left to make a good impression would go out the window if I tripped on my skirt. “What’s your name?”
He met my eyes,looking startled.“Quentin.”He paused before asking, “Have I given you some offense?”
“No, you haven’t,” I said. “You’ve been more than correct. I just wanted to be able to tell the Duke what a good job you’re doing.”
Quentin straightened, too surprised to mask the pleased smile that lit his face. “I . . . that is appreciated, milady.”
“A word of advice, though, while you’re listening. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Milady?”
“Don’t let any of it go to your head. Not your position, not your nature, not who or what you are. You may be immortal, but you aren’t invincible.” I thought of Evening, lying broken where Faerie’s courtiers could never reach her, and suppressed a shudder. “None of us are.”
He frowned, looking bewildered. “Yes, milady.” He was agreeing because etiquette demanded it, and we both knew it. Unfortunately, nothing I could say would make him understand, and there was no point in arguing if he wouldn’t listen. That never works on anyone. Warn the purebloods to be careful and they’ll ignore you; warn the changelings and they’ll take notes on the great games you’re suggesting. It’s a miracle we’ve lasted this long.
I sighed. “Let’s go see the Duke, shall we?”
“Yes, milady,” he said. He bowed and turned to lead me out of the garden. I glanced back over my shoulder, watching the light play through the roses, and wondered why it couldn’t all be that way. Why can’t Faerie be the stuff of dreams, all courtly manners and glass roses, Courts and pageants? Why do we have to include murder and mystery and the stuff of nightmares?
Light glittered off the shattered petals on the path, answering me. It can’t all be dreams because a broken dream will kill you as surely as a nightmare will, and with a lot less mercy. At least the nightmares don’t smile while they take you down.
Quentin waited for me at the exit, holding the garden door open in the proper courtly fashion as he waited for me to catch up. I nodded in answer to his courtesy, letting him close the door behind me. “How was he?” I asked.
“Milady?”
“The Duke. When he told you to come get me. How was he?”
“You mean there isn’t?” He sounded bitter and amused at the same time. It was a strange combination.
“Probably not,” I said, more slowly.
“You look lovely today. I wanted to remember to tell you.” He looked back at me, smiling. “This is the first time I’ve seen you in a dress where you didn’t come off looking like a bear on a leash. It suits you.”
I didn’t want him smiling at me like that. Not now. I stood and crossed to the nearest stand of love-lies-bleeding, resting my fingertips against a flower. “I like these, too, even though they don’t have thorns,” I said, hoping he’d take the hint and let me change the subject. “They go beautifully with the glass roses. Do they grow in the mortal world, or are they another of Luna’s creations?”
“They’re mortal flowers,” he said. He was allowing my incredibly transparent change of subject. Clever boy. “I don’t know about the bluegrass—it seems too literal—but the purple flowers are a human thing.”
“They have such a great name. Love-lies-bleeding. I wonder why they call them that.” I left my fingers resting against the edge of the flower, looking down. It was better than trying to look at him.
“Why do the humans do anything?” I heard him stand, feet scuffling on the broken quartz path. “Luna gave me a bunch for my birthday—this huge vase filled with love-lies-bleeding and love-lies-dying and six kinds of love-in-idleness. If she wasn’t my mother-in-law, I’d think it was a hint, but since she is my mother-in-law, I know it’s a hint.”
“What does she want?” I asked, not looking up. “Grandchildren?”
“What would Luna do with grandchildren? Plant them?”
I had to chuckle. “True enough. So do you know what she wants?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?” I said, finally looking over at him.
Connor brushed the dirt off his pants, looking at anything and everything but me. “You know, now that I think about it, bluegrass isn’t usually blue. It’s green. It has to be something she came up with.”
“Connor—”
He raised his hand. I stopped, just watching him. He looked back at me, seal-dark eyes grave, and said, “She wants me to fall in love with her daughter.” Suddenly formal, he bowed. “Have a good afternoon, Toby. Enjoy your roses. I’m sorry about Evening.” He turned while I was still gaping, openmouthed, and walked out of the garden, leaving me alone.
THIRTEEN
SILENCE CLOSED AROUND ME, drowning out everything else. I sat heavily back down on the bench, closing my hand around the rose petals Connor had dropped. They left stinging cuts on my palm and fingers, nicks too small to draw blood, but big enough to let me fight my way back out of the stillness Connor’s departure had created. I was there to get resources to help me solve the murder of a friend, not to fall for another woman’s husband, especially when that other woman was Rayseline Torquill, heir apparent to Shadowed Hills. Fae inheritance is nonlinear, but Sylvester and Luna didn’t have any better prospects.
I’ve never gone out of my way to collect enemies in high places, and I wasn’t there to fall in love. I was there because I had a job to do.
I don’t know how long I sat there before I heard footsteps approaching. I raised my head, petals slipping through my fingers to shatter on the path. It wasn’t Connor. The page who’d come to my apartment stood there, mouth pressed into a thin line. He winced at the sound of breaking glass, but covered the gesture almost before it was made. The purebloods train their courtiers well.
“The Duke requests your presence, if it suits you,” he said, keeping his eyes forward, away from me. I was willing to bet he’d received a dressing-down from someone—probably Etienne—for stopping me at the doors. Poor kid.
“Okay,” I said, and stood, aware that any chance I had left to make a good impression would go out the window if I tripped on my skirt. “What’s your name?”
He met my eyes,looking startled.“Quentin.”He paused before asking, “Have I given you some offense?”
“No, you haven’t,” I said. “You’ve been more than correct. I just wanted to be able to tell the Duke what a good job you’re doing.”
Quentin straightened, too surprised to mask the pleased smile that lit his face. “I . . . that is appreciated, milady.”
“A word of advice, though, while you’re listening. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Milady?”
“Don’t let any of it go to your head. Not your position, not your nature, not who or what you are. You may be immortal, but you aren’t invincible.” I thought of Evening, lying broken where Faerie’s courtiers could never reach her, and suppressed a shudder. “None of us are.”
He frowned, looking bewildered. “Yes, milady.” He was agreeing because etiquette demanded it, and we both knew it. Unfortunately, nothing I could say would make him understand, and there was no point in arguing if he wouldn’t listen. That never works on anyone. Warn the purebloods to be careful and they’ll ignore you; warn the changelings and they’ll take notes on the great games you’re suggesting. It’s a miracle we’ve lasted this long.
I sighed. “Let’s go see the Duke, shall we?”
“Yes, milady,” he said. He bowed and turned to lead me out of the garden. I glanced back over my shoulder, watching the light play through the roses, and wondered why it couldn’t all be that way. Why can’t Faerie be the stuff of dreams, all courtly manners and glass roses, Courts and pageants? Why do we have to include murder and mystery and the stuff of nightmares?
Light glittered off the shattered petals on the path, answering me. It can’t all be dreams because a broken dream will kill you as surely as a nightmare will, and with a lot less mercy. At least the nightmares don’t smile while they take you down.
Quentin waited for me at the exit, holding the garden door open in the proper courtly fashion as he waited for me to catch up. I nodded in answer to his courtesy, letting him close the door behind me. “How was he?” I asked.
“Milady?”
“The Duke. When he told you to come get me. How was he?”
