She absorbed this, staring at him, willing her face to remain neutral. Where’s my dress? “And you left to guard my dreaming, Goodfellow?”
“Oh, I watched over my primrose darling, never fear. Here you are, still fine and feathered. And delicious.”
Does that mean I am prey now? Loosing the song on him was a wonderfully attractive proposition. “My clothes?”
“Ah. Yes.” He bounced slightly on the bed, and his pencil-thin eyebrows rose. “Do you need them? I’ll wager you are all rose and cream under that mortal ragpile.”
“My clothes, Puck. Or get out, so I may find them.” Gallow left. For Summer, Puck said. The disappointment, however expected, was still sharp and sour against her tongue. I was a fool to hope.
Still, Jeremiah Gallow had fallen to her expectations, instead of rising to her hopes. It was all one could ask for, from a man. She edged for the side of the bed, carefully gathering the sheet to take with her. Her shoes were placed neatly on the floor, and she didn’t have to look at the bedside table with its purple-shaded lamp to know this was Daisy’s half of the mattress.
Sudden nausea cramped her stomach, but she kept moving, slowly and steadily, stepping into the heels and trying not to sigh with relief as their chantment tingled against her skin. Puck whistled, a long, low wolfish tone, and laughed when she shot him a glance that could have been a curse, had she willed it a trifle harder.
He hopped down, and danced for the door. “Your robe is in the water-room, and I’ve stolen you fruit and lovely heavy cream. Hurry, dear Robin. Morn approaches, and there is much to do.”
“Gallow went into Summer.” It was early morning yet, the sun strengthening but not yet breaching the horizon.
“Not only that, my primrose Ragged.” Puck stamped into the hall, turned and beckoned her. “Can you not feel it?”
She did, as soon as she halted, wrapped in a torn sheet and standing in her heels at the foot of her dead sister’s bed. A subtle thrilling all through her, a clock those pure mortal would never hear the ticking of. “She’s opening the Gates.”
“At true dawn, in less than an hour. Summer fears the plague no more.” His tone turned grave. “I wonder how soon she will move to collect the mortal servant who created its pretty black boils for her. What do you think?”
Henzler is dead, though. “For…” Not just the cure, but the illness itself. Robin clutched the sheet to her chest. Her locket was gone. Her throat felt naked. Who had taken it? Jeremiah? “Puck… Robin Goodfellow, are you telling me what I think you…” It can’t be.
And yet. I did what she asked. I did it twice, Henzler had crowed. Summer had not opened the Gates last spring, not until the very last moment and only partway. The mortal season had been rainy and chill, and Seelie not fully renewed. Five changelings given to the Tiend last mortal summer, a prodigious number, but necessary, Robin grasped now, to stave off withering.
Summer had planned this.
Puck watched her dawning realization, his smile returning in increments. “Oh yes,” he murmured. “Summer bargained hard, and bargained fierce, and earned some little of my expertise. She glamoured the one I thought most likely to make what she wished; I installed her pet in a lovely safe place, and brought her his reports. You were to keep a watch on me, all unknowing.” His arms stretched out; he brushed either side of the hallway with his ten fingertips, the thumbs folded in with ease no mortal hands could match.
Robin’s skin was ice. “She didn’t expect it to start killing fullborn.”
“ ’Twas meant for Unseelie alone, my pet. Imagine her surprise.” He stepped back as she advanced, holding his arms stiffly out. The bathroom door was to her left; that was where Jeremiah had hung her dress. Not in the closet; it would have fouled Daisy’s holy, dusty robes.
She was mortal. He’d said it like a curse. He hated anything sidhe, it seemed, including himself.
Including her, no doubt. He had his place at Summer’s side secured now, and may he have joy of it. At the moment, though, there were other matters to concern her.
Why is Puck telling me this? “If you mean to kill me, Robin Goodfellow, either attempt to do so or get out of my way.”
“Kill you?” Now he looked shocked. “I would sooner destroy one of my precious heartsblood oaks than injure your fine voice. List, dear Robin Ragged. I would tell you more.”
She froze. The door was so close. If she opened her throat to the song, she could probably injure him grievously, and with a chance to gather more breath she could quite possibly kill. That had to enter into his calculations; and besides, he could have done her any manner of murder while she lay sleeping.
“He didn’t leave you here for me.” She felt stupid for even considering that Jeremiah might do so. “And there’s iron under the doorstep.” The words were soft and broken, because she forced herself to reserve half her breath. “How are you—”
“Gallow Queensglass does not consider me an enemy.” Puck stepped back carefully, feeling with his glove-shod feet. The pipes dangled at his belt, and it occurred to her that he held his arms out because he wished to prove he meant no harm. “List, Robin.”
“I heed you.” Her lips were numb. Summer had loosed the plague? To get rid of Unwinter, very well, but…
“The tiny glasses you carried will avail Summer naught. The Counties, both mine and Unwinter’s, are ravaged, the Realms shuddering, Unwinter full afire with blackboil, and now the Gates of Seelie will open wide as a lover’s thighs.”
Think, Robin. What does he want from you, to tell you so much? She wrapped the sheet more securely around her, took another step as he fell back. “That is why you were at Henzler’s, and gave me the ampoules after. And why you returned and slew him, or led Unwinter to him. I was sent with a decoy, to lull her into false security.”
“Oh, aye. Should you turn from Seelie’s Queen, Ragged, your voice will always be welcome at my side. I am disposed to be generous; I have not had this much sport for many a long year. When Unwinter and Summer are gone, there will be no bar to us riding the night, and teaching mortals to fear again.”
Her jaw threatened to drop. “You…” There were no words. There was not even breath to utter them, or to fuel the song. But you’re fullborn, too, Puck Goodfellow. Why do you not take ill? Or are you willing to risk it?
“Summer did not wake first, my primrose. I was old before the Sundering, and I weary of their games.” His hands dropped, fractionally, and she hoped her face betrayed nothing but shock. “After both Courts fall, no more petty little dances. You and I, Robin Ragged, shall lead the way.”
God. Holy… Even the obscenities of her childhood were too pale. Think quickly, Robin. If you do not, he may change his mind.
Her chin lifted. The sheet loosened, and Puck’s eyelids lowered a fraction.
That was all.
“You are a changeful sprite,” she pointed out. “What assurance do I have of your fidelity, Puck?”
“Oh, Robin Ragged, Ragged Robin. Who do you have left? All those dear to your heart have been dispatched, all in a row.” So smug, so self-satisfied, and a horrible suspicion bloomed in Robin’s chest. “Mother a-wasted, sister a-broken, little mortal boy Summer’s plaything, and your faithless knight left you sleeping. Who else should you turn to, if not the only kin remaining?”
It can’t be. The suspicion sharpened. He can’t… he can’t…
He must have seen it on her traitorous face. His hands dropped fully, and the boy-sidhe’s head made a slight, fluid movement to the side, his leaf-shaped tongue flickering out to wet his lips.
“Dearest daughter,” Robin Goodfellow, the Puck himself, said, “my primrose love, who did you think you were named for?”
NO LIAR IN THIS CASE
43
Well, that was one way to leave the party. Jeremiah pulled himself upright, blinking, his fingers slipping in weeds, long grass, and sludge. It hadn’t thrown him very far, just across the street and into the ditch. Summer would no doubt b
e piqued at his exit, but at least Robin was safe from the Seelie now. A gift given at the revel before spring’s unloosing, witnessed by the multitude, was good insurance. Gallow himself was the only danger to Robin now—and Unwinter. Who would cease to be a danger soon enough, if Jeremiah could just keep his luck and work things right.
Just across the road, Amberline Park dripped with rain, and the east was graying rapidly. If they weren’t already riding out to the Gates, they would be in a matter of moments.
His left-hand coat pocket was warm, and the golden chain wrapped against his thumb. He closed his eyes for a moment, crouching in ditchwater, the weeds around him already beginning to take notice of the change in the air, rustling softly. Peeking over the park’s low, gray north wall was a ghilliedhu’s birch tree, slender and moss-cloaked, quivering expectantly. Its wandering spirit was at Summer’s revel, so no worries there.
His thumb drifted over an oval of metal. Daisy’s locket had been gold-coated, but this one was true metal through and through, and he thought perhaps Robin’s Realmaking was the cause. When she found he’d taken it, she might be angry, or think it a price extracted for her sleeping safely.
It was something different, though. He concentrated, breathing as softly as he could. Here at the edge of Amberline, the interference was enough to cloak him, the Veil rippling and thickening, thinning and snapping.
All he had to do was watch dawn come up. When it did, he could follow the tugging against Robin’s necklace, and it would lead him straight to her, wherever she had wandered. Hopefully she was still in his trailer, but if she woke she might well consider it not the safest place in the world.
She might even let him explain before she unloosed that song of hers. He’d earned a little gratitude, but even if she wasn’t happy with him, well, once night fell and Unwinter was free to roam, she’d be glad enough of Gallow’s protection.
What, you think she’ll fall right into your arms?
Well, no. But he could… what? Show her he wasn’t so bad? Apologize?
I am not my sister.
No, she wasn’t. Daisy was mortal, and dead these long years.
Five years. Be precise, Gallow.
Something nagged at him. A thin thread of sound.
He stiffened, rose slowly, slowly, to peer over the edge of the ditch. His feet were cold, but his boots had seen worse on mortal jobsites.
Dammit.
Hoofbeats. Soft, slithering rustles. Snicking of claws on pavement.
The necklace tugged against his fingers.
No.
It tugged again, more insistently. The hoofbeats were a measured jog, not the pell-mell of chase. Jingling of tack, a soft, queerly flat neigh.
They melded out of the Veil, fog rising in thick white ropes from the ground to shield them from the murderous light rising in the east. At their head rode Unwinter, and Jeremiah’s knees threatened to go soft for a moment. He realized he was holding his breath, staring at the crowned helm and the hands on the war-horse’s silver-dripping reins.
It makes them strong, before it kills them, Robin whispered in his head.
Unwinter himself was afoot. And Robin Ragged was near.
Was she thinking to escape into Summer as well? If she was awake and moving, she knew her precious cargo was missing. How could he explain? Would she give him time to?
Or did Unwinter have her, bringing her body—or what was soon to become a corpse—to Amberline, to toss over the wall and into Summer? A declaration of war, or merely a slap at the Queen he had been a Consort to so many years ago?
The company of Unseelie halted. Mist thickened, swirling, ice crackling under Unwinter’s horse. A mocking laugh cut through the vapor, familiar and chilling.
“Hail to thee, lord of Unseelie.” Glove-shod feet brushed, and Puck sounded well pleased with himself.
Jeremiah peered over the edge of the ditch. This was a horrible hiding place, and the mist wove around him, its fat flabby corpse-fingers a living blanket along the ground. It was filling the ditch, and his feet would freeze in the water before long. He’d be trapped like the swan in Ell Mercy’s lay, and wouldn’t that be an awful way to die?
“Goodfellow.” Colder than the mist, that voice, and rumbling, too. “I have kept my end of the pact.”
“And so have I. Hark, Unwinter, the Gates of Seelie open.”
It was true. The dawn chorus of birdsong was rising around this mist-walled spot, liquid streams of gold that were the Gate-hinges singing as well. The entire Court would be at the south end of the park, flickering through the Veil as Summer’s white hands brushed the metal lovingly.
“Little good that does me without…” Unwinter halted. “Ah. Her.”
“Give up your chase of my kin, Unwinter, and she shall do what no other has done since the days of your own Harrowing.”
Unwinter’s silent sneer was nevertheless palpable. “And you are so certain of this?”
Birdsong crested. The fog, shot through with rosy tendrils, cringed.
The Gates were open. Spring was loosed on the mortal realm.
The next voice took him by surprise. Clear and very low. “Unwinter, from this dawn to this dusk, I invite you into Summer.”
Robin. And… Puck? Wait, what?
“See, see what a good daughter she is?” Puck laughed, and Jeremiah could almost see him capering with delight.
I was twelve when I was taken… And Puck, the one to bring her to the Seelie Court. Had she known? Had it all been a game?
Yes. Of course it was a game. He would be willing to wager, though, it was not of Robin’s making. She was caught, well and truly. No doubt Puck’s offer to free her of Unwinter’s Hunt seemed her best option right now, since she would think Jeremiah had thoroughly betrayed her.
How am I going to—
“I did not know you had kin.” A slight creaking sound—had Unwinter gestured? A slipping, a slithering, and a cry of unholy joy. “Yet it appears you are no liar in this case.”
“Not in this one. Speak, mighty one. You shall hunt my child no more.”
“I swear I shall not harm the Ragged, and all mine shall abide by that vow.” Unwinter’s laughter killed the rising rose-glow in the mist. “My Unseelie, my nightmare children, let us ride.”
The silver huntwhistles blew, more of them than Gallow had ever heard. He risked standing a little straighter, and saw Unwinter facing two slight, slim figures. Robin, her arms folded about her midriff, transparent-pale and sweating.
She was of the Seelie, and had just invited Unwinter and his host across the threshold.
His plagued, murderous host.
Before her, Puck went up on his toes, then swept the Unseelie King a courteous bow. “Vengeance is yours, lion of the house of Danu.”
Unwinter’s horse turned; he did not grace Goodfellow with a reply. The assembled Court would be weary from their night of entertainment, and no guards were set.
Summer would be ravaged.
“Ride forth!” Unwinter cried, and the rushing, stamping mass of them cleared the low wall in a steady stream, their lord at their head. Robin actually fell, her knees barking pavement with a painful jolt Jeremiah felt in his own legs. He stamped, shattering the ice in the ditch, and Puck Goodfellow halted.
The free sidhe looked about him, suspiciously. His gaze fastened on Robin. “Do you come with me, little elfling?”
She shook her head, bending over, still clutching her stomach as if ill. Of course, she had just committed an unspeakable act. What price would Goodfellow extract for this protection—and for his silence on the matter if Summer began to wonder who had invited Unwinter in?
My kin, Puck had said. Was he really… Did it matter? The Goodfellow was most likely lying for his own gain. How long had Puck planned this moment?
Puck smiled, his face lit with sheer ravenous goodwill, and blew her a kiss. “Then I shall attend to other matters. Come along at your own pace, Ragged.”
With that he went over the wall in
a single bound, like a springheeled jack, and in the depths of the park a screaming began.
The mist flushed again, burning away as Unseelie leached from the air. Robin, still on her knees in the middle of the road, shook. Was she weeping? In shock? Nauseated by what she had done?
Oh, God. He meant to say her name, but the word froze in his throat just as the ditchwater had crystallized around his ankles. He rocked from side to side, ice groaning and snapping afresh. The long, blasted grass and thistles along the slope, coated with spikes of solidified malice, denied his hands. He scrabbled at his shirt, freeing the Horn’s chain; it thickened as he drew it forth, perhaps scenting his desperation.
“Sean…” Robin made a low, keening sound, and it grew in volume. He scrabbled at the slope, but the ditch had turned out to be a false friend after all.
Ice creaked and snapped as the sun rose, and it would be a bloody dawning in Seelie lands. The noise sharpened even through the Veil’s thickening, and Robin’s agonized cry ended on a single throat-cut whisper.
“Jeremiah!”
The word tingled all along his skin, reached down, and yanked on something blind and old within him. Half were not burdened with truenames that could banish, but still something in him recognized the sound.
She thought him still within Summer’s borders. Maybe she wished vengeance, or felt a debt—and the boy trapped in amber, the one she had raised…
He found himself on hands and knees, tearing ice-sharp plants from the side of the ditch in great ragged furrows as he scrambled, finally spilling up over the top. The lance burned, springing free without his volition, but hers was not the life it sought.
Jeremiah Gallow gained his feet, clutching his dwarven-inked weapon, a cold, heavy weight on his chest and ice falling from his hair, eyelashes, hands, pants, every part of him. Each piece shattered and steamed on the crack-scorched pavement.
He had just enough wit to notice a blue and ruddy flicker in the bushes as Robin Ragged vaulted the low wall, following the Unseelie host. Thinking to perhaps save him, even though she had to know he had stolen the ampoules and could only think he’d betrayed her. Thinking perhaps to save the boy, even though Summer would never relinquish a mortal toy to a Half.