Authors: Seanan McGuire
Rosemary and Rue (17 page)
Most of the desks were in cubicles, open to anyone that passed by, but there were a few more enclosed offices along the back wall, their doors closed and locked. The one I wanted was tucked into the far corner, where the view of the city would be at its best. A plain faux brass nameplate was mounted on the front, engraved with the name “Evelyn Winters.” Oh, Evening. We hated each other so well and loved each other so badly . . . and I had no idea what I was going to do without her.
I lifted the key higher, and whispered, “Evening, I’m sorry.” There was a click as the lock came undone, and the door swung open.
Some people live where they work. Others just visit. Third Road Enterprises was just a diversion to Evening, and her office was practically empty, reflecting her lack of true dedication. A mortal lifetime was small change for her: by the standards of faerie time, spending thirty years building a company was just another game. There was nothing on the desk or the walls to indicate who worked there, or whether that person was coming back.
Morbidly, I muttered, “At least they won’t have to do much cleaning.” I had no idea what I was looking for, or what it would look like. Evening’s illusions were some of the strongest I’d ever seen, remarkable even for one of the Daoine Sidhe. If she’d concealed whatever it was, it would probably be under a spell I couldn’t see, much less break.
After a few minutes of scanning the room, I started turning in a slow circle, holding the key in front of me like a dowsing rod. It made a strange sort of sense, really: the key got me in. It was probably connected to whatever I was trying to find. I made two full turns before the key started to vibrate, nearly jerking itself out of my hands as it was pulled toward the filing cabinet by the window. Lowering it, I moved to kneel and continue my search.
Three of the four drawers opened easily. The second from the top was stuck fast, and when I touched the handle, it felt unnaturally cold; a signature sign of Evening’s magic. “It’s okay, Evening,” I said, touching the key against the drawer. “I got here first.”
The binding spell released with a gust of snow-cold air and the smell of roses, and the drawer slid open easily when I tried again. The key’s light went out at the same time, leaving me blinking in the sudden darkness. “Crap.”
I’ve done worse things than navigating my way out of an office building by feel. I tucked the key into the front of my bodice, where it would hopefully recharge—that sort of magic item usually does if you give it enough time—before I reached into the drawer. The thought of booby traps crossed my mind, and I quashed it as firmly as I could. Still, doubt lingered, and it was a relief when my questing fingers hit only hanging files.
I let my hands slide past the folders, guiding myself by feel. There was something hard at the back of the drawer, half buried under a pile of loose papers. Brushing the papers aside, I felt for the edges of the object. It felt like a box, a wooden box, about the size of a thick paperback book. My fingers tingled as they brushed against it, and the tingling became a burn, spreading up my arms as I lifted the box and removed it from the drawer. The burning wasn’t painful. It was almost pleasant in a way, like rubbing hot oil on sore muscles.
My eyes must have adjusted while I was fumbling in the file cabinet, because I could clearly see what I was holding. I stared, the steadily increasing burning in my arms forgotten.
It was a hope chest.
A real, genuine, hope chest, carved by Oberon’s own hand from the four sacred woods of Faerie—oak and ash for bracing and balance, rowan and thorn for pattern and protection. I knew what it was. Any child of Faerie, no matter how thin their blood, would have known what it was. And it couldn’t be what I knew it to be, because it was an impossible thing, a bedtime story. It didn’t exist. And I was holding it, and it was the reason Evening had been killed. There was nothing else that it could be.
The stories say there are twelve hope chests, that Oberon made them when mankind was still nothing but an interesting diversion. Some people say the chests hold secrets, or stars, or nothing at all; that the Heart of Faerie is hidden in one and the others are decoys, or that they hold a map that would lead us to our missing King and Queens. Some say the chests hold the keys to the deeper lands of Faerie, the places on the other side of the Summerlands. And behind closed doors, they say the hope chests hold a different sort of key: the key to immortality. That they can change the balance of a changeling’s blood, making them pureblooded . . . or human.
If anyone had asked me whether the hope chests were real, I would have laughed. But at that moment, with the weight of the wood solid against my fingers and the burning spreading through me, I believed, and I understood why Evening chose to protect the key before she protected herself. There’s not a pureblood in Faerie who wouldn’t die to keep a hope chest safe.
My hands pulled the box to my chest without consulting my brain, thumbs caressing the lid. For the first time since I woke up, Evening’s death was the furthest thing from my mind. There was nothing in the world but the hope chest and me. I almost thought I heard it whispering to me, offering the world if I’d lift the lid and see what the stories didn’t tell us. I could play Pandora, if I wanted to. I could remake the world.
Pandora was an idiot. I dropped the box, shuddering from cold as much as from temptation; as soon as the hope chest left my fingers, the burning died. Whatever it was selling, I wasn’t in the market. I had enough to deal with without being pushed around by magical items that shouldn’t exist.
There were plastic trash bags in the office kitchen. I grabbed one, wrapping it around my hands before I picked the hope chest up again, and then wrapped the rest of the bag around the box. It didn’t help. I could still feel it. I hadn’t seen anything that powerful since I left the Summerlands—maybe not even then—and honestly, I’d never wanted to. Magic that strong never causes anything but trouble. I wanted it away from me as quickly as possible.
Tucking the bag under my arm, I made my way back to the elevator. Time was running short, and there was maybe half an hour left before dawn. I felt horribly conspicuous, like someone was going to jump out of the shadows and accuse me of theft at any second. No one did. I made it back to my car and climbed inside, putting the black plastic bundle of trash bag and hope chest down in the foot well on the passenger’s side. It looked so small, wrapped up and set aside like that. It certainly didn’t look like anything worth killing for. Unfortunately, somebody thought it was, and that meant I needed to hide it, and fast.
But where? It had to be someplace no one would look. My apartment was at the top of the list of places they would look first. Home and the Queen’s Court weren’t far below it. I hadn’t exactly been subtle. And even finding a hiding place wouldn’t be enough; nothing’s really safe unless there’s someone there to guard it. One way or another, I was going to have to trust somebody, and when it comes to finding someone you can trust with something no one can know exists, you always turn to the ones you hate.
TEN
“TYBALT? TYBALT, IT’S TOBY. Are you here?” I stepped cautiously into the alleyway, holding my skirt away from the ground with one hand. The plastic-swaddled hope chest was under my other arm. It felt more visible than it was, and I kept glancing behind me, waiting for someone to lunge out of the darkness and attack me. Thus far, no one had. I didn’t trust my luck to hold. “Come on, Tybalt. We don’t have much time. The sun’s coming up, and I’m supposed to work tonight.”
Oberon only knew what I was going to do about
that
. My nerves were shot. I’d spent most of the drive to the alley where I’d seen Tybalt most recently trying to pretend that what I had riding in my passenger seat was no big deal. It had worked about as well as the time when I was nine and tried to convince myself I could walk through walls. At least this was leaving fewer external bruises.
that
. My nerves were shot. I’d spent most of the drive to the alley where I’d seen Tybalt most recently trying to pretend that what I had riding in my passenger seat was no big deal. It had worked about as well as the time when I was nine and tried to convince myself I could walk through walls. At least this was leaving fewer external bruises.
Maybe more important, I
couldn’t
lie to myself about the hope chest. My fingers were still tingling from having held it, and my headache was gone. Wherever it came from, it was the real deal. That made it vital that I get it out of changeling hands. Tybalt isn’t the nicest person I’ve ever met, or even the nicest Cait Sidhe, but he’s a pureblood. He wouldn’t have a changeling’s longing for the hope chest—and no matter how much of a bastard he is or how little he likes me, he keeps his promises. Honesty’s not a virtue among the fae, but when a pureblood makes a promise, he keeps it. All I had to do was make him swear.
couldn’t
lie to myself about the hope chest. My fingers were still tingling from having held it, and my headache was gone. Wherever it came from, it was the real deal. That made it vital that I get it out of changeling hands. Tybalt isn’t the nicest person I’ve ever met, or even the nicest Cait Sidhe, but he’s a pureblood. He wouldn’t have a changeling’s longing for the hope chest—and no matter how much of a bastard he is or how little he likes me, he keeps his promises. Honesty’s not a virtue among the fae, but when a pureblood makes a promise, he keeps it. All I had to do was make him swear.
Not that it was going to matter if I couldn’t find him. “Why are you always here when I
don’t
want you?” I muttered, moving toward the back of the alley. He’d been haunting me for most of my adult life. I was never sure whether he hated me because I was a changeling or because of something more personal, and I didn’t care. Hate was hate, and ours was mutual.
don’t
want you?” I muttered, moving toward the back of the alley. He’d been haunting me for most of my adult life. I was never sure whether he hated me because I was a changeling or because of something more personal, and I didn’t care. Hate was hate, and ours was mutual.
Dawn was close, but the sky was still dark, and the fog was thick enough to reduce my range of vision to practically nothing. I’d tried waving the key around in the hopes that it would do its firefly impression again, but it just hung there like so much ornately carved metal. Getting the flashlight out of my trunk was out of the question—I wanted to attract Tybalt, not blind him. That meant standing alone, effectively blind, in a place he’d claimed as his own, when no one knew where I was or how to find me.
Ever have one of those epiphanies that just screams you’re a complete moron? I’d been having one since I got out of the car.
I stood there until my toes were numb and I was shivering so hard that I was running the risk of dropping the hope chest. The sky was starting to get lighter overhead. I had time to make it home, but barely. “Fine, Tybalt,” I said. “You win.” I turned to go.
He was standing behind me.
I squawked in surprise, barely managing to stop myself before I walked straight into his chest. He crossed his arms, one corner of his mouth slanting upward in a smile.
“Really?” he said. “What’s my prize? And why, my dear October, are you gowned so fetchingly? You don’t need to make yourself beautiful for me, you know; you’ll never win my heart. Although you’re welcome to keep trying, if you insist. Next time? Try wearing a corset.”
He kept smiling as I fought to get my breath back, and grinned when I snapped, “Oberon’s fucking balls, Tybalt, give me some
warning
next time!”
warning
next time!”
“Why? It’s more fun this way.”
I blinked, the urge to slap the smile off his face fading. He wouldn’t be teasing me if he wasn’t interested in what I was doing there, and as long as he stayed interested, he’d listen. Cats are like that. “Well, hello to you, too. Took you long enough to get here.”
“I was busy.” He frowned, mood turning on a dime. “What are you doing here? The sun’s about to be up, you know. I didn’t think we were going to be making this a habit.”
“Actually I was looking for you.”
“You were looking for me?” Now he looked outright disbelieving. “Have you finally lost your mind, or is this some sort of joke that I’m simply not getting?”
“Neither,” I said. “I need to ask you for a favor.”
“A favor? You’re not serious.” He took another look at my expression, and his eyes widened, pupils contracting. “You
are
serious. When did you start deciding to ask me for favors? Have I missed something?”
are
serious. When did you start deciding to ask me for favors? Have I missed something?”
“You want to know why?”
“Since I don’t generally ask questions I don’t want to have answered, yes, that would be pleasant.”
I opened my mouth to reply, and stopped, almost stumbling into him as the pressure of the sun increased, signaling the final approach of dawn. He sighed.
“Ah, the pleasure of your company at dawn. How could I ever have wished to forgo it?” We were already so close together that he didn’t have to move to put his arms around my waist; he just did it, advising mildly, “You may want to hold your breath.”
“Wha—” I asked, too surprised to pull away.
“Suit yourself,” he said, and fell backward, dragging me with him into the shadows still lingering at the mouth of the alley.
It had been cold before, but that was a natural cold, the chill of the early morning in a coastal city. This was freezing, the sort of cold that runs all the way down into your bones. My eyes were open, and all I could see was blackness, the sort of endless dark that children swear waits for them beneath the bed and in the closet. I gasped, and felt the back of my throat burn as the cold seared it.
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