Seanan McGuire - One Salt Sea

You know what “sorry” does? Sorry doesn’t do a damn thing. They called my phone and they showed up at my door, they sent pixies and rose goblins and a dozen other, stranger forms of messenger, they delivered casseroles and cakes—like calories were somehow the answer to the ills of mortality? Who the hell decided that made sense? And none of it did a thrice-cursed thing. Connor was still dead. Faerie could endure until the end of time. I could burn out enough of my mortality to watch the sun die. And Connor would still be dead.

I spent a week in my bedroom, emerging only to get more coffee and to clear another bevy of people out of my living room. To be fair, May handled most of the ones who decided they actually needed to show up rather than sending a pixie; my friends understood why she was screening my calls, and everybody else could go hang for all I cared.

Quentin stayed at the apartment the entire time, leaving only when he had lessons on fighting technique or magical theory to attend. On those occasions, Etienne picked him up and brought him back, and he didn’t try to talk to me. Shadowed Hills was sunk deep in its own strange form of mourning—Raysel wasn’t dead, just sleeping . . . for now. Dugan’s elf-shot recipe contained a slow poison nasty enough to be one of Oleander’s creations. All we could do was hope that Walther would be able to counter it before it killed her.

I was dimly aware that I needed to talk to Sylvester about Rayseline. Her blood was a blend that could never have existed without magic; maybe my magic could help her. If her blood was less mixed-up, there was a chance she might be less mixed-up, too. In the meantime, Dianda was willing to place the blame for Margie’s death on Dugan alone. He mixed the elf-shot and put it in the hands of a woman who didn’t really understand the consequences of her actions. If everything came together right, maybe we could give Raysel another chance. As for Dugan . . .

Dugan was the Queen’s problem now, and she didn’t strike me as the kind of woman who would go easy on someone who’d been planning to depose her. I just hoped he was enjoying his stay in the Queen’s dungeon. Oberon knows, I was never going to forget my time there.

And Connor was still dead.

Gillian was going to live. I had to hold onto that. She was going to grow up, and become the amazing woman I knew she was destined to be. She was just going to do it without me. Eventually, growing up would turn into growing old . . . and I was no longer human enough to grow old with her.

Most changelings are abandoned by their pureblood parents when it becomes apparent that mortality is the one disease magic won’t cure. Changeling children are cute. Changeling adults are a constant reminder that anything that begins in the human world will eventually end there. I ran away from Amandine before she could start looking at me the way the other pureblood parents I knew looked at their own changeling children. Was I going to look at Gilly that way someday, when she was old and I wasn’t?

Maybe it was for the best that she didn’t want anything to do with me. All we could do—all we could ever have done—was break each other’s hearts.

And Connor was still dead.

Tybalt had taken his jacket with him when he carried Gillian back into the mortal world. I didn’t even realize it was gone until later, and then I was too busy grieving over the people I’d lost to really miss it. May brought it in with the mail one evening, hanging it on the inside of my bedroom door without a word. The leather smelled like pennyroyal and musk, the way it was supposed to. As for Tybalt himself, he didn’t appear, but this time, it didn’t feel like an abandonment. It felt like respect for my loss, and for the ones who hadn’t made it out alive.

And Connor was still dead.

I was curled under the covers on my bed, both cats and Spike nestled against me, when the door to my bedroom banged open. I stuck my head out, ready to tell May I didn’t want anything to eat, and stopped, briefly stunned by the sight of the Luidaeg standing at the foot of my bed.

“L-Luidaeg?”

“Good guess.” She leaned down and yanked the blankets away, throwing them onto the floor. “Get up and get dressed. We’re going out.”

Thank Maeve I don’t sleep naked. “I’m not going anywhere,” I informed her, trying to find the shards of my dignity. It wasn’t easy.

“Yes, you are,” she replied, voice calm. “Your only actual choice here is whether you’re doing it in socks and a nightshirt.”

I glared at her, taking note of her attire for the first time. She was wearing a long black skirt and a loose, somehow old-fashioned blouse in peacock blue. Her jewelry—necklace, earrings, even a matching bracelet—consisted of driftglass, seed pearls, and verdigris-tinted copper wire. I’d never seen her wearing jewelry before. She’d even taken the tape out of her hair, leaving it hanging loose in thick black waves.

“Get dressed,” she repeated.

“Fine,” I said sullenly, and rolled out of the bed. “Is this going to take long?”

“Dad forbid I should interrupt your plans for a night of feeling sorry for yourself. Yes, Toby, it’s going take a while. I’ll be in the living room. Don’t make me wait.”

She didn’t slam the door when she left. Instead, she eased it gently closed, pulling until the knob clicked home. That, more than anything else, told me how concerned about me she actually was. Moving slowly, but with increasing curiosity, I got out of bed.

When I emerged five minutes later, still dragging a brush through my hair, it was to find the Luidaeg and my Fetch engaged in a hushed, rapid-fire conversation that stopped as soon as they saw me. May glanced away, a flash of guilt in her expression. The Luidaeg, meanwhile, looked me up and down, assessing my attire: black dress slacks, the dark green cashmere sweater from Shadowed Hills, and a pair of black flats. Finally, she nodded.

“That should be acceptable. Get your keys.”

“Glad you approve. May, we’ll be back later.”

“I’ll be here,” she said, mustering a small, not-quitesteady smile. I couldn’t quite make myself return it as I grabbed my jacket from the rack, checking to be sure my car keys were still in the front pocket, and followed the Luidaeg outside.

“Where are we going?” I asked again, once we were both seated in the car, me with my seat belt fastened, her without. I didn’t see any reason to argue. It wasn’t like she’d let us get pulled over. “I sort of need to know which direction to go.”

“Half Moon Bay,” she said, settling deeper in her seat. She made a complicated gesture with her hands, and there was a silk-swathed bundle that smelled of fur and seawater stretched across her knees. “I have something to return to Roan Rathad.”

I paled. “Luidaeg, is that . . .”

“One is Elaine’s, most recently worn by Margie Atwater. The other is Owain’s, most recently worn by Connor O’Dell.” She touched the silk covering the skins with an almost caressing hand. “We’re taking them home.”

There was nothing I could say to that. I started the car.

San Francisco to Half Moon Bay isn’t an inconsiderable drive. We’d been on the road for half an hour, neither of us saying anything, when the Luidaeg suddenly said, “We’re square, you know. There are no debts between us.”

“Swell.” And all it cost was Connor’s life, and maybe Gilly’s sanity. “I’ll try not to need a favor any time soon.”

“That would be an interesting change.” The Luidaeg glanced at me. “How are you doing?”

“Doing? I get up. I eat. I go back to bed. The bills are paid for at least another month before I need to do anything else.” More than a month, actually. Sylvester insisted on paying for everything until I felt like I could deal with working. Normally, I would have refused, but he was my liege, and his daughter was the reason I was in mourning. If he wanted to pay my rent, that was his call.