Seanan McGuire - Rosemary and Rue

“You’re a little more normal than I thought you’d be,” I admitted. I don’t lie to the Queen. Somehow, I thought the Luidaeg deserved the same courtesy.

“Of course I am.” She walked toward me until we were nearly nose-to-nose. “You came here looking for a monster, right? Well, I hate to disappoint. You’re Amandine’s daughter, aren’t you?” I nodded, and she smirked. “You’re more like your mama than she wanted you to be, and I bet you can roll the balance of the blood on your tongue like wine. Well, go ahead, baby doll. Give me a taste.”

Her eyes widened to fill the world, pupils expanding into endless darkness. Almost against my will I did as she commanded, looking deep to see what she was and what roads her blood had traveled. Deep, so deep . . .

. . . water and fire, blood and burning. She and her sisters were goddesses then, she and Black Annis and Gentle Annie, tending the younger children, roaming the bogs and rivers of the world. Maeve’s Firstborn, pulled from her in blood and screaming while Oberon walked far, far away. But they died one by one at the hands of men and fae, by iron and ash and rowan and fire they died, until the Luidaeg was the last, running, always running, called monster and demon because her blood was so much older and wilder than their own . . .

I ripped myself free of her eyes with a gasp, staggering backward. A final thought lashed across my vision, burning: . . . did we lose it all for the roses? Oh, Mother, you fool . . .

My grip tightened on the goblin, and it hissed, raising its thorns just enough to prick my skin. Shuddering, I forced myself to calm down and relax my hold, still staring at the Luidaeg.

She looked at me, one brow arched. “Well?” she asked. “Know what I am yet?”

“I . . . you . . .” The answer was there, written in blood and ashes and Maeve’s despairing cries as she knelt on the graves of her daughters.The legends said the Luidaeg was a monster. They hadn’t warned me about why.

“Oberon was nowhere to be seen when my sisters and I were born. The year had turned; he was off tryst ing with his pretty Summer Queen. And neither of them raised a hand when their children, their perfect, pretty children, started hunting us down like dogs. We were my mother’s daughters, not Titania’s. They couldn’t be bothered.” Her smile was thin and bitter. “His law came down too late for us.”

“You’re Maeve’s daughter.” She was one of the Firstborn, the oldest denizens of Faerie, our foundations and beginnings. They’re all supposed to be dead or in hiding, not drinking Diet Coke in low-rent apartments in my hometown.

The Luidaeg smiled thinly. “And you’re Amandine’s. I was wondering how long it would take for a member of that line to bother tracking me down—although I’ll admit, your blood’s a bit thinner than I expected. Tried to fix matters on her own, did she? She always was brainless. Runs in the family.” She sipped her soda again. “Now you know what I am.”

“You’re no monster.”

“I was close enough for fairy tales.” The Luidaeg shook her head, and I realized I’d looked more deeply than she expected. Interesting. “I’m tired of this. What do you want? Tell me or get out.”

“You healed me.”

“And?”

“I know it wasn’t out of the goodness of your heart.”

“I hate debts.”

“Did you taste the curse?”

“Curse?” She grinned. “You mean that nasty binding the Winterrose slapped on you? Oh, yeah, I tasted it. That’s one of the meaner pieces of work I’ve seen this century. She really pulled out the stops on that one. Always was a nasty bitch, that one.”

“Is there a way out of it?”

“Sure. Fulfill it.”

“Is there any other way?”

“What, it wasn’t clear enough for you?” She cleared her throat. When she spoke again her voice was Evening’s, clipped and cruel: “Find the answers, October Daye, find the reasons and find the one who caused this, or find only your own death.” She paused, and her voice was her own again. “The Winterrose is good at what she does. There’s no loophole.”

That was exactly what I hadn’t wanted to hear. “So I’m trapped.”

“Yep.” She sat down on a rickety chair, crossing her legs. “I just can’t figure out how she got you to drink her blood. It wouldn’t be nearly this strong if you hadn’t done that.”

I winced. No point in lying now. “I did that on my own, actually.”

The Luidaeg blinked. “You were that stupid by yourself? Wonderful. Amandine’s line is going to die out all on its own. I won’t have to lift a finger.”

“I didn’t know,” I protested, filing her comment away for later examination.

“That you were cursed? Yeah, because that’s not something I would have noticed.”

“No, that drinking her blood would make the curse stronger.”

“They don’t teach kids anything anymore.” She took a long drink of her Diet Coke. “In my day, you’d never have lived this long without knowing how to make your enemies rot from the inside out.”

“There’s a pleasant image.”

“I thought so. What do you want from me? I can’t break a curse spun by the Winterrose. It’s against the rules.”

“I want information.”

That sparked her interest. She straightened, pushing her hair back with a hand that seemed to glisten. Her entire body was starting to gleam, like it was covered by a thin patina of oil. The changes were subtle, but they were happening steadily, her human disguise being shucked away. I was almost afraid to see what was underneath.“Information, huh? You should know I don’t work cheap.”

“That isn’t a problem.”

“What can you give me?”

I shifted the rose goblin to one arm as I dug into the pocket of my jeans, coming up with Evening’s key. The metal burst into sudden, rosy luminescence. I fought the urge to flinch. “This is . . .”

The Luidaeg stood, cutting me off mid-word. “A key to the summer roads. An old one.” She held out one hand, demanding, “Give it to me.”

“Tell me what I need to know.”

“How much?”

“Everything.”

She eyed me. “Three questions, three true answers, and you give me the key.”

“Four. All true, and you don’t count a question unless I say it’s part of the game.”

“Four, and you answer one for me.”

“Done.”

“I’ll even give you a freebie before you start: I don’t know who decided to prune the Winterrose. Now ask away.” The Luidaeg settled in her chair again.

That took out my first question, and any chance of an easy answer. Crap. I’ve never been very good at guessing games. “First question: what exactly is a hope chest?”

She blinked at me, surprised. “A hope chest?” she echoed. When I nodded she asked, “A real one or an imitation?”

“Is that your question?”

“No, that’s me getting the information I need to answer you,” she said, sourly. “Clarification is in the rules, remember? Now, is it a real hope chest?”

“I think so.”

“The four sacred woods interlocked, carved with knives of water and air? Did it burn your fingers when you touched it?”

“How did you know I’d—”

“Come off it. You really think I can’t see the signs, once I look for them? What is it? What can it do? Well, first off, the stories are true—some of them, anyway. The first hope chest was a gift from Oberon to Tita nia, to allow her to adjust her Court to her desire. She passed it along to the first of her half-blood children, and somewhere along the line, there were more of them. No one knows who made the later ones. I don’t know, so don’t ask.