“Because otherwise, the Queen could question any evidence you produced,” replied Etienne, stepping through a doorway that hadn’t been there a moment before—a glittering hole in the air that vanished as soon as he was through it. “A changeling with reason to have a grudge against the accused, and a King of Cats with his own agendas? Best not to give her the opening.”
“I hate politics,” I sighed. “Hi, Etienne.”
“Countess Daye,” he replied. Tybalt received a nod, which he returned without visible annoyance. It can be hard for the more traditionalist members of the nobility to know how they should address a King of Cats—“Your Majesty” gives them too much credit, but anything else verges on insult.
Most days, watching Etienne talk to Tybalt would be high comedy, and I’d be the first to break out the popcorn. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time. “You know the way?”
Etienne nodded. “Sir Grianne will be meeting us there.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
Etienne waved his hand, filling the air with the smell of limes and cedar smoke. A glittering hole opened in the wall next to Tybalt. I could see the arched windows of the Torquills’ private hall through the portal. Grianne, another of Sylvester’s knights, was waiting for us there.
“I love the Tuatha Express,” I said.
All breeds of fae have their own strange skills. The Tuatha de Dannan are teleporters, capable of opening temporary doors between places. They used to manage the gates between the realms of Faerie, before Oberon sealed them and left the Tuatha looking for something else to do with their time. Most have chosen Etienne’s career path. The rest have Courts of their own, and make pretty decent regents. Some people say they’re just killing time until Oberon returns and puts them all back to work. Stranger things have happened.
Tybalt and Etienne entered the gate close behind me. There was a moment’s blinding light, like I was stepping between the levels of a knowe—
—and I was standing in a different hall. Grianne turned in our direction, the glowing spheres of her Merry Dancers spinning in wide circles around her. She didn’t say anything. That wasn’t unusual; I’ve never met a chatty Candela, and Grianne makes most of her race seem positively loquacious.
“What will you need from us?” asked Etienne. He closed the portal with another wave of his hand.
I resisted the urge to answer “More coffee.” Instead, I asked, “Has either of you been in Raysel’s rooms before?”
“I have,” said Grianne grudgingly, like even that much communication hadn’t been in her plans for the day.
“Good. I’m going to need you to tell me if anything’s out of place.” The lintel above the nearest door was marked with a circlet of pale pink roses, identifying the rooms beyond as Rayseline’s. I started to step forward, and paused, a feeling of undeniable
There were no wards, either active or inactive. There weren’t even signs that there had been wards set in the past. “Etienne?” I said uncertainly.
He followed my gaze, and sighed. “The young Mistress Torquill never made much use of her magical gifts. Her quarters have never been warded.”
“Oh,” I said, cringing inwardly. Wards are complicated magic. They don’t come instinctively, like basic illusions or some racial gifts. Rayseline never had a childhood; she never got the training that was her birthright.
Out of everyone in Faerie, she might be one of the few who had less of a clue about her own abilities than I did. Something about that struck me as unutterably sad. But there was nothing to be done about it now, and, tragic or not, Rayseline was no longer on the side of the angels. I took a breath to steady myself, trying to dismiss any preconceptions, and stepped past Grianne into the receiving room.
My first impression was of overwhelming pinkness. Everything was one shade of pink or another—the walls, the rugs, even the upholstery on the chairs. Evening Winter-rose had had a similar decorating scheme for her apartment, but while she’d made it look like a private Valentine, this looked more like a preschooler’s room, one who dreamed in Disney princesses and once-upon-a-times.
Oh. That was exactly what this was: the room Sylvester and Luna decorated for their precious baby girl. Then she went away, and came back broken. They didn’t know what to change, what would help her heal . . . and so they didn’t change anything at all, and they never taught her about growing up. I don’t think anyone, or anything, ever did.
There were traces of her adulthood visible around the edges, but not many. Raysel shared this room with the ghost of her own childhood, the little girl who died on the day when she was swept off into the darkness. Her kidnapping was—and is—the case I couldn’t solve. We’re all still paying for it.
I walked forward, scanning the area. This was a showroom, the entry to a noble’s private space. If Raysel had slipped up, it wouldn’t be here. There were two doors at the back of the room. I indicated them, asking, “Grianne, where do these doors lead?”
“Bedroom. Washroom.” Each word was accompanied by a Merry Dancer soaring over to bob in front of the indicated door. Grianne paused before adding, “There’s a door from the bedroom to the family’s private garden.”
“Gotcha.” I started for the bedroom door. “Tybalt, can you shift to cat form and see if anything smells out of place?”
“Will you never learn that I am not a bloodhound?” he asked without rancor.
“Nope.” The door was warm under my fingertips, like some unseen sun had been shining on it. I tried the knob. It turned easily, the door swinging open to reveal a darkened room that seemed like a much better match for Rayseline’s adult character. Heavy drapes were drawn across the windows, blocking any light that might have tried to slip inside. “Grianne?”
She didn’t answer me, but the Merry Dancer that had been marking the door swooped inside and hovered slightly above head height, brightening to cast a soft white glow through the entire room. I stopped where I was, taking a moment to simply look. This was where Raysel had lived, free from the expectations of her family. This was where she hadn’t been forced to hide.
The walls had been papered pink, at one point; scraps of wallpaper still clung around the ceiling and near the floor. The rest had been ripped away, revealing smooth plaster. Even some of that had been torn down, leaving bare the rough gray stone of the actual walls. The floor was hard, uncovered oak. Raysel had removed any trace of softness, leaving the room as stark as she could. A standing wardrobe was shoved against one wall, and a simple bureau was up against the other. In the darkest corner of the room, the one farthest from the windows, a twin bed that was practically a cot had been made up with a thin blanket and a single pillow.
A lump formed in my throat as I looked around. Raysel might have returned from the darkness that stole her, but in a very real way, she never came home.
A tabby-striped tomcat slipped past my feet, nose pressed low to the ground as he stalked through the room. That snapped me out of my momentary freeze. “Etienne, search the wardrobe; Grianne, get the bureau.” I started for the bed.
“What are we looking for?” asked Etienne.
“Anything that shouldn’t be there.” I knelt, peering into the narrow, shadow-filled space between the floor and the bottom of the mattress. If Raysel had kept anything hidden there, it was long gone; the only things I saw were dust bunnies and a few more scraps of wallpaper.
“How specific,” said Etienne, as he started going through the wardrobe.
“I live to serve.” Peeling back the blanket revealed nothing but the mattress, sliced open along the side to allow for the removal of half the stuffing. I reached cautiously through the slit, and found nothing but wadded lumps of silk. “This isn’t a room for two.”
“No,” said Etienne. “Master O’Dell maintained his own quarters.”
“Oh.” I always knew things between Connor and Raysel were less than ideal—I wasn’t even sure the marriage had been consummated, and I’d never quite been able to bring myself to ask—but somehow, I thought they would have shared at least an apartment, if not a bed. That’s what I get for being an occasional idealist, I guess.
Tybalt stalked over to the bureau, letting out an earsplitting yowl. I stood, turning in his direction. “What’s
