“I already tried that while Elliot was stowing you and the kid in the cafeteria.”
“And?”
“No one answered.”
“I have directions in your uncle’s handwriting.” I held up the folder.
“Handwriting can be faked.”
I bit back an expletive. Half the Kingdom knew me on sight and expected me to start breaking things the second I walked into the room, while the other half wanted three forms of photo ID and a character witness. “Alex and Elliot knew who I was.”
“They know who you look like. There’s a difference.”
Sad to say, she had a point. I nearly got killed last December by a Doppelganger who impersonated my daughter. In Faerie, faces aren’t always what they appear to be.
“Okay. If you know who I look like, you presumably know what . . . that person . . . can or can’t do. Right?” January nodded. “It’s sort of hard to prove that I
“That’s okay.”
“Didn’t think so.” I sighed. “I don’t suppose dropping my illusions and letting you poke me with sticks would do it? I’d really like to get this sorted out.”
She frowned. “It’s a start,” she said.
“Got it,” I said, and let my human disguise dissolve, wafting away in a wash of copper and cut grass.
Jan watched intently, nostrils flaring as she sniffed at the air. Then she grinned. If her smile was bright before, it was nothing compared to the way she lit up now. It was like looking at the sun. “Copper and grass! You
“No one’s ever been that happy about the smell of my magic before,” I muttered. “How do you . . .?”
“I have files on my uncle’s knights, in case someone tries to sneak in.” There was a brutal matter-of-factness to her tone. She was the Countess of a County balanced on the edge of disaster, and this was just the way things worked. “We’ve had people who could fake faces and pass quizzes, but nobody’s been able to fake somebody else’s magic.” The word “yet” hung between us, unspoken.
“Well, your uncle’s worried, and he asked me to come see how you were doing. Why didn’t you tell me who you were when I got here? We could’ve taken care of all this an hour ago.”
“Do you know where you are?” she asked.
I frowned. “I don’t see what that has to do with . . .”
“Humor me.”
“I’m in the County of Tamed Lightning.”
“Do you know where the County is?”
“Fremont?”
“Fremont, where we’re sandwiched between two Duchies that don’t get along. We’re a shiny little independent County right where it’s not a good idea to have an independent County.”
“I was under the impression that things were stable.” That could change at any time, of course, and there’s always a risk of small-scale civil war in Faerie—it’s something to do when you’re bored and immortal—but the modern world has reduced that risk substantially. The fae are poster children for Attention Deficit Disorder: give them something shiny to play with and they’ll forget they were about to chop your head off.
January sighed. “Uncle Sylvester is respected around here. Something about him having a really big army he could use for squashing people like bugs.”
“So that makes you even safer. Dreamer’s Glass would never bother you with Shadowed Hills standing right there.”
“That’s the problem.”
“Okay, now you’ve lost me.”
“People think that because Sylvester’s my uncle, Tamed Lightning is an extension of his Duchy here to make him look ‘egalitarian and modern,’ and one day he’s going to pull us back in.” She slid off the desk, starting to pace. “They treat us like we don’t matter, or they assume we can get them favors and come around sniffing for political leverage. It got old, fast. So we stopped helping.”
“You thought I was here to ask for a favor?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“Well, believe me, I’m not. I’m here because you stopped calling your uncle.”
January shook her head. “That’s not true. I’ve left about eighteen messages. He just hasn’t been calling me back.” A wry expression crossed her face. “I know his phones work. I installed them.”
“Why haven’t you just gone to Shadowed Hills?”
“Same reason he hasn’t come here: if I leave, there’s a good chance Dreamer’s Glass will see it as an opportunity and invade.” She looked suddenly tired. “Welcome to my life. I just have to keep calling.”
“What’s so important that you need to keep trying to reach him? Why didn’t you send a messenger?”
She straightened, another smile blooming across her face. “Where are my manners? You can call me Jan. We’re not big on formalities here. Do you prefer October, Sir Daye . . . ?”
“Toby’s fine,” I said, blinking at the change of subject. “Look, Jan, your uncle wanted—”
“It’s funny that he didn’t tell you I wasn’t a Torquill. My mother was his sister, but she was just a Baroness. Dad was a Count, so I got his name.”
Oh, root and branch, of course. When fae marry, the family name of the person with the higher title takes precedence under almost any circumstances. Faerie isn’t sexist. It’s just snobby. “Sorry. I missed that memo.”
“Well, did he at least tell you about Mom?”
“He mentioned her, yes.” The existence of a sister was an odd fact about an already odd family. The fae aren’t very fertile, and most fae twins are too weak to see adulthood; the fact that both Simon and Sylvester lived was strange enough. Adding a sister to the equation made it almost unreal. “Look—”
“She was older by about a century. She died when I was little.”
“Oh,” I said. That seemed inadequate. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
“Oh.” What was I supposed to say? People don’t usually sidetrack conversations to tell you how their parents died.
“Anyway, I run this place.” Jan smiled. “I’m a Capricorn, a computer programmer, and a vegetarian. And I bake a mean chocolate chip cookie.”
I’ve seen the “silly me” routine countless times from Sylvester, usually just before he goes for someone’s throat. It’s an effective camouflage when used on people who don’t know it. I put up with it from Sylvester; he’s earned my tolerance. Jan, on the other hand, hadn’t earned a thing.
“Look,” I said, trying not to sound as frustrated as I felt, “are we going to have an intelligent conversation today, or should my assistant and I go and check into our hotel? I’m not leaving until I can reassure your uncle that you’re all right.”
“It’s sweet that he’s worried, but I promise, we’re fine.” Her face was calm as she moved to the coffeemaker, picking up the pot and waving it in my direction. “You want some?”
“He’s afraid you might be having some sort of trouble.” Was it my imagination, or did she jump when I said that? Her hands were shaking. Interesting. Maybe her flippancy was even more of an act than I’d thought. I looked at her face, noting the new guardedness in her eyes.
“There’s no trouble here.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. The trembling in her hands was getting worse. She put the coffeepot down, shooting me a defiant look. “He’d want me to help if there was.”
“I’m totally sure. If there were trouble, I’d know—we have an excellent reporting system in place.”
In English that probably meant the building was on fire and I was the only one who hadn’t noticed. Shifting topics, I said, “I’ve never seen a Daoine Sidhe with glasses before.”
“Consequence of the modern era,” she replied, relaxing. “I stared into too many bright lights as a kid.”
“And they couldn’t heal you magically? I’d think an Ellyllon . . .”
“I did the damage to myself. I figure I should live with it.”
“I see. So you figure you have to live with whatever’s broken here, too?”
