They were very close now. Tate could hear the music, could smell the roasting meat and perfumed herbs heaped on the fires, the sound of a merry fiddle joining the pipes. The closer he was to the center, the further he was from getting out.
High Autumn unfolded around them with deliberate showiness. The earthen pathways branched out and rejoined around trees, never quite repeating themselves. Lanterns hung from tree branches, glowing softly, casting a warm light that flattered everything it touched. The leaves glimmered likegemstones, ruby and carnelian and vivid yellow, blood red heaps of their fallen fellows piled high around the tree bases. Somewhere nearby, he could hear water laughing as it moved over the stones in its path.
Every step was a reminder of how easily this place could swallow someone whole. How readily it offered belonging, and how eagerly it punished refusal. Here, at the heart of Night’s Court, the final harvest was an endless, bloody celebration, outside of time.
Tate stopped short, nearly tripping over a root that had gone creeping by. Time. Measuring time.Mind the time, lad.He held his wrist up to his ear, forcing himself to breathe, swallowing hard, continuing to walk before his pause was noticed.Tick, tick, tick.They’d walked only a short distance, and he’d already nearly forgotten.
“You were happier there,” Cadoc said abruptly.
He didn’t pose it as a question, nor did he stop moving. Tate stared at his back, not slowing. The path moved around a turn and then abruptly opened before them, pavilions rising in the clearing ahead. Ornately carved wood, overlaid with canvas and blowing gauze, lanterns hung within, giving everything that same warm glow.
“That surprises you.”
The heat from a dozen fires warmed the space inside, huge bonfires that lit the whole forest, ringing the court of Autumn. Bodies spilled from the pavilion, laughing, dancing, eating, drinking, fighting. The music was fast, and it was all Tate could do not to lose himself to it right there. He had loved this, once. Above, the moon hung heavy and white overhead, grotesquely full and low, practically grazing the open ceiling of the hall. The sky winked with a million pinpricks of light, witnesses to the carnage below. At the pavilion’s center, there would be a raiseddais laid with furs, a carved throne of antlers and rowan, and on it, Autumn’s Queen.
And that was where he would make his strike. He understood the game being played.
You’ve only got one shot at him, lad. You can’t miss. And you don’t have time to waste.
Tate nodded his agreement with the voice that existed only in his head.
“It doesn’t surprise me, actually,” Cadoc corrected, turning at the doorway to direct Tate inside. “It only disappoints. And that’s what you’ve always done best, I suppose.”
When Tate went to move past him as directed, that same hand landed on him, tightening around his arm, the hooked talon tip once more seeking to puncture.
“I can’t help but notice,” Cadoc whispered against his temple once more, “that you didn’t bring the girl. No matter.”
The inner doors opened with a single gesture from the fae who still held him, and every body within the hall turned expectantly. Tate knew there was a knife behind every single gleaming smile. Cadoc’s teeth glimmered in the lamplight as his lips stretched back, further and further, a pointed reminder, feral glee lighting his honeyed eyes.Tick, tick, tick. A kiss to Tate’s temple and a light shove against his back.
“Welcome home, beloved.”
Silva
There was a skill in creating the artifice of perfection.
It wasn’t enough to simplylookthe part. One needed to know how to think, how to act, how to respond in every situation, soothsaying far enough ahead to anticipate the actions and reactions of those around her. Be subservient enough to his mother, but not enough to let the others in attendance think of her as a doormat. Be fashionable enough to warrant the admiration of elves in her own peer group, but not so trendy that his grandmother would disapprove. Listen to the conversations,everyconversation, pay attention to faces, pick up on weaknesses and jealousies, intuit where petty rivalries had taken root . . . but never involve herself directly in any of the above. Be sweet. Be pretty. Be well-mannered and gracious. And always, always remain on her guard.
This was a medium Silva had been trained in her entire life, and if the elves in this town, at this club, thought for a moment that they could outgame her, well . . . Silva of the Daytime was too much of a lady to think unkind thoughts.If it were easy, everyone would do it.
“This quiche is simply divine, Donnora, but I don’t think I can eat another bite!”
Instantly, the daughter-in-law of the elf who’d spoken lowered her fork, for it simply wouldn’t do to appear as if she were over-indulging as her mother-in-law abstained.
Silva fought the urge to roll her eyes, raising her own fork to her lips, taking a small bite of the quiche, already knowing the other two wives present found themselves completely unable to puzzle her out, not that they hadn’t tried.
They’d expected that she would stumble, being an outsider to their community, that she would find the inner workings of the club’s hierarchy hard to navigate, that she would find the social expectations daunting. That she would need their help, perhaps.Amateurs. That was what she had deduced in her five months of marriage, living away from Cambric Creek and the merciless community that had raised her. These elves were amateurs, and they wouldn’t survive a week at Cevanorë’s club.
The dining room at Tannar’s parents’ house gleamed, as though the house itself were a part of the performance. White table linens, white curtains, white furniture in the sitting room beyond the door. Silva found his mother’s obsession with the colorless hue tacky, and althoughshe’dbeen the one who’d chosen to leave Cambric Creek, a not insignificant part of her longed for the stately opulence of her grandmother’s dining room, the long oak table balanced by deep forest green and rich burgundy, softened with ivory accents.
Everything in her grandmother’s home felt old and grand, appointed with cherished antiques passed down from daughter to daughter. She hadn’t fully appreciated how magnificent it all was at the time, as every home in Cevanorë boasted more or less the same refinement. Even outside of the enclave’s gates — Oldetowne was equally as impressive to behold, and even though she’d only been inside a handful of the stately centuryhomes there, Silva was confident none ofthemwere full of white jacquard sofas on white carpeting, fresh from the showroom.
It was a monthly brunch, the meal shared between three different enclave families, elves Tannar had grown up with, and the hosting responsibilities rotated between each. Every chair was filled — his parents at either end, the matriarchs and patriarchs of the other two families, the dowager grandmothers, two couples slightly older than she and Tannar, and most importantly, the children perched between. A boy and a girl, the younger boy doted on by every adult elf in the room, the little girl regularly reminded of her manners.You’ll have a perfect little doll of a daughter to fixate on, and you can pour all of your insecurities into her.
It was a tableau of belonging, and she had carved herself a place amidst it. At least, on the surface.
Their laughter was pitched too high, the conversations skimming over top of anything that could be confused for substance, politeness draped like fine lace over everything. The smell of slightly bitter coffee made Silva’s stomach roil, particularly when it was combined with the citrus smell of the giant bowl in the center of the table, a pyramid of grapefruit and satsumas, freshly in season as the winter dragged on. Fortunately, she had learned to control her nausea by then. A good thing, as it would have been rather hard to explain.
Her gaze slid down the table, past the gleam of silver and the endless expanse of white on white to where the little elvish girl sat fidgeting with the frilled sleeve of her dress. The child couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, she thought, her honey-blonde hair wisping out of its braid, secured with a blue bow, matching her dress. The girl’s mother laid two fingers over her wrist, a silent instruction to leave the sleeve alone. Silva wondered if the seam was scratchy, as the child reached for acroissant, and wondered if any of the adults in the little elf’s life cared to ask.
