to deliver to a powerful woman who didn’t like me, a terrible crime to avenge, and wet socks. Grumbling, I walked into the darkness.
The water in the cave got deeper as I moved farther in, reaching to the middle of my calves and soaking my jeans to the thigh. I shivered, keeping one hand against the damp wall for guidance. Someday, I hope Her Majesty discovers central heating and basic drainage systems. Until then, visiting her is a matter of stumbling around in the dark and hoping that there’s nothing nasty waiting there to jump out and shout “surprise.”
The stone began to glow a pale, luminescent white about twenty feet from the entrance. I kept walking, ignoring the feeling of phantom hands plucking at my clothing and hair. The ground abruptly leveled out, water disappearing as the rough stone was replaced with polished marble. I walked on, my wet shoes slapping against the marble with every step, and after another ten feet, the walls opened up, and I was suddenly walking through a vast ballroom with ice-white marble floors and fluted columns holding up the distant ceiling. Courtiers thronged like exotic birds, pointing and whispering behind their hands as they took note of my untidy appearance. I pressed on.
The trouble with the Queen of the Mists is that she’s so far above normal protocol that she feels no need to live by it, save when it suits her, even as she forces it on everyone around her. If I broke the slightest rule, I could find myself in more trouble than I’d ever get out of. She, on the other hand, could do whatever she wanted, and all I could do was curtsy. That meant I needed to head for the throne room, because propriety says that visits begin with a formal presentation. If I was lucky, she’d be there.
I’m so rarely lucky. There was a shimmer in the air, and the taste of frozen salt assaulted my tongue. The sound of wet shoes hitting the floor stopped as my sneakers were replaced by low-slung heels to go with the floor-length blue silk gown that had taken the place of my clothes. I only know one woman rude enough to do something like that without my consent, and technically, it wasn’t rude when she did it. Rank hath its privileges.
Burying my hands in the skirt, I dropped into a deep, low curtsy, bowing my head. “Your Majesty, it’s an honor.”
“October.” The voice was light and airy, like a half-forgotten dream. There was no surprise in her tone; she sounded mildly pleased, like I came traipsing through every day. I guess ennui is a good thing when you’re facing an eternity in politics. “How very delightful it is to see you.”
From the sound of her voice, she was somewhere off to my left. Good. If I could just avoid looking at her, this might not go too badly. “The delight is mine, Your Majesty,” I said, and straightened, keeping my eyes turned straight ahead.
The Queen was standing right in front of me.
I didn’t expect it, and I didn’t have time to look away without giving offense. Forcing myself to swallow the urge to recoil, I looked into her face. She smiled slightly, expression saying she knew what she was doing, and didn’t care. It was, after all, her right.
A lot of Faerie’s children are beautiful, but the Queen takes it past beauty, to the point where beautiful and terrible collide. It’s hard to look at her and stay focused on anything but continuing to look at her, making her happy, making her smile for you. It’s part of the reason I don’t come near her when I can avoid it. I hate being forced into things.
She was wearing a snow-colored velvet gown that brought out the pink undertones of her skin, saving her from looking like she’d been carved from ivory. Her silver-white hair fell to the floor in an unbroken line, trailing almost a foot behind her. I’ve always assumed that her hair is at least part of the reason she never leaves the knowe—give her five minutes in the mortal world and her shampoo bills would be astronomical. A thin band of silver sat atop her head, but it was really just for show. There was no question of who the monarch here was. I stayed standing, fighting the urge to drop to one knee.
She stepped toward me, her dress rippling like water. Only a pureblood would accessorize with