purebloods train their courtiers well.
“The Duke requests your presence, if it suits you,” he said, keeping his eyes forward, away from me. I was willing to bet he’d received a dressing-down from someone—probably Etienne—for stopping me at the doors. Poor kid.
“Okay,” I said, and stood, aware that any chance I had left to make a good impression would go out the window if I tripped on my skirt. “What’s your name?”
He met my eyes,looking startled.“Quentin.”He paused before asking, “Have I given you some offense?”
“No, you haven’t,” I said. “You’ve been more than correct. I just wanted to be able to tell the Duke what a good job you’re doing.”
Quentin straightened, too surprised to mask the pleased smile that lit his face. “I . . . that is appreciated, milady.”
“A word of advice, though, while you’re listening. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Milady?”
“Don’t let any of it go to your head. Not your position, not your nature, not who or what you are. You may be immortal, but you aren’t invincible.” I thought of Evening, lying broken where Faerie’s courtiers could never reach her, and suppressed a shudder. “None of us are.”
He frowned, looking bewildered. “Yes, milady.” He was agreeing because etiquette demanded it, and we both knew it. Unfortunately, nothing I could say would make him understand, and there was no point in arguing if he wouldn’t listen. That never works on anyone. Warn the purebloods to be careful and they’ll ignore you; warn the changelings and they’ll take notes on the great games you’re suggesting. It’s a miracle we’ve lasted this long.
I sighed. “Let’s go see the Duke, shall we?”
“Yes, milady,” he said. He bowed and turned to lead me out of the garden. I glanced back over my shoulder, watching the light play through the roses, and wondered why it couldn’t all be that way. Why can’t Faerie be the stuff of dreams, all courtly manners and glass roses, Courts and pageants? Why do we have to include murder and mystery and the stuff of nightmares?
Light glittered off the shattered petals on the path, answering me. It can’t all be dreams because a broken dream will kill you as surely as a nightmare will, and with a lot less mercy. At least the nightmares don’t smile while they take you down.
Quentin waited for me at the exit, holding the garden door open in the proper courtly fashion as he waited for me to catch up. I nodded in answer to his courtesy, letting him close the door behind me. “How was he?” I asked.
“Milady?”
“The Duke. When he told you to come get me. How was he?”
Looking discomforted again, Quentin shrugged, beginning to walk down the hall. “I didn’t see him, milady. Sir Etienne gave me the order to retrieve you.”
I smiled a little. “Etienne, huh? How is the old war-horse doing, anyway?”
Not even Quentin’s training could hide the smirk that crossed his face, although his words were entirely proper. “I’m fairly sure Sir Etienne would object to being referred to in such terms.”
“Which would be why I do it,” I said. “Guess that means he’s doing okay?”
“Yes, milady.”
“Good to know.” A few more of the Duchy’s inhabitants were in evidence now, emerging as the day wore on toward evening. The place would only get more crowded as night fell and more of the locals woke up. For now, we only had the fae equivalent of night people to deal with—those rare souls who chose a diurnal existence. Shadowed Hills is a good place for the daylight folks. Luna stays awake all day for the sake of her gardens, and Sylvester stays awake for the sake of his wife. I recognized a few of the Hobs who were dusting and tidying the corners, but that was about it. Hobs are strictly domestic spirits, and they tend to attach themselves to single households for generations, often raising their children to join them.
Quentin was looking straight ahead as he walked, paying no more attention to the domestics than he’d pay to the furnishings. Also standard to a courtier’s training. A page is supposed to be animate furniture most of the time, and tables don’t acknowledge couches.
The silence between us was bothering me, so I did what came naturally: I broke it. “You live here, right?”
“Yes, milady. My . . . my parents gave me in fosterage to the Duke and Duchess Torquill for the sake of my education.”
“Where are you from? I can tell it’s in Canada, but that’s about