Once Broken Faith (October Daye #10)(84)
They didn’t look thrilled. They still stood, and their hooves clacked against the floor as we walked back up the aisle—not as loudly as Bucer’s, but loudly enough that people turned to watch us go. I forced myself to keep walking, not making eye contact. I was going to have to talk with each of these people before the night was out, and I was running out of ideas.
I became a detective not because I’m any good at it, but because I was willing to try. That means a lot in Faerie, where sometimes “turning everyone into a statue to show them the error of their ways” is treated as a valid, even reasonable solution. I’ve gotten better over the years, but still, the majority of my cases involve following cheating spouses and recovering lost items, not questioning an entire knowe full of nobles who thought they were too good to talk to someone like me, hero of the realm or no.
We walked to the pantry in silence. Theron and Chrysanthe held their peace while I opened the door, gestured for them to step inside, and closed it behind myself. Theron sat in one of the chairs I’d scavenged from the kitchen. Chrysanthe lounged against the wall behind him, draping her arms comfortably over baskets of potatoes and onions. It was a nice gambit. Unless you were a courtier or a guard, standing while a king sat was generally considered rude. So was sitting while a queen stood. No matter what I did, I was insulting someone. In fact . . .
“You did that on purpose,” I said, sinking into my own seat and crossing my ankles in front of me. “Am I supposed to be so flustered by trying to decide what I’m supposed to do that I freeze up and let you leave without questioning you? Because I’ve been flustered by the best. You’re going to need to try harder.” Back before Tybalt and I became allies—not even friends, just allies—he practically specialized in throwing me off-balance. After being the primary target of a bored Cait Sidhe for several years, there isn’t much in this world that can genuinely shake me.
Theron and Chrysanthe exchanged a look. Finally, Chrysanthe spoke. “We could play at being offended, demand to know what gave you the right to suspect us, much less question us, but to be honest, we’ve been looking forward to the opportunity to speak with you,” she said. “Why in the world are you working for these people?”
Well. That wasn’t what I’d been expecting. I blinked, trying to conceal my bewilderment, before asking, “What do you mean?”
“You’re a changeling. You may have given up much of your human birthright for power, but you’ve been mortal: you know what it is to be looked down upon for reasons you didn’t choose and can’t control,” she said. “Why would you stay in the Mists, where you’ll never be considered a full citizen of Faerie, when we’re just down the coast? You would be welcome on the Golden Shore.”
I gaped at her. Then, recovering my senses, I shook my head and said, “Because I was born in San Francisco. My liege is here. My friends and family are here. I wasn’t going to give any of that up for politics. I’m still not going to do it. The Mists are my home.”
“That may be so, but your choices might be broader down the coast,” said Theron. “You should consider it.”
I wanted to laugh. Here I was, trying to figure out who’d killed King Antonio and attacked me, and these people were attempting to recruit me? It was ridiculous, and that was what made it so understandable. Faerie had a lot of rules and manners, but it didn’t always understand how to prioritize them for people who actually paid attention to time. When eternity was a given, there was really no good reason to treat anything with urgency.
Theron and Chrysanthe ran a kingdom of changelings, but they were still purebloods. No matter how much that statement might have offended them, offense wasn’t enough to make it untrue. “I am sworn in service to Duke Sylvester Torquill of Shadowed Hills, whose Duchy has always been kind to changelings, and through him to Queen Arden Windermere in the Mists,” I said. “I’m pretty cool with both of those things. And I’m getting married soon, and the man I’m marrying isn’t exactly in the position to pack up and move. So while I appreciate the offer, I’m happy where I am. I just want to do my job and find out who murdered one of your peers. Do you think you could help me with that?”
“I don’t see how you can be happy in a place that’s made you give up so much of your heritage,” said Theron solicitously.
I stopped. The urge to yell at him was strong. The urge not to get in trouble for insulting yet another monarch was stronger. Swallowing my rage, I said, “I wasn’t forced to give up my humanity to prove I was as good as the purebloods. I did it to save myself, to save the people who cared about me, and to cure a goblin fruit addiction. Those might not be doors that are open to most changelings, but part of growing up in this world was learning that I can’t refuse to do something just because it might be hard or inconvenient or impossible. Now please. Let me do my job.”
“Are you in favor of this cure?” asked Chrysanthe.
The urge to start screaming was getting stronger. It was like talking to a couple of missionaries, who wanted to bring things back to Jesus no matter how much I wanted directions to the nearest gas station. “Yes,” I said, through gritted teeth. “I was there when it was developed. I would have died or turned myself completely fae without it. So I’m pretty sure this cure is a good thing, and that the purebloods aren’t going to get more careless just because it exists.”