Quentin waited patiently as I performed my customary check for intruders in the back seat—fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, not in this lifetime—before unlocking the doors. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“Berkeley,” I replied. “We’re going to walk to Chelsea’s high school.”

“Do we know which one it is?”

“No. But we know where she lives. If she’s being allowed to walk alone or with friends, she must be going to school within a mile of her house.”

“I don’t go to school within a mile of my house,” Quentin said, getting into the car.

I did the same on the driver’s side. “One, you don’t go to school at all, unless you count your lessons with Etienne. And if you’re counting those, you don’t walk to Shadowed Hills. Either I drive you or we put you on BART and make you get there on your own. Two, I don’t even know where your house is, beyond ‘somewhere in Canada,’ so I’m pretty sure you’re playing by a different set of rules.”

Quentin frowned. “I used to go to school.”

I paused. For a while, Quentin had attended College Park High School in Pleasant Hill, playing human and learning about the mortal world at the same time. That stopped when Blind Michael stole Quentin’s human girlfriend and brought his masquerade to a forced end. “True,” I admitted. “And when you did, you were going to a school within a mile of the knowe.”

“It still might not be universal. Some people came from farther away. They’d transferred from other schools in the district, or their parents moved after they started and didn’t want to make them switch schools.”

He had a point. “Okay. You’re right. It’s just…the rules are different for humans. Human parents like to know where their children are all the time, especially when they’re school age. Chelsea’s sixteen. That means her mother isn’t going to want her walking very far.”

“Katie’s mom was like that,” allowed Quentin. “Humans are weird.”

“You have no idea,” I said, and started the engine.

Quentin was sent to Shadowed Hills by his parents around four years ago. To be honest, every time something went wrong, I expected his parents to summon him home. The fact that they didn’t meant one of two things. Either they were incredibly determined to stick by whatever principles caused them to have him fostered in the first place…or they didn’t care. I honestly hoped it was the first. I couldn’t imagine sending my child to live with strangers the way they had, but that’s because so much of my upbringing was human. Fostering is common among the fae. It’s what keeps us from stagnating—and hell, when you and your children can reasonably expect to live forever, what’s wrong with missing a few years of teenage rebellion? Quentin mostly seemed to be doing his rebelling by refusing to be left behind when I charged into danger. That was hazardous to his health but probably easier on his parents’ nerves than his constantly slamming doors and shouting about how much he hated them.

My teenage years were spent in my mother’s shadow, a half-human wraith haunting the Summerlands and praying for a way out. There are worse things than a blind fosterage. If Chelsea’s mother wanted to be protective, let her. More parents should get to have that choice.

I realized my thoughts were trending toward Gillian and tried to pull them back, to no avail. Thinking about my daughter was too easy these days, especially after what had been done to her—what I had done to her. Sometimes when I slept, I still saw her in a meadow that never existed, split into three people, one human, one fae, one the changeling girl I carried inside me for nine months. In my dreams, she said “human,” and I ignored her, shoving her into an eternal life she’d never asked for and wouldn’t know how to handle. Anything so I wouldn’t have to dream giving her up over and over again.

Quentin was silent as we drove, not even fiddling with the radio. I could feel the weight of his gaze, his concern practically becoming a third passenger in the car. He was as worried about me as May and Tybalt were. He just didn’t know how to go about expressing it. Maybe that was why, of the three of them, he was the one I had the easiest time dealing with.

Traffic was light this late at night, and we made it from San Francisco to Berkeley without delays. Bridget and Chelsea actually lived in Albany, a small suburb far enough from the university that housing was almost affordable. I navigated the twisting side streets sprouting off Solano Avenue like the roots of a tree. Their house was easy to spot: it was the only one on the block with the lights on. I wondered how nocturnal Chelsea was and how much Bridget had been able to adjust her schedule to accommodate her daughter. Chelsea was attending a human high school, but that didn’t mean much; teenagers show an amazing capacity to function while sleep-deprived, whether they’re mortal, fae, or somewhere in-between.

I drove about a block farther along the street before finally snagging a parking space. I pulled into it, stopping the engine, and turned to Quentin. “It’s going to be a little weird that we’re out here, but I don’t want to throw a don’t-look-here if it means we might miss any traces Chelsea’s magic left,” I said. “If anyone asks, I’m your aunt or something.”

Quentin looked at me, clearly amused. “What, you’re not my mother?”

“Thankfully, no.” We looked oddly similar with our human disguises on—we both had blue eyes, although his were dulled down from his true appearance, while mine were oversaturated compared to their natural colorless gray. His dishwater blond hair was lightened from its natural bronze, while mine was barely changed. As long as we looked human, we looked enough alike to pass.

“Okay, big sis.”

“Don’t push it.” I climbed out of the car. The air was warmer than it was in San Francisco, but not by much; the smell of the sea and the eucalyptus trees was replaced by freshly mowed grass and wood-burning fireplaces. Everything was silent. This was suburbia, and it was a whole different world from the one we were used to.

“We passed a high school about a mile back,” I said. “Think we should check it out?”

“Are you going to care if I say ‘no’?”

“No.”

“Then yes.”

“Good squire. Come on.” We walked down the sidewalk, stepping over cracks and around broken pavement where tree roots had managed to break through. There was something comforting about the silence between us. It was free of subtext and accusations and expectations. Quentin just wanted me to be there for him. So far, I was managing that much, if not much more.