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 the ocean itself.

“What are you doing here, October? You avoid my court when you can. That seems to be most times, these days. I was beginning to think you had, perhaps, forgotten the way.”

Never lie to anyone who can have you locked up for looking at them funny. It’s just a good survival strategy. Still, I could try to skirt the issue. “I’ve been keeping to myself, my lady.”

“First your mother stops attending us, then you vanish into your own little world. One might begin to think your bloodline has lost its love for us.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied me, daring me to argue.

“I’m afraid I don’t care much for your Court, my lady.” The crowd whispered around us, expressing quiet disapproval. Candor may be wise, but excessive bluntness isn’t one of the socially accepted arts in Faerie.

“Do we bore you?” asked the Queen, still smiling.

“You scare me.”

“Is that better or worse?”

“I don’t know.” I shook my head. “I’m here on business.”

“Business?” Now she grinned, openly amused. “What sort of . . . business . . . brings you here, when you’ve been avoiding us so long? Have you brought another fish story to tell us?”

I winced. Between Tybalt and the Queen, it’s a wonder I don’t need therapy. “I wish that were the case, Your Majesty. I’m here because of the Countess Winterrose.”

“Because of the Winterrose? What, are you here to claim some offense against her?” Her grin remained, and the Court around us buzzed with speculation. Changelings rarely claim offense against purebloods. The battles when we do are invariably a lot of fun to watch, full of blood and glory, and almost always fatal for the changeling.

“No, Your Majesty.” This is the society that created Evening, and my mother, and every time I have to deal with it, I’m happier that it’s not the only thing that created me. “I’m here because she’s gone.”

“What?” Her smile faded into surprise, wiping away the smooth curl of her disdain.

For once, the overstylized formality of Faerie was a blessing, because it meant I didn’t need to figure out what to say on my own. “When the Root and Branch were young, when the Rose still grew unplucked upon the tree; when all our lands were new and green and we danced without care, then, we were immortal. Then, we lived forever.” I looked down and away, not wanting to see the look on the Queen’s face. It didn’t matter: I could hear what I didn’t see in the sudden stillness of the Court. There’s only one reason for the death chants.

It was too late to stop. It was too late when the gun went off. I pressed on. “We left those lands for the world where time dwells, dancing, that we might see the passage of the sun and the growing of the world. Here we may die, and here we can fall, and here my Lady Evening Winterrose, Countess of the fief of Goldengreen, has stopped her dancing.”

I left my head bowed until the quiet was too much to bear. The Queen had gone so still that she might as well have been a statue, somehow carved from mist and sea foam. I couldn’t blame her: I’ll live a long time, if I’m careful, but the most I can expect is a few centuries. That’s a lot in human terms. It’s nothing compared to what the purebloods get. The reminder that they can die is sometimes more than they can take.

“Your Majesty . . .” She raised her hand, pale fingers shaking as she warded my words away. I quieted, waiting for her to compose herself before I continued, saying, “Your Majesty, she charged me to find the cause of her death. May I ask . . .”