“I wasn’t sure of my welcome.”

“Never doubt your welcome in my halls again—and that, Toby, is an order.” The stress on the last word was subtle but firm. He was my liege. He orders, I obey.

“Yes, Your Grace,” I said, inclining my head.

“Good. Now, I want you to stay away from the Queen as much as you can; frankly, I don’t trust her to react rationally. Come back here tomorrow morning, just so I know you haven’t managed to get yourself in more trouble—do you understand?” I nodded. He continued, “It’s clearly too late to stop you from involving yourself with Devin again, but be careful. I don’t want to see you getting hurt.”

“I’m not sure my safety is really a priority right now,” I said, shaking my head before I stood. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I’ve ever been able to ask from you.” Sylvester stood in turn, moving to embrace me. I didn’t pull away. “I’ll send the knights out, and start sending out inquiries. If there’s anything to be learned here, I’ll learn it. And if you need help, call us. We’ll be there.”

“I’ll call,” I said.

Sylvester let me go, looking at me sternly. “Promise, Toby.”

I held up my hands. “I promise! I promise.”

That appeared to be enough to satisfy them. Luna rose as well, and hugged me briefly before giving me a nudge toward the doors. “We’d keep you here all day if we could,” she said. “That’s why you need to go. Finish doing what you’re bound to do, and come back to us.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I said, and forced a smile before turning to make my exit.

Quentin was standing by the door in the hall, back to playing the perfect footman. There were several people waiting for an audience, and so he didn’t move from his position, but he winked as I brushed by. I spared him a tight, pleased smile. He was a good kid, and he was learning. Maybe there’s some hope for us yet.

It was late enough that a steady trickle of people filled the halls, heading toward the audience chamber at a leisurely pace. It’s a good thing Faerie isn’t big on fire marshals: while the traffic wasn’t heavy enough to stop me from making my way to the door, it would have complicated an evacuation. Most of the people I passed gave me odd looks for going against the current, although one fragile-looking Gwragen wedged into a niche on the wall offered me a conspiratorial smile as I passed. I guess she thought she’d found a kindred spirit, someone else who just wanted to get away from the crowd. She was right, in a way, although my urge to get away was born of urgency, and not the natural Gwragen reluctance to get caught up in social niceties. I returned her smile and kept going, rushing down the last stretch of hallway to the knowe’s back exit.

The late afternoon light was momentarily blinding as I stepped back into the mortal world. I raised an arm to cover my eyes, waiting for the brightness to fade. When it did, I looked around to find myself at the bottom of the hill, dressed in my own clothes, with a warm buzzing in the air that told me my human disguise was back in place. I reached back to check the tip of one ear, confirming that it was round. It was. I shoved my hands into my pockets, looking up the hill toward the oak that served as the door in, before I sighed and started across the parking lot.

My car was where I’d left it, apparently undisturbed, despite the fact that I’d left it unlocked; no real surprise there. Pleasant Hill isn’t a big crime town—the worst they usually get is groups of teenagers pushing each other around and saying “you suck.” It’s a nice change, especially after San Francisco, where it’s perfectly acceptable to give your girlfriend an ear as a courting gift in some of the less reputable neighborhoods.

I opened the door and got in, fastening my seat belt. The radio came on when I turned the key, and I hit the scan button until it found the local eighties channel. I prefer listening to music I can recognize, and that doesn’t include most of the stuff that makes the current top forty.

Thoughts about the case and Shadowed Hills kept me occupied until I reached the Bay Bridge and needed to pay attention to the traffic. Even with the other cars to deal with, it wasn’t a difficult merge—not unless you counted the two tailgaters and the little old lady who seemed convinced that the speed limit was fifteen miles an hour—and I wasn’t in a hurry. I had plenty to think about while I waited to reach the tollgate. I inched forward, following the flow of traffic, and shook my head. I’d just think about it until the puzzle came together and everything made sense. Then I’d find Evening’s killers, bring them to justice, and go to bed for a week.

The toll taker at the tollbooth didn’t even look at me as he held out his hand, saying blandly, “Four dollars.”

Smiling, I reached into my pocket and slipped him four of the mushrooms I’d plucked from the grass under my window. “Miss Suzy had a steamboat, the steamboat had a bell,” I said to him. He started to protest, and I finished, “Miss Suzy went to heaven, the steamboat went to New Jersey where it enjoyed a lucrative career in children’s programming.” The smell of copper and cut grass rose around me, twining around the toll taker’s head.

A brief, stabbing pain hit me behind the eyes, and I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. The illusion seemed to have worked, because the toll taker dropped the mushrooms into the fare box, waving me through. I smiled wanly, tipped an imaginary hat, and drove on. Yes, it was mean and petty and something I probably shouldn’t do. On the other hand, substituting random pieces of greenery for human money is a long-standing tradition, and the fae are supposed to revere and uphold tradition, right? Besides, I only do it when they’re rude to me. And when I don’t have exact change.

Traffic on the bridge was light, and I was beginning to think that I was going to make it the rest of the way home without incident. I smiled, anticipating a smooth trip to my apartment, followed by a pause where I could start assembling clues into something that resembled a coherent picture. The temptation to blame it on the Queen was pretty strong, even though it would probably get me executed. Unfortunately, I didn’t think that theory would get me very far; something wasn’t right there. Oh, well. There was time for me to think about it.

I’m sure it’s written somewhere, possibly in Fate’s day planner: “October Daye is never to be given enough time to actually think about what she’s going to do next.” I was exactly halfway over the bridge, surrounded by water, when a deep, rumbling chuckle rolled out of the backseat, and a figure loomed up in the rearview mirror.