One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel

I did sigh this time. “How could I forget?”


When the Queen of the Mists made me Countess of Goldengreen to clear a perceived debt—long story—the knowe of the same name came with the title: a big, slightly insane hollow hill full of pixies, bogeys, and dry-rot. It’s nowhere near the size of Shadowed Hills, thank Oberon, but it’s bigger than your average shopping mall. That’s been sort of a blessing in disguise, since when Lily, the Lady of the Japanese Tea Gardens, died, she asked me to take care of her subjects. All of them.

Most changelings don’t have the resources to house a fiefdom’s-worth of Faerie’s cast-off odds and ends. Most changelings don’t have access to entire knowes. I put two and two together, and things became almost functional, by certain generous definitions.

The ballroom Sylvester and I used for our lessons was one of the first rooms to be cleaned out and restored. The kitchen across the narrow servants’ hall was another. It was a square room almost the size of my apartment, probably designed to prepare banquets for kings and queens. One side of the room was dominated by a scarred oak table, used both for meals and for food preparation; a tray of sliced bread, cheese, and apples was laid out for us there, next to a clay pitcher of water. I smiled, recognizing Marcia’s handiwork.

Sylvester unbuckled his sword, hanging it from a hook on the wall before sitting. I mirrored the gesture, taking a seat at the other side of the table. Sometimes it amazes me how well I’ve internalized the often erratic etiquette of the purebloods, which mixes the sensible and the insane with surprising ease. Never say “thank you” if you can help it; keep your promises even if it means your death; never bring a weapon too big to double as a dining utensil to the table when dining with friends.

I took the cup of water Sylvester handed me and emptied it in a single gulp, holding it out to be filled again. This time, I forced myself to sip, feeling my heartbeat return to normal. Whether or not I appreciated the archaic nature of swordsmanship, I was grateful for the training. I needed to relearn my limits before I got myself hurt.

We were quiet for a few minutes, most of my attention going to the food. I’ve always been a fast healer, and thanks to Amandine’s tinkering, I’m beginning to approach superhero status. It takes a lot out of me; I’m starting to get “hunger” hard-wired into my pain responses. Sylvester ate more slowly, studying me. I quirked an eyebrow upward, watching him watch me.

Sylvester Torquill is classic Daoine Sidhe, with the pointed ears and striking coloration common among their purebloods. His hair is russet red, and his eyes are a shade of gold that’s shared by every Torquill-by-birth I’ve ever met. He’d been looking tired recently, new lines appearing on his eternally youthful face. I wasn’t all that surprised. It had been one hell of a summer, and it wasn’t over yet.

The silence lasted until half the bread and all the cheese was gone. Then he said, “I wanted to discuss something not related to our lessons, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” I said. “You’re my liege.”

“Only because you still swear to me—you’re a Countess now, and could ask to be released at any time.” He smiled a little. “I am here on your sufferance.”

“My sufferance has nothing to do with it,” I said, grimacing. “You’re here to remind the Queen that you have a standing invitation to visit my lands and she doesn’t, even if she has a clear line of fealty on me. And it was your idea.”

“Even so, I’m asking you as your friend, not your liege, and I’d like you to consider my request the same way. It’s a request, not an order.”

I sat a little straighter. “Sylvester, what’s going on?”