One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel

“Quentin is my foster, not yours, which makes this my decision. I’ve spoken to his parents. They know all about you, and they think you’re the best possible knight for him. He’ll eventually inherit his father’s lands, and they’d like him to be more flexible than most of his generation. He listens to you, considers you a friend, and looks to you as a mentor. Can you really say I’m going to find someone better?”


I wanted to say, “Of course you will, don’t be silly.” I wanted to say, “Absolutely, and I’ll be happy to help.” When I opened my mouth, what came out was, “What would I have to do?”

Sylvester had the grace not to look smug. “You’ll be responsible for his training in blood magic and dealing with the mortal world. We don’t expect you to teach him the courtly arts—we’re handling that at Shadowed Hills—but the practical side of things needs equal attention. Are you still in the apartment?”

“Yeah. Why do you—”

“It would be good if he could live with you at least part-time, but it’s not essential. If it’s a matter of finances, we own a great deal of property all around the Bay Area. We could help you find something.”

“Uh, right.” Sylvester and Luna have been in Shadowed Hills since the eighteen hundreds, and they’ve had a lot of time to shop for land. Fae, especially purebloods, tend to take a long-term view of investments, and land always goes up in value. There are worse ways to build a fortune, if you have the time.

“So you’ll do it?”

I hesitated. Taking a squire isn’t something to be done lightly. Quentin was a good kid, and he deserved to be taught whatever he needed to know in order to stay alive. Was I really the best choice to educate a pureblood? Especially one who’d already been shot thanks to me, and who’d helped to orchestrate the jailbreak to get me out of the Queen’s clutches?

There was only one way to find out.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

Sylvester grinned. “I knew you would. Now come on. It’s been fifteen minutes.”

“Oh, Maeve’s teeth.” I groaned, dropping a half-eaten apple slice and pushing myself back to my feet. “I was too busy thinking to rest. That’s not fair.”

“Neither is combat. Stop whining. You have a squire now, and that means you have to be the mature one.”

“I should have read the fine print.”

Sylvester just laughed.

We buckled on our swords and walked back to the ballroom. I groaned again as we crossed the threshold: we had company. May and Quentin were sitting on a bench against one wall, and they looked like they were planning to stay a while.

Sylvester smiled brightly when he saw them. “Good day, you two!”

“Good day, Your Grace,” Quentin said.

“Hey, Syl,” May said, waving back. Quentin flinched. He’s loosened up a lot, but he still can’t seem to wrap his head around the idea that nobles have personal names, much less diminutives.

“What are you doing in here?” I asked. Sylvester turned and bowed to me. I responded automatically. It’s no good arguing once Sylvester decides practice has started. Refusing to get my sword out would just result in some painful new bruises.

“We came to watch you work,” said May. My former Fetch was dressed like an acid flashback to the mid-80s, combining virulently pink jeans with a silver foil concert T-shirt for a band I didn’t recognize. Rainbow barrettes were clipped in her short magenta-and-green-streaked hair.

May and I used to be functionally identical, before the elf-shot “killed” me. She was supposed to fade out of the world completely that day. That’s what Fetches do. Amandine somehow stopped that from happening, and that broke the connection between us. May gets to live. And since we weren’t connected when Amandine changed the balance of my blood, May still looks like the changeling I used to be, while I barely recognize myself in the mirror some days. I’m still not sure how I feel about that.

“It was May’s idea,” Quentin added.

“I’m sure it was,” I said. Sylvester started circling. I dropped into a defensive position. “I’m not really comfortable with this, May.”

“Cope,” she said.

“Maybe an audience will make you shape up,” Sylvester said, and lunged.

I parried. “Maybe an audience will distract me and get me gutted.”