“That’s better,” said one of the twins. “It’s okay, kid. Things don’t work here the way they do where you’re coming from, and it’s going to get better. Just keep your chin up, keep breathing, and don’t freak out.” She leaned over to grasp the handle of her door, and pulled it toward her.
Her twin did the same, and together they revealed the grand court on the Golden Shore.
True to the Kingdom’s name, the room was golden. The walls were paneled in polished golden oak, pale and gleaming, panels separated by carved friezes of fruit and grains that mirrored the hall, down to the gold leaf used to pick out the details and emphasize the delicacy of the carving; the floor was gold slate, doubtless mined in the demesne, and the styling continued up into the high rafters, which continued the theme of exposed beams and pixie-lit chandeliers. Windows at least fifteen feet in height occupied much of the two far walls, the top five feet or so of them done in panes of carnival glass, and lush gold velvet curtains hung beside them. It should have been monotone. Instead, somehow, it was glorious.
The room was large enough to have held the receiving room at Shadowed Hills three times over, and all but empty. A dais stood at one end, supporting two large golden thrones, each one occupied by a golden hind. I blinked. Arden hadn’t mentioned anything about meeting the King.
But then, were two monarchs really worse than one? I kept moving forward.
Like their guards, Theron and Chrysanthe were virtually a matched set, although I knew their similarities were not due to close relation. Both of them were muscular and tan, with the lower bodies of gold-furred deer and the upper bodies of pointy-eared humanoids. Theron’s hair was wheat-gold and cut reasonably short, his crown shaped to account for his small but visible antlers, while Chrysanthe’s hair was white-gold and waist-length, and she had no antlers at all. Both of them looked over as the door swung shut behind me.
There was a small crowd gathered by the foot of the dais, and they turned as well, and my manners deserted me, because I momentarily forgot that I was in the presence of a king and queen, instead bursting into tears and bolting across the room toward the group, gathering my kirtle in my hands to keep it from tripping me as I ran.
To my burning relief, the figure I was running for detached herself from the group and ran toward me, the two of us slamming into each other as we wrapped our arms around each other and held on for dearest life. August was shaking. I was already crying. I buried my face against her shoulder and waited to feel like I could safely talk again.
She wasn’t saying anything either. Father approached us, the comforting smell of smoke and cider accompanying him as he moved to put his hands on our shoulders, my right, August’s left. He didn’t say anything, either, and without letting go of August, I managed to move my head to press my forehead against his arm.
“I’m sorry, Father,” I whispered.
“No, the apologies are mine to make,” he said. “I should have seen that the timing was too convenient, the request too specific; this was an engineered attempt to get you away from us. Duchess Zhou confirmed it when I confronted her.”
“She told me, too,” I said, finally lifting my head and blinking up at him. He looked stern but not angry, like he was more concerned for my wellbeing than he was upset about my misbehavior. That was something of a relief. I hadn’t realized how afraid I was that I had disappointed my father until this very moment. “She . . . she . . .”
And to my shame and chagrin, I started crying again.
August was still clinging to me, and Father wrapped his arms around us both, lowering his head so that even as he lowered his voice, we could hear him clearly.
“She told me everything,” he said. “She told me what she asked of you, and what you did for her, and what it cost you. I am angry but not with you. Never with you. Now, wonderful as it is to know that both my girls are hale and whole, we have an audience to attend. October, do you think you can compose yourself?”
I sniffled and pulled away, wiping my eyes with the side of my hand. The one disadvantage of the leather jacket: it wasn’t absorbent enough to be a good handkerchief, but at least the sleeves were long enough to keep me from using my chemise. Mother would be pleased. She hated it when I used my sleeves to wipe my face, said that it made me look like no one loved me.
August always glared at her when she said that, but she didn’t argue. We all knew better than to argue with Mother, even Father, who would just look quietly disappointed and sneak us off for cake and lemonade as soon as he reasonably could.
August let go of me, then pinched me, hard, on the back of the hand.
“Ow!”
“That’s what you get,” she said, hotly. “Blood magic? Letting yourself be taken somewhere other than Dreamer’s Glass? Getting arrested?”
I noticed she didn’t include “murder” on my list of crimes. Maybe she didn’t know. I managed a wavering smile. “Yeah, it was lousy,” I said. “Too bad you missed it.”
“Never do that again.” She looped her arm through mine. “Now come on. There are people who want to talk to you.”
“What? Why would anyone want to talk to me?” I looked over my shoulder at Father, seeking confirmation, and he nodded, lips pressed into a thin line as he schooled his expression to something neutral.
We proceeded across the room to the dais at a more reasonable pace, August holding on to my arm until we were approaching the thrones. There, she let go and stepped a short distance away from the dais, allowing me to continue without her. Father stayed behind me and slightly to the side, as was appropriate for a pureblood parent when presenting a changeling child to royalty.
Grasping the sides of my kirtle, I curtseyed, and wondered why it felt so odd. My body seemed to want to bow, which would have been entirely inappropriate. I nudged that urge aside and sank deeper into my position, face turned toward the floor.
“May I present my daughter, October Torquill,” said Father. Despite the way the phrase was framed, it wasn’t a question: he was presenting me, and now the question was what they would do in response.
I almost looked up at him in surprise. I had no right to his last name, and we both knew it. For him to be applying it to me now, in front of royalty, no less . . . it should have been exhilarating.
Instead, it was borderline terrifying.
“Not your child born, I assume, Simon?” asked Theron. His voice was light, and surprisingly pleased.
“To my honorable wife, after a trip to the human world to fulfill her obligation to Fair Titania,” he said. “Legally, she’s as much my child as August has ever been. If you ask my heart, it will answer you the same. She’s mine, and I claim her in all regards.”
“So you don’t regret your wife’s decision to follow Titania’s command?” asked Theron.
“I was sorry when Amandine was ordered to lie with someone she didn’t love,” said Father. “Commanding the creation of children is cruel, commanding the creation of children solely for their service is worse, but it seems to me that commanding a conception out of obligation rather than love is also cruel, if not as strongly so. How could it be anything other than wrong, when every step is couched in cruelty?”
My calves were starting to burn from holding myself in position. Still, I didn’t waver. To waver would shame my father, and while this was a longer form of the usual interrogation when a changeling was presented, I had heard Uncle Sylvester ask similar questions. I had never heard an answer skirt so closely to criticizing Titania, however, and I feared for him.