“I’ll do my best,” said Li Qin. The line beeped as she hung up. I lowered my phone, turning to face my bewildered companions.
“I think I know what’s going on,” I said carefully. “I mean, the pieces have been there for a while now—maybe even since the beginning, with the Luidaeg refusing to actually say that Evening was dead. But I don’t want to tell you what it is until I’m sure.”
“Because you don’t trust us?” asked Raj, looking affronted.
“No,” I said. “Because I’m terrified.”
My phone rang.
I stared at it like I had never seen it before. Once I answered the phone and asked my question, everything was going to change. Or maybe that was the wrong way of looking at things. Once I answered the phone and asked my question, everything was going to be revealed for what it had been all along. And Oberon forgive me, but I genuinely did not want to see.
I answered the phone. “Hello?”
“Er, October? Li Qin called and said that you wanted to speak with me. Is everything all right?” Mags sounded faintly puzzled, but I was coming to accept that as the Librarian’s primary method of dealing with the world around her. Even when she knew exactly what was going on, she sometimes seemed like she didn’t have a clue.
“Not really,” I said. “I have to ask you a question, and I need you to be really, really certain of your answer. It’s sort of ‘everything depends on this’-level important.”
“Oh. Well.” Now Mags sounded flustered rather than puzzled. “I can certainly try.”
“Okay. Remember when I was having my little goblin fruit problem, and we asked to look at the book about the creation of the hope chests?”
She chuckled darkly. “How could I forget? That was the most excitement I’d seen around here in positively years.”
“Well, I think this may turn out to be more exciting. The hope chest that the County of Goldengreen was named after was given to some lady with a totally unpronounceable name, and you said that her big parlor trick was ‘playing Snow White.’ Can you explain? Please?”
“Er. Do you mean Eira Rosynhwyr?”
“Yeah, that’s the totally unpronounceable name I meant.” I looked toward Tybalt. He was watching me talk, his face utterly devoid of expression. He knew what I was asking and why I was asking it, I could tell, just like I knew he would let me finish the conversation before he started demanding details. “What did you mean about playing Snow White?”
“Just that she was rumored to be nigh-impossible to kill, even for one of the Firstborn,” she said. “She could suffer an incredible amount of damage and recover completely without outside aid, providing she was given time to sleep. She favored cold places for her recovery . . .”
No shortage of those in the modern world, where anyone could rent a walk-in freezer for less than a thousand dollars a year. “Okay. One last question. What does ‘Eira Rosynhwyr’ mean?”
“Uh. It’s Welsh, it means . . .” There was a pause, and the rustle of pages. I didn’t bother wondering too hard how it was that she had a book of names close at hand. She was the Librarian, and she was in the Library. She could have anything she wanted close at hand. “‘Eira’ is a Welsh female name meaning ‘snow.’ ‘Rosynhwyr’ is a compound word. It doesn’t have a direct translation—the closest I can get is something ‘rose that has been frozen.’ Why do you ask?”
“Because we’re all too stupid to live, and that’s why we’re all going to die soon,” I said slowly. “Mags, I need you to do me a favor now, if you possibly can. I need you to close the Library.”
“What? October, I don’t think you understand what you’re asking me to—”
“I need you to close the Library,” I repeated, cutting her off before she could fully launch into her explanation. “I have every reason to believe that Eira Rosynhwyr is not only alive, but in San Francisco right now, and she’s not playing nicely with the other children. You need to defend yourself. Close the Library.”
“I . . . what?” Mags sounded frightened now. Good. Fear might be the only thing capable of keeping her alive if Evening came to the Library on whatever strange errands were driving her. “I’ll try. I’ve never closed the doors without changing locations before, and I can’t change locations intentionally unless someone is actually trying to burn the place to the ground.”
“If the doors won’t close, call me,” I said. “I’ll show up with matches.”
Maybe that was what finally convinced her that I meant business. “All right,” she said. “Is there anything else?”
“Yeah. If you see a woman with skin as white as snow and hair as black as coal . . . run.” I hung up the phone without saying good-bye, stuffing it back into my pocket as I turned to face the others. They looked at me with varying degrees of understanding—Tybalt, who knew best out of all of us how Faerie worked, looked resigned; Quentin looked faintly horrified; Raj, who had never known Evening, just looked bemused.
“Evening Winterrose is alive, and her real name is ‘Eira Rosynhwyr,’ and she’s the Daoine Sidhe Firstborn,” I said without preamble. “I don’t know why she faked her own death, and I don’t know why she bound Simon and the Luidaeg to silence, but I do know one thing.”
“What’s that?” asked Raj.
“We are so screwed.”
FIFTEEN
A STUNNED SILENCE fell over the room. It lasted almost a full minute before Quentin said, “She’s my First? How can you . . . I mean, wouldn’t we know?”
“The Firstborn have proven remarkably skilled at disappearing from the lives of their children,” said Tybalt, in a careful tone. “Most of us are not even certain whether those who founded our lines are alive or dead. Why should the Daoine Sidhe be any different?”
“The Luidaeg said the Firstborn all stopped using their proper names with their descendant races, going to honorifics instead,” I said. “She never used Evening’s name when we were talking about her. It was always ‘the Winterrose.’ ‘Eira’ means ‘snow,’ and ‘Rosynhwyr’ means ‘the frozen rose.’” I was stretching the translation a bit there, but I didn’t think Mags would mind.
“That’s not proof,” said Quentin. He was starting to look distressed. I guess finding out that your First is the kind of person who just might be your worst nightmare come to life isn’t exactly easy.
“No, but it fits,” I said. “It makes a lot of other things fit, too. Like the fact that everyone else who’s died since I came back from the pond has shown up among the night-haunts, but Evening was never there.”
“The people who died at ALH never joined the night-haunts,” said Quentin stubbornly.
“Because their souls were digitized and uploaded to a locked server,” I countered. “Evening should have been there. She wasn’t. So why not? It can’t be because she didn’t want to see us. Devin and Dare joined the night-haunts, and they didn’t want to see us either. Joining the night-haunts isn’t a choice, unless you’re not as dead as you want everyone to think you are.”
“How was Evening killed?” asked Tybalt.
“They used iron,” I said. “That’s another thing: you need iron and silver if you want to kill one of the First.” I hadn’t known that when Evening “died,” but I’d learned it all too well from Blind Michael. If I hadn’t used both iron and silver when I killed him, he would have just gotten back up and kept coming after the people that I loved, no matter how badly I’d hurt him.
Evening had been shot with iron bullets. Her throat had been slit with an iron knife by Devin, the man who’d taught me how to survive in the tangled border country occupied by the local changeling population. I’d tasted the damage, ridden it far enough to be afraid I was about to share her death—but I hadn’t seen her die, had I? Her heart had still been beating when I’d pulled myself out of the blood magic that had been letting me follow what I’d believed to be her final moments. Even her injunction to “find the ones who did this” had never mentioned finding her killers.