A Local Habitation (9 page)

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Authors: Seanan McGuire

Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Mystery fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fiction - Fantasy, #Science Fiction And Fantasy, #American Science Fiction And Fantasy, #Fantasy - General, #Fairies, #Women private investigators

BOOK: A Local Habitation
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“It’s the place where paper goes to die,” I muttered.
A narrow path through the mess led to a desk in front of the room’s single green-curtained window. The brunette from downstairs was perched cross- legged on the desk’s edge, surrounded by towers of paper, attention focused on the portable computer balanced on her knees. Her glasses were sliding down her nose; they’d already made it more than halfway.
She raised her head and smiled, almost sincerely enough to hide the flash of wariness in her eyes. “Yes, it is. Can I help you with something?” Her tone was pure Valley Girl, implying a level of intelligence closely akin to that of granite.
I wasn’t buying it. “I’m looking for Countess January Torquill. Is this her office?”
“Sorry, no. It’s mine.” The smile didn’t waver.
“Well, I need to find her. I’m here at the request of her uncle.”
The wariness returned, barely kept in check by her frozen-glass smile. “Really? That’s fascinating. Because, see, normally people call before they send guests.”
“He sent me because his niece hasn’t called in a few weeks.” There was something about her smile that bothered me. Not the obvious falseness—she was clearly on edge—but the way it was shaped. “I don’t suppose you know anything about that?”
Her eyes widened, and she shoved her glasses back up her nose, smile abandoned. “What? Hasn’t called? What’s
that
supposed to mean? He’s the one who stopped calling!”
Moving her glasses made them frame her eyes rather than blocking them and brought the goldenrod yellow of her irises into sharp relief. I only know one family line with eyes that color. Ignore the hair, take away the glasses, and she looked more like Sylvester than Rayseline did.
“That’s not what he thinks,” I said. “January Torquill, I presume?”
Her eyes narrowed, and for a brief moment, I thought she was going to argue. Then she deflated, shoulders slumping, and said, “Not really. I mean, I’m January. I’m just not January Torquill. I never have been.” She shrugged, a flicker of humor creeping into her voice. “As far as I know, no one’s January Torquill. Which is probably a good thing—that’d be a terrible name to stick on a child. It sounds like something out of a bad romance novel.”
“So if you’re not January Torquill, that makes you . . . ?”
“January O’Leary. I’m not full Daoine Sidhe—my father was half-Tylwyth Teg, and his last name was ‘ap Learianth.’ That doesn’t exactly work on a business card. We settled on ‘O’Leary’ as the abbreviation when we incorporated.” She smiled again. This time, the expression had an edge I recognized all too well. Sylvester smiled that way when he was trying to figure out whether something was a threat. “It’s interesting that Uncle Sylvester didn’t tell you that. Considering the part where he sent you here, and everything.”
“You have a phone,” I said. “You could call him.”
“I already tried that while Elliot was stowing you and the kid in the cafeteria.”
“And?”
“No one answered.”
“I have directions in your uncle’s handwriting.” I held up the folder.
“Handwriting can be faked.”
I bit back an expletive. Half the Kingdom knew me on sight and expected me to start breaking things the second I walked into the room, while the other half wanted three forms of photo ID and a character witness. “Alex and Elliot knew who I was.”
“They know who you look like. There’s a difference.”
Sad to say, she had a point. I nearly got killed last December by a Doppelganger who impersonated my daughter. In Faerie, faces aren’t always what they appear to be.
“Okay. If you know who I look like, you presumably know what . . . that person . . . can or can’t do. Right?” January nodded. “It’s sort of hard to prove that I
can’t
cast a spell, so that won’t work. If you want to give me some blood, I can tell you what you did for your fifth birthday . . .”
“That’s okay.”
“Didn’t think so.” I sighed. “I don’t suppose dropping my illusions and letting you poke me with sticks would do it? I’d really like to get this sorted out.”
She frowned. “It’s a start,” she said.
“Got it,” I said, and let my human disguise dissolve, wafting away in a wash of copper and cut grass.
Jan watched intently, nostrils flaring as she sniffed at the air. Then she grinned. If her smile was bright before, it was nothing compared to the way she lit up now. It was like looking at the sun. “Copper and grass! You
are
you!”
“No one’s ever been that happy about the smell of my magic before,” I muttered. “How do you . . .?”
“I have files on my uncle’s knights, in case someone tries to sneak in.” There was a brutal matter-of-factness to her tone. She was the Countess of a County balanced on the edge of disaster, and this was just the way things worked. “We’ve had people who could fake faces and pass quizzes, but nobody’s been able to fake somebody else’s magic.” The word “yet” hung between us, unspoken.
“Well, your uncle’s worried, and he asked me to come see how you were doing. Why didn’t you tell me who you were when I got here? We could’ve taken care of all this an hour ago.”
“Do you know where you are?” she asked.
I frowned. “I don’t see what that has to do with . . .”
“Humor me.”
“I’m in the County of Tamed Lightning.”
“Do you know where the County is?”
“Fremont?”
“Fremont, where we’re sandwiched between two Duchies that don’t get along. We’re a shiny little independent County right where it’s not a good idea to have an independent County.”
“I was under the impression that things were stable.” That could change at any time, of course, and there’s always a risk of small-scale civil war in Faerie—it’s something to do when you’re bored and immortal—but the modern world has reduced that risk substantially. The fae are poster children for Attention Deficit Disorder: give them something shiny to play with and they’ll forget they were about to chop your head off.
January sighed. “Uncle Sylvester is respected around here. Something about him having a really big army he could use for squashing people like bugs.”
“So that makes you even safer. Dreamer’s Glass would never bother you with Shadowed Hills standing right there.”
“That’s the problem.”
“Okay, now you’ve lost me.”
“People think that because Sylvester’s my uncle, Tamed Lightning is an extension of his Duchy here to make him look ‘egalitarian and modern,’ and one day he’s going to pull us back in.” She slid off the desk, starting to pace. “They treat us like we don’t matter, or they assume we can get them favors and come around sniffing for political leverage. It got old, fast. So we stopped helping.”
“You thought I was here to ask for a favor?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“Well, believe me, I’m not. I’m here because you stopped calling your uncle.”
January shook her head. “That’s not true. I’ve left about eighteen messages. He just hasn’t been calling me back.” A wry expression crossed her face. “I know his phones work. I installed them.”
“Why haven’t you just gone to Shadowed Hills?”
“Same reason he hasn’t come here: if I leave, there’s a good chance Dreamer’s Glass will see it as an opportunity and invade.” She looked suddenly tired. “Welcome to my life. I just have to keep calling.”
“What’s so important that you need to keep trying to reach him? Why didn’t you send a messenger?”
She straightened, another smile blooming across her face. “Where are my manners? You can call me Jan. We’re not big on formalities here. Do you prefer October, Sir Daye . . . ?”
“Toby’s fine,” I said, blinking at the change of subject. “Look, Jan, your uncle wanted—”
“It’s funny that he didn’t tell you I wasn’t a Torquill. My mother was his sister, but she was just a Baroness. Dad was a Count, so I got his name.”
Oh, root and branch, of course. When fae marry, the family name of the person with the higher title takes precedence under almost any circumstances. Faerie isn’t sexist. It’s just snobby. “Sorry. I missed that memo.”
“Well, did he at least tell you about Mom?”
“He mentioned her, yes.” The existence of a sister was an odd fact about an already odd family. The fae aren’t very fertile, and most fae twins are too weak to see adulthood; the fact that both Simon and Sylvester lived was strange enough. Adding a sister to the equation made it almost unreal. “Look—”
“She was older by about a century. She died when I was little.”
“Oh,” I said. That seemed inadequate. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
“Oh.” What was I supposed to say? People don’t usually sidetrack conversations to tell you how their parents died.
“Anyway, I run this place.” Jan smiled. “I’m a Capricorn, a computer programmer, and a vegetarian. And I bake a mean chocolate chip cookie.”
I’ve seen the “silly me” routine countless times from Sylvester, usually just before he goes for someone’s throat. It’s an effective camouflage when used on people who don’t know it. I put up with it from Sylvester; he’s earned my tolerance. Jan, on the other hand, hadn’t earned a thing.
“Look,” I said, trying not to sound as frustrated as I felt, “are we going to have an intelligent conversation today, or should my assistant and I go and check into our hotel? I’m not leaving until I can reassure your uncle that you’re all right.”
“It’s sweet that he’s worried, but I promise, we’re fine.” Her face was calm as she moved to the coffeemaker, picking up the pot and waving it in my direction. “You want some?”
“He’s afraid you might be having some sort of trouble.” Was it my imagination, or did she jump when I said that? Her hands were shaking. Interesting. Maybe her flippancy was even more of an act than I’d thought. I looked at her face, noting the new guardedness in her eyes.
“There’s no trouble here.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. The trembling in her hands was getting worse. She put the coffeepot down, shooting me a defiant look. “He’d want me to help if there was.”
“I’m totally sure. If there were trouble, I’d know—we have an excellent reporting system in place.”
In English that probably meant the building was on fire and I was the only one who hadn’t noticed. Shifting topics, I said, “I’ve never seen a Daoine Sidhe with glasses before.”
“Consequence of the modern era,” she replied, relaxing. “I stared into too many bright lights as a kid.”
“And they couldn’t heal you magically? I’d think an Ellyllon . . .”
“I did the damage to myself. I figure I should live with it.”
“I see. So you figure you have to live with whatever’s broken here, too?”
“Nothing’s broken,” she said calmly. “Everything is going great.”
I shook my head. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Jan’s mouth dropped open. I took a step back. Blood means power, and this scrawny, bespectacled girl could probably fling me halfway around the world before I had time to ask for the truck’s license number.
“I am not lying,” she snarled. I flinched, and she took a deep breath, adding more calmly, “It’s just been a little busy lately. That’s all.” She picked up the coffeepot again, finally pouring herself a cup.
I thought Sylvester was being overly concerned when he sent me to Fremont: thanks to Jan’s reactions, I was rethinking my opinion. Even I don’t normally cause panic attacks just by asking a few questions. She’d lied to me twice already. If nothing was wrong, why had she left so many messages for her uncle? “Well, do you mind if we stay a few days, just to be sure? Sylvester asked me to show Quentin the ropes, and I hate to disappoint my liege.”
Her eyes widened as she realized she couldn’t say no without risking her uncle sending an entire diplomatic detachment. I was her one shot at subtle. Then the moment of panic was gone, replaced by another glossy smile. “Of course. Do you have somewhere to stay?”
“Yes, we do,” I said, letting her think that she was fooling me. If she wanted to lie to herself, I was glad to help: it might keep her from realizing how much she was giving away. “Luna arranged hotel rooms for us.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Her smile became a little more honest, affording me another brief look at the fear lurking underneath. “How’s she doing?”
“Luna’s doing well; she’s planning a new garden.”
“Oh? What kind?”
“Wildflowers.” It was going to be a mourning garden, dedicated to the memory of those who died while I was searching for Evening’s killer. There was even a plot for Devin. Luna sent Quentin to show me the plans, and I cried until I was almost sick. But I didn’t want to tell Jan any of that.
“It’s good that she’s keeping busy.” The lightness of her tone was obviously intended to divert me, and it didn’t win her any points.
“Jan?”

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