Page 9 of A Killing Frost

“Then why say it at all?”

“Because it wasn’t his idea,” said Dianda. She had wheeled herself over while I was focused on her husband, and was looking at me levelly, her hands resting on the curve of her wheels. Like Patrick, she was dressed in date night finery; unlike Patrick, hers ended at the waist. Since there were no humans here, she wasn’t bothering with the blanket I’d sometimes seen her drape across her legs, leaving the jewel-toned sweep of her tail exposed. Merrow are basically the classic human idea of mermaids, and Dianda Lorden is a perfect example of her breed.

She took her hands off the wheels and leaned forward, resting her elbows against her own tail. Her fins twitched at the pressure, not quite slapping the floor. “Patrick and I were discussing Dean’s excitement about your upcoming wedding when we realized it was entirely possible your mother had never bothered to explain to you what it meant that she’d been married when you were born. That sort of omission is Amy to the bone. But if we could realize the problems that could cause for you now, others could realize it as well. People who’d be less inclined to help than we are.”

“So far all you’re helping to do is ruin my evening,” I said. “How did you know we were going to be here?”

“Dean mentioned that your fiancé was planning to take you out for a private evening, and there aren’t many places where a King of Cats and a Hero of the Realm can do that,” said Dianda. “I doubt we’ll be able to get a reservation after this.”

“No,” said Tybalt, voice barely above a growl. “You won’t.”

“Can everyone please stop talking around the problem and tell me what the hell is going on?” I demanded. “I’d like to salvage what I can of this evening, if you don’t mind.”

Dianda shook her head. “This is land custom,” she said, and looked to Patrick.

He took a deep breath. “When two purebloods marry, they can’t divorce without consent of their living children—including any changelings or merlins born outside the marriage bed.”

“Patriarchal and weird, but okay,” I said. “At least the kids get a say.”

“Yes, but it meant that when your sister disappeared, her parents—yourparents—were no longer able to separate in the eyes of Oberon, because she couldn’t declare whose house she belonged to, and neither could you. Hence their being married when you were born, and still being married today.”

“Not that Simon would ever decide to leave his wife,” interjected Dianda. “He loves that woman the way the moon loves the sea, not that I understand why. She’s never done anything but betray him to serve her own interests.”

“Di,” said Patrick. “Be kind.”

“Oh, I am being kind,” she said. “If I were being unkind, I’d be saying something much worse about her, that self-centered, deceitful, treacherous—”

“Mother to the very patient woman who hasn’t stabbed either of us yet, despite us giving her plenty of reasons to find the idea appealing,” said Patrick, cutting her off and earning himself a brief but vicious glower. “October, because Simon is currently married to your mother, making him your father in the eyes of any chain of inheritance, if you fail to invite him to your wedding, you’re offering him a public insult too large to be ignored. Any relative of his could claim the right to see it satisfied.” He paused to emphasize his next statement. “His relativesor his liege.”

I stared at him. “Bullshit.”

“Yes, but still true.”

I turned to Tybalt. “Bullshit,” I repeated.

“I wish I could agree that this claim has no bearing on our upcoming nuptials, but I do my best not to lie to you, as you find dishonesty personally insulting,” said Tybalt.

“Bullshit,” I said a third time, this time speaking to no one in specific.

Supposedly, Faerie has only one Law, handed down by Oberon himself before his untimely disappearance some five hundred years ago: no one’s allowed to kill a pureblood. Of course, the Law doesn’t apply to humans or to changelings, meaning we can be slaughtered with impunity by anyone who decides we’re looking at them funny, but that’s Faerie for you. Only fair as long as it suits the people in power.

But despite our lack of other formalized laws, a complicated system of manners and etiquette governs everything we do. Giving someone insult is one of the worst things possible, aside from violating hospitality or otherwise transgressing against traditions that date back to the days when our King and Queens still walked among us. Once someone has been given insult, they can demand basically any recompense they like, as long as it doesn’t result in someone winding up dead. Imprisonment, involuntary service, material payment, it’s all on the table.

Not giving a pureblood the excuse to say that I’d given them insult had been one of the major motivations of my youth, and if I’d lost sight of that in the last few years, well, that was on me, wasn’t it?

“Oh,” I said faintly.

“Yeah,” said Dianda. “Oh. I’m sorry we interrupted your dinner. But I’m sure you can understand why it’s important that you find Simon Torquill and bring him home as soon as you possibly can. Patrick?”

“Yes, dear,” said Patrick, and moved to stand behind his wife, gripping the handles of her wheelchair and turning it nimbly around before wheeling her back to their table.

I looked at Tybalt. Neither of us said a word.

THREE

JASON DIDN’T SEEMto notice the charged atmosphere in the room when he returned to take our orders. He approached our table with a polite smile on his face, stopping at a respectful distance, and asked, “Well? Have you had a chance to look at the menu?”

Tybalt actually flinched. I was a little surprised when he didn’t hiss. Then he thrust his menu at Jason and said, “The fish of the day, with shrimp risotto.”

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