By Seanan McGuire
Issues are having a look up.
For the 1st time in what sounds like years, October "Toby" Daye has been in a position to pause lengthy adequate to take a breath and view her lifestyles -- and she or he likes what she sees. She has pals. She has allies. She has a squire to coach and a King of Cats to like, and perhaps, simply probably, she will be able to permit her safeguard down for a change.
Or no longer. whilst Queen Windermere's seneschal is elf-shot and thrown into an enchanted sleep by way of brokers from the neighboring nation of Silences, Toby unearths herself in a job she by no means anticipated to play: that of a diplomat. She needs to commute to Portland, Oregon, to persuade King Rhys of Silences to not visit conflict opposed to the Mists. yet not anything is that straightforward, and what October reveals in Silences is worse than she may ever have imagined.
How some distance will Toby move while lives are at the line, and whilst allies either outdated and new are threatened via a strength she had by no means anticipated to stand back? How a lot is October keen to renounce, and what kind of is she prepared to alter? In Faerie, what's earlier isn't fairly gone.
It's simply looking forward to a chance to pounce.
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Extra info for A Red-Rose Chain (October Daye, Book 9)
Good black suit, a little too small, clutched briefcase, freckles of gray in the hair. No rings. He did not seem startled or doubled over with desire as they sometimes were. He was calm, his answering smile measured and almost sweet, like a photograph of a soldier lost in a long-ago war. Coolly, without taking his dark eyes from hers, he turned over his left palm and rested it on the creamy brown edge of his briefcase. His hand was covered in a mark she first thought horrible—it snaked and snarled, black and swollen, where fortune-teller’s lines ought to have been.
At the end of each day they tell her all they have learned of living. It is necessary work. No family has been so often formally thanked by the city as hers. _______ On the other side of the street: a fortune-teller’s shop. Palm fronds cross before the door. Inside are four red chairs with four lustral basins before them, filled with ink, swirling and black. Orlande lumbers in, a woman wrapped in ragged fox fur. Her head amid heaps of scarves is that of a frog, mottled green and bulbous-eyed. A licking pink tongue keeps its place in her wide mouth.
It folds itself, origami-exact, in midair: it has papery eyes, inky feathers, vellum claws. It stares down the long avenues, searching for mice. This is the life cycle of Palimpsest fauna. Yumiko leans against the door post, holding her arms out like a sister who had never hoped to see her dear one again. She is not wearing her schoolgirl’s dress any longer, but a red scrap that clings to her waist like a spool of yarn pulled tighter than breathing. With a local girl’s surety she guides Sei inside—a little scalloped bell chimes, and Imogen looks up from her parchments with a stern face, her black hair soft around a neck just slightly too long for a woman to wear in company.