The driver dropped us off at the mouth of the Luidaeg’s street and left; Sylvester had already paid the fare. I just hoped he’d used real money. The purebloods can have a sort of creative interpretation of “polite” behavior when it comes to mortals, and cabbies tend to get cranky when they make a big run and wind up with pockets full of dead leaves and ashes.

We stopped on the Luidaeg’s doorstep. I looked at Quentin, gauging the strain in his eyes. “Are you going to be all right with this?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I’m not. But I have to.”

I nodded. More and more, I was coming to appreciate the concept of “have to.” “You know she may not be quite right. Not yet.” You understand that she may be broken beyond even the Luidaeg’s capacity to fix? That we may bring her back, but never bring her home? Do you understand?

There were a lot of things I wanted to say, and I couldn’t bring myself to say a single one, because saying them would make them real, and no amount of preparing him would change what was waiting for us.

“I know. I do. I’m not giving up hope. But I know.”

“All right, Quentin. Just remember that I’m here, okay? I’m not going away again.”

He managed a smile, squeezing my hand. “I know. You’d never be that stupid twice.”

“Brat,” I said fondly and turned to knock on the door.

Inside, the Luidaeg shouted, “It’s open!” When you’re a legendary sea witch, you don’t need to worry much about robbers.

I pushed the door open and led Quentin into the dark, cluttered hall. Quentin stepped easily into the spaces between the debris, moving with the quiet, self-assured grace that comes naturally to the pureblooded Daoine Sidhe. I was easier to track; I was the one who kept tripping and slamming my toes against things in the gloom. The Luidaeg’s hall seems to change length to fit her mood, and we walked for quite a while before we saw the other end come into view. Quentin picked up the pace, his hand still locked in mine, and I let him drag me along.

The living room was as cluttered as ever, reeking of marsh and fen and decaying couch stuffing. Quentin paused for a moment, obviously not used to the smell. Then he saw Katie and froze.

She was sitting on the couch with her hands folded in her lap, gazing into the distance. Her hair had been washed and brushed over her shoulders, and her clothes were clean and new. She looked unhurt and human. The Luidaeg was next to her, one half-clawed hand resting on Katie’s knee.

“Katie?” said Quentin. Then he smiled, brightly enough that it seemed to clear the shadows out of the room. I relaxed, letting my own smile slip forward. Then I saw the look on the Luidaeg’s face, and smiling ceased to be an option. She looked troubled; almost bleak. I stopped, smile fading, and tilted my head to the side in silent question. She nodded, very slightly, and turned to watch Quentin’s approach.

Katie didn’t acknowledge Quentin’s presence, or even seem to know that he was there until he dropped to his knees in front of her and reached for her hand. When he touched her she flinched, cowering against the Luidaeg and whimpering. The Luidaeg lifted one hand to stroke Katie’s hair, whispering soothing words in a language that probably died with Atlantis. Katie shivered, returning to silence.

Quentin leaped to his feet and backed away, eyes as wide and shocked as those of a child who’s just learned that fire burns. Oh, baby. The fire always burns.

“Can you fix her?” he whispered, blinking back tears. His world was falling down around him; I knew how that felt. I’d have tried to offer him something solid to hang onto, but I knew better. I was too frayed already. I might snap.

The Luidaeg’s gaze was mild, but when she spoke, her tone was icy. “Fix her? I suppose. She has the potential to talk, laugh, cry, lie, and betray again, just like every other human. She can live; she’s not too broken for that. At least, not yet.”

“How?” asked Quentin, with raw longing in his voice. I winced.

The Luidaeg curled a hand over Katie’s shoulder, smiling bitterly. “Will you pay for her restoration? There are costs and choices to be made—one choice, actually, but it’s yours alone, and making it pays my fee. Can you bargain with the sea witch a second time, little boy?” Katie’s breathing calmed as she leaned against the Luidaeg; Quentin might be breaking, but she was broken, and it was our fault, every one of us. Not all the sparks that fly when the mortal lands and Faerie meet are bright ones.

Quentin stared at the Luidaeg, and I fought the urge to yank him away and take him out of the dark place where the sea witch held her Court and made her quiet bargains. She was my friend, but she was also something old and dark, and she could be the death of him. I wanted to take him away from there. I couldn’t. As the Luidaeg said, some choices are for one person and one person only; the blood I could still feel on my hands was a testimony to that. I couldn’t interfere. I could only watch and bleed with him, if it came to that.

“It’s a simple choice.” The Luidaeg smoothed Katie’s hair with a clawed hand, expression gentle. There was a time when I wouldn’t have realized that. “She’s not a changeling; she wasn’t made to sit on this line. She has to choose one side or the other. Take her to the Summerlands: tend her, keep her, and let her be the last casualty of my baby brother’s madness. Keep her, or let her go and never go near her again, because she’d love you if she saw you, and that love would make her remember our world. Keep her or let her go. But choose.”

“That’s not a choice!” Quentin balled his hands into fists. What was he going to hit? Reality? The laws of nature? Hitting the Luidaeg could be fatal. “That’s not even fair!”

“It is what it is,” the Luidaeg said with a shrug. “Who told you choices were fair, kid? I gave you the choice that must be given; I’m giving you the chance to decide. What do you want, Quentin? Her life and heart are in your hands, and she’s only a Daughter of Eve. The choice isn’t hers. The consequences are hers to bear.

“Whatever you want her to be, she’ll be. She’ll live or die as you command.”There was no pity in her tone;none at all. “Just choose, kid. This isn’t a game. Choose.”

Quentin turned to me, eyes wide and filled with silent hurt. He was still so very young. Faeries—true faeries, not their changeling throwaways—live forever, and when you have an eternity of adulthood ahead of you, you linger over childhood. You tend it and keep it close to your heart, because once it ends, it’s over. Quentin was barely fifteen. He’d never seen the Great Hunt that came down every twenty-one years, or been present for the crowning of a King or Queen of Cats, or announced his maturity before the throne of High King Aethlin. He was a child, and he should have had decades left to play; a century of games and joy and edging cautiously toward adulthood.