I had to laugh. “They’re not used to you yet. You have to give them some time.” As far as I know, April is the only Dryad ever to hold a noble title. She’s definitely the only Dryad ever to have been transplanted into a piece of computer hardware. Say what you like about her adoptive mother, the late January O’Leary, but the woman had a style all her own.

“I encounter this reaction frequently.” April brushed slightly pixelated hair out of her eyes. “I really am not sure what is expected of me if this comes to conflict. I doubt the Undersea has DSL lines for me to disconnect, and my range of movement is limited by my hardware.”

“To be honest, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, either.” The Luidaeg’s shell chilled briefly, reminding me that one way or another, I was going to be doing something.

April tilted her head, looking between us, and asked, “When did you get married?”

Connor choked on his wine. I coughed into my hand, getting my breath back before asking, “Uh, what?”

“Is that incorrect? I am sorry.” April looked annoyed. “I assumed your mutual attendance signified something, given the disappearance of my cousin Rayseline. I really am terrible with this ‘interpersonal relationships’ thing. Elliot says I must find a man and attempt to have children if I wish to validate my rule.”

“Does he, now?” I asked, barely following her apparent change of subjects. Connor was still struggling to breathe. It was almost amusing, in a sadistic sort of way.

“It seems both silly and biologically improbable to me, but . . .” April shrugged, encompassing in a gesture how silly she found most social traditions. “If you will excuse me, I believe I see my Uncle Sylvester. I must say hello.” Her dress shimmered back into blue jeans and a sweater before she vanished, leaving the air to rush into the place where she’d been standing.

I gave Connor a sidelong look. “Normally this is where we’d go bother Sylvester, but for the moment, I think she can have him.”

A voice from my other side asked, “Is she like that all the time?”

“Mostly,” I answered automatically. “Other days she’s a little weird.” Then I paused, realizing the voice didn’t belong to anyone I knew. Wincing, I turned. “I’m sorry. We haven’t been properly introduced.”

The man beside me laughed with what sounded like sincere amusement. I didn’t know him. I would have remembered. He was Daoine Sidhe, but sturdier than the average, built more like a sailor than a nobleman. A light patina of verdigris covered his bronze hair, and his eyes were dark blue. His features were pleasant without being spectacular. That alone was unusual: the Daoine Sidhe seem to make a habit out of unnaturally refined beauty.

He also looked exhausted. Thin worry lines were etched into the skin around his mouth, and he had the haggard complexion of a man who hadn’t been eating or sleeping properly for days, if not weeks.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s nice to hear a little honesty around here. I don’t think we’ve met, although you do look familiar.”

“This is my first major diplomatic event.” Connor had recovered from his coughing fit and was tugging on my elbow, trying to get my attention. I couldn’t think of a way to stop the introduction without being rude, so I barreled on, saying, “That was Countess April O’Leary of Tamed Lightning. I’m Countess October Daye, from Goldengreen. You can call me Toby. This is my escort—”

“Connor O’Dell,” said the stranger. Connor let go of my elbow. “We’ve met. But you . . . you’re Amandine’s daughter, aren’t you? The one who killed Blind Michael.”

Sometimes I think I’ll never live either of those things down. “That’s me.”

The stranger nodded. “They say you’re a hero.”

“They say a lot of things.” I looked at him blandly. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

“Patrick.” He smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I shot Connor an apologetic glance. Well, that explained why he’d been trying to get my attention. “Patrick Lorden?”

“The very same.”

“You’re married to the Duchess of Saltmist, aren’t you?” Leave it to me to strike up an informal conversation with one of the people we were gathered to pacify.

“That would be me.” Patrick didn’t sound offended. That was something. “Dianda’s yelling at the Queen, and I’m staying as far away as I can. My wife can be . . . forceful . . . when she gets going. Hello, Connor. Cute date.”

“Your Grace,” said Connor. He sounded mortified. I guess this wasn’t how he’d pictured introducing his girlfriend to his liege.

“Forgive me for saying so, Your Grace, but you seem more relaxed than I expected,” I said carefully. “I’d heard there were some issues.”

“By ‘issues,’ you mean the kidnapping and threatened murder of my sons?” His smile held neither warmth nor humor. “My current calm is a facade, I assure you, but as I can’t do anything to help Dianda negotiate their return, I’m staying out of the way.”

“That’s very reasonable of you,” I said. “If something happened to my daughter, I’d be a lot less capable of being sensible.” And a lot more powerless—but in the end, that wouldn’t matter. If something happened to Gillian, I’d rip the world down to save her, even if she spat in my face when I did. That’s what parenthood means.

Patrick tilted his head. “You’re a parent?”

I used to be, I thought. Aloud, I said, “Yes. Her name is Gillian. She recently turned eighteen.”

Something in my voice must have told him not to push the point. Patrick nodded instead, and said, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Likewise.” Silence fell between the three of us, no one quite sure what to say or how to say it. I tried to cover my awkwardness by raising my glass for another drink, and stopped cold.

The candles were throwing hundreds of tiny, flickering shadows across the surface of my wine . . . everywhere but one small section at the rim of the glass, where the reflection of the room was crisp and perfectly clear. Everything but that one spot was distorted, like . . . like . . .