I exhaled as Tybalt set me gently on my feet, holding my arms until he was sure I had my balance. Irritated as I was at the continual coddling, I was grateful for the assist. I’ve never been as graceful as a pureblood, much less one of the Cait Sidhe, but pregnancy had changed my center of balance enough to make me worry about falling. His eyes searched my face, looking for any sign of distress. I smiled warmly at him, even as I pushed his hands gently down.

  “I’ve got another few weeks of this, you know,” I said. “You don’t want to use up all your fretting on me before the baby even gets here.”

  “I promise, I have more fretting in me than you can imagine,” he said.

  I laughed as I took his arm and turned us toward the knowe. “I don’t know,” I teased. “I have a pretty solid imagination.” Was he going to fret more or less when I had a chance to sit down with him and tell him about the Luidaeg’s offer? A godmother was no small thing, and a Firstborn godmother … it spoke to more concern on her part for our child’s safety than I was entirely comfortable with. But if it kept our baby safe, I’d accept it.

  Tybalt didn’t dignify my teasing with a response. I hugged his arm, taking a moment to enjoy the silence as we approached the knowe that served as the royal seat of the Kingdom in the Mists.

  The doors were already open, tall, elegant impossibilities set into the trunk of a towering redwood. They revealed a long hallway winding deeper into the structure, far too long for the tree to have contained, and well-lit by some unseen source. I hugged Tybalt’s arm tighter, bracing myself for the transition.

  We had already stepped onto the edge of the Summerlands when we reached the top of the hill. Stepping into the knowe was something different. It marked the point where we passed beyond the reach of the mortal world, crossing fully into Faerie. My human blood meant that it could be difficult for me to make the transition, and indeed, my stomach felt like it flipped as we crossed the threshold, nausea washing over me.

  I swallowed bile, forcing myself to keep smiling. Pregnancy is an endless parade of wonders, and no two women experience it exactly the same. I missed out on a lot of the back pain and general exhaustion, thanks to the way I healed, but I didn’t get morning sickness so much as I got “frequent and unpredictable nausea with no identifiable triggers.” Honestly, the best thing about having this baby would be keeping dinner down for more than an hour.

  I looked around the entrance hall to distract myself as we walked, studying the carved panels lining the walls. They showed important moments from the Kingdom’s history, and they tended to change depending on what was going on around them. Sometimes they would show scenes that didn’t seem important at all, but became endlessly relevant after they were put into context. Other times they would focus on births and coronations, all the important milestones a kingdom lives and dies by.

  Tonight, they were a mixture of recent events and ancient history. They all appeared to have been carved by the same hand, even though that was patently impossible. Some of these panels had been here since Arden had reclaimed her throne and reopened the knowe, while others depicted events from the past four months. I saw the Selkies and Roane returning to the Duchy of Ships, from which they had been exiled by Titania’s spell. I saw changelings running back to their families, some of them people I recognized, some of them people I didn’t.

  And I saw myself, pregnant, standing with my arms wrapped around my belly and my mother’s tower behind me. That, more than anything, confirmed that sometimes the scenes were more representative than literal. I had never been in my mother’s tower and aware of my condition. In the carving, I was looking directly at the viewer, and I was alone.

  Wait—not alone. In the background, almost lost among the carved foliage of my mother’s garden, a tabby cat crouched, watching me even as I watched the person looking at the piece.

  I shivered. Tybalt followed the line of eyes, and snorted.

  “It’s a fine likeness, but a dishonest framing,” he said. “We had you well away from that place before your belly was half so big as that.”

  “Only because babies grow so damn much faster in the second half of a pregnancy,” I countered.

  “Still. I should have a talk with whichever part of the knowe is providing these images.”

  “So you agree with me that the knowes are alive?”

  He snorted again, but paused before he replied, with absolute care, “I believe you believe that they’re alive, and more, that I’ve seen sufficient evidence of awareness that I can agree it hurts nothing to treat them as individuals worthy of some small respect.”

  “Huh,” I said, feeling unaccountably pleased with myself as we walked onward.

  I was wearing a proper gown for a formal occasion. May had produced it from the back of my closet as soon as I’d told her Arden was calling court. It was a rich cherrywood red velvet, shading into more golden tones as it neared the hem, and it wrapped around my protruding belly like a moth’s wings, accentuating my size without turning bulky. The skirt extended all the way to the ground, which was doubtless part of why Tybalt had carried me up the hill. I didn’t mind. The absence of boning was a relief, and the length of the skirt meant no one would know that I was wearing sneakers.

  The sleeves carried on the moth-wing motif, threatening to swallow my hands whole. Three matching hairpins shaped like large silk moths were tucked into my hair, holding it away from my neck and giving it the faint illusion of being something other than utterly stick-straight. It was only the second time I’d worn proper court attire since the end of Titania’s enchantment, and the memory of all the balls and courts that had never been felt like they weighed more and more heavily as we neared the closed doors of Arden’s throne room. Most of me knew that this was business as usual, and Arden was unlikely to spring anything really shocking on me when I was this close to giving birth—not unless she was really in the mood to go to war with the Court of Cats. Part of me, though, was trying to insist that my appearance here was going to get me thrown into the scullery and punished for impersonating a fine lady.

  Quiet, I told that part of me, with all the fierceness I could muster. I am not impersonating a fine lady. I would never. And I wasn’t, because I have never been a lady, and I wasn’t dressed like anyone but myself.

  I’m a knight.

  I held firmly to that thought as the doors swung open and we stepped into the massive throne room. Like most throne or receiving rooms, Arden had a dais at one end of the space, hers occupied by two thrones—one for her, and one for her brother. Other chairs could be added and removed as necessary. For informal occasions, her seneschal and chatelaine would often sit up there with the Queen and Crown Prince. For this evening, those places had been removed. The windows were open, letting the night air flow freely in, accompanied by brightly colored pixies who flitted to and fro among the rafters. The air was fresh and sweet, smelling of redwoods and rain with a faint undertone of cinnamon.

  Arden’s coat of arms hung on the wall behind the dais, next to Nolan’s. I paused, blinking. While her coat of arms retained its verdant green color, blazoned with star-shaped white blackberry flowers, it had gained a golden bundle of wheat at the bottom, like a foundation under everything else. I glanced at Nolan’s coat of arms. They displayed a hoop of blackberry brambles against a silver background, and had acquired the same bundle of wheat, this one at the top of the blazon.

  Coats of arms are a noble affectation that can always be changed, but the images generally mean something. I couldn’t wait to find out what had triggered this particular transition.

  The room was full of people. As this was a court, and not a celebration, there were no refreshment tables; for all of that, servants still circulated with heavy trays laden with drinks and small appetizers, all single-bite and designed to be eaten while standing. My stomach grumbled, and I put a hand over it, like that could be enough to muffle the sound. Tybalt snorted, looking genuinely amused, and proceeded to flag down a passing server, a piebald Silene whose eyes were ringed in stark white, giving her an effortlessly startled expression.

  “Sir Daye,” she said, correctly interpreting Tybalt’s imperious waving as an effort to feed his pregnant wife. She offered me both a half-bow and the tray, holding it out toward me with a clear air of “take whatever you want, fighting a Hero of the Realm is above my pay grade.”

  I flashed her a smile in place of the thanks I wasn’t allowed to offer—Faerie has some weird hangups around the appearance of obligation, which a direct “thank you” can imply—and started to reach for the tray. Then I froze as the smell hit my nose, and clapped my hand over my mouth, swallowing bile.

  Being simultaneously hungry and intermittently nauseous was pretty definitely the worst part about pregnancy for me. My pants didn’t fit and if I dropped something, it lived on the floor, but wanting to eat even while I was throwing up was awful.

  Tybalt saw my expression change and waved the baffled server away, murmuring a quick “Bring back something blander if you could, please,” before he turned his attention on me, moving closer despite the risk that I was going to toss my cookies all over his leather pants. Damn the leather pants. I wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for the leather pants.

  I think. I’m almost sure, anyway. Sure, the leather pants weren’t involved with the actual conception, but they did a lot to turn my head in the early days, and that set us on the path that led us here.

  Again, I swallowed, doing little to clean away the burning taste of stomach acid.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Baby did not want a blue cheese and onion tart,” I reported, only to have my stomach lurch again, as if saying the words were the same thing as actually eating the offending pastry. I clapped my hand back over my mouth.

  “I have to go now,” I said, voice muffled by my fingers. “Give Arden my apologies if she comes looking for me.”

  I spun on my heel and ran, heading for one of the doors on the side of the hall. Not only had I been in the knowe enough to be relatively confident that I was heading for the bathroom, I knew Arden wouldn’t want me to toss my cookies all over her ballroom floor, which meant the knowe wouldn’t want that, which meant my chances of making it were better than they might be otherwise.

  Running while extremely pregnant is not an experience I would recommend. But then again, neither is barfing on a Queen’s floor, and of those options, I’ll take the running.

  It was almost funny, in a terrible way. Every type of fae comes with their own magical gifts and inclinations. Dóchas Sidhe are blood-workers of unparalleled skill, eclipsing the Daoine Sidhe, who were the big rock stars of blood magic before we came along. In me, this expresses mostly by causing me to heal almost faster than I can get injured—and I am very, very good at getting injured. Sometimes there isn’t time to pull the knife out before the wound it made has healed around it. I don’t get sick, either. My immune system just says “nah, hard pass,” and what’s circulating leaves me alone.

  So being at the mercy of “normal” pregnancy-related nausea would have been hilarious, if it weren’t so damn frustrating. It had been the same way with Gillian. Most of my pregnancy had been a breeze, but wow had I gone through a lot of mouthwash.

  The door I’d crashed through led to a short hall lined with vases of sunflowers and moonflowers, all enchanted to remain in perfect bloom. There were a few open doorways leading to small foyers with chaise lounges and comfortable-looking leather chairs, and a few closed doors graven with a pattern of asters and moonflowers. I kept running until I reached the first closed door, shoving it roughly open to stumble into the remarkably modern-looking bathroom on the other side.

  There were no stalls, which explained the iconography on the door, with a single toilet, sink, and even a small shower tucked into one corner, in case someone’s bathroom experience went terribly wrong. I stumbled toward the toilet, not even taking the time to lock the door.

  I almost made it, too.

  After my dinner was done making a repeat appearance all over the tile floor of Arden’s bathroom, I stepped back from the mess and turned to check myself over in the mirror, silently hoping that I’d managed to avoid getting any of it on myself. When I got married, my friends and fiancé conspired to enchant my wedding dress so thoroughly that it could repel anything that might stain it. Sadly, those enchantments are complicated and expensive, and most of my wardrobe is as vulnerable to accidents as anyone else’s.

  Luck was on my side this time; apart from the burning need to rinse my mouth out, I didn’t appear to have suffered anything more dire than the loss of my supper. I turned on the sink, using my hand as a cup, and swished and spat with all the vigor I could muster.

  When the taste was gone, I straightened and began splashing water on my face, trying to chase away the lingering nausea. I don’t think I was ever a good sick person, but when I was more human, I used to at least get sick. I had to imagine I was better about it back then, since otherwise, either Devin or my mother would probably have killed me with their bare hands.

  Finally satisfied, I turned away from mirror, yelped, and staggered back against the sink.

  “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!” I said, pressing one hand flat against my chest to try and calm the frantic pounding of my heart. “What if I’d gone into labor?”

  “Then you wouldn’t have been the first woman to give birth on a bathroom floor, and at least this one’s cleaner than most.” Arden Windermere, Queen in the Mists, gave the puddle of vomit on her floor a dubious look, wrinkling her nose. She was dressed for court in a long dark silver gown with blackberry canes embroidered around the hems, and she could easily have passed for something out of a Waterhouse painting if she’d wanted to. A silver diadem rested on her brow, completing the appearance of power and poise. None of which went with the way she was eyeing the floor. “I worked San Francisco retail, and even with the current mess, this is still cleaner than most.”

  “Are you trying to reassure yourself or me?” I took my hand away from my chest and curled it protectively around my stomach. “I am not having this baby on a bathroom floor. Tybalt would kill me.”

  “Please. He’s Cait Sidhe. What, does he expect you to give birth in a box in the closet?”

  “What do you want, Your Majesty?”

  Tuatha de Dannan—like Arden and her brother, Nolan—are teleporters. Sometimes I think Faerie has a nasty sense of humor when it comes to deciding which descendant line will get which magical abilities. Hey, you over there, you can read memories by drinking people’s blood! But if you drink too much, you might die! Oh, and Susie here? She gets to move freely through space, without worrying about what may be in her way!

  Faerie has never been particularly concerned with fairness, but there are moments when I have to wonder whether it does things on purpose.

  Normally, I can tell when one of the Tuatha enters a room. The portals they use carry the scent of their magic, and Arden’s mixture of redwood bark and lightly bruised blackberry flowers is hard to miss. Normally, I’m not trying to breathe through a nose clogged from vomiting, blocking out the scent. Pregnancy is a banquet of endless delights.

  Arden lifted an eyebrow. “Do I have to want something? Can’t I just be checking on a valued denizen of my kingdom?”

  “You could be, but you’re not,” I said. “If you were, you’d have come through the door, and Tybalt would be with you.”

  “The King of Cats is presently occupied. My dear brother needed to ask him some very important questions about the Cait Sidhe population. The mortals are stepping up their efforts to thin the feral cat colonies, and we felt it important that none of your husband’s subjects be caught in the sweep.”

  It was my turn to raise my eyebrows. “You had him waylaid so you could get me alone?”

  “That would be manipulative and underhanded.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Not at all befitting a proper queen.”

  “True enough.”

  “But I did need to speak with you, and it seemed best to do so in private.”

  “You’re the Queen in the Mists,” I said. “You could have just had someone ask me to step out for a moment, instead of ambushing me in the bathroom. Better yet, let me get back to my husband and then ask him to let us go off by ourselves.”

  “I could have, but then people might speculate about why I was summoning you; being able to find you alone like this provided a better opportunity for discretion,” she said mildly.

  “So glad my needing to toss my cookies was so beneficial for you,” I grumbled, without any real heat. I knew when I was beaten.

  Arden sighed, moving closer. “Would you like to come with me someplace more comfortable, so the Hobs can clean up this bathroom before someone comes looking for us?”

  I never really go anywhere alone, even when I think I am. May and Jasmine had left the house before Tybalt and I did, and were doubtless somewhere in the hall; Quentin was supposed to attend with his boyfriend, Dean Lorden. They weren’t the only people who might get concerned if I vanished for too long, but they were the most likely to come looking if they couldn’t find me where they thought I should be.

  I sighed. “Is there any getting out of this conversation?”

  “It may surprise you to hear this, but I wouldn’t be sharing this special magic bathroom time with you if it weren’t important.”

  “Fine,” I said. “But you’d better have someone tell Tybalt where I am, before he comes looking for me.”

  “Nolan should be informing him as we speak. Unless you have any other objections?”

  I shook my head.

  Arden stepped briskly forward, grabbing my upper arm with one hand while she sketched a circle in the air with the other. A portal opened, accompanied by the scent of redwoods and blackberries, and she pulled me through into someplace else.

  The portal closed behind us, and I looked quickly around. We were in a small lounge, although I doubted that it was one of the ones attached to the bathrooms: it was too nice for that, and one entire wall was made up of windows, looking out on a trellis dripping with blackberry canes that drooped under the weight of ripe dark purple fruit. A few of the windows were cracked open, allowing the berry-scented air to trickle inside.