“Antigone of Albany. She was one of the Firstborn, before they took titles in place of names. I don’t know which one she became. The histories are very unclear on that period.”
“Huh. Okay.” I started toward the couches. “I guess I have some reading to do.”
“Would you like me to go get some coffee?” asked Quentin.
“No, I’m good,” I said, without thinking. Then I froze, and turned to look into the horrified faces of Tybalt and Quentin, both of whom were staring at me like I’d said the unthinkable. In a way, I had. “Crap,” I said, intelligently.
For possibly the first time since I discovered the bittersweet blessing that is caffeine, I didn’t want a cup of coffee. Normally, I didn’t just drink the stuff: I practically breathed it, using it as a substitute for everything from a balanced diet to sleep. I could drink—and had drunk, on more than one occasion—a pot before I even opened my eyes in the afternoon. And I didn’t want any. Worse than that, the thought of putting coffee in a cup and raising it to my mouth filled me with revulsion, like it was the most disgusting idea anyone had ever had.
“Goblin fruit replaces everything you love,” said Tybalt. There was a tremor in his voice, the sort of thing I would have dismissed once as a trick of my imagination. I bit my lip as I looked at him. He didn’t look away. “Everything,” he repeated.
“That’s a big word,” I said. It included my family, my duty . . . and him.
“I know.”
“Then we’ll have to finish this fast.” I sat down heavily on the couch, sending dust puffing from the cushions. “Mags, do you have any other books that might help us? Like, maybe the rehab guide from Goblin Fruit Anonymous?”
“I can look,” she said.
“Quentin, go with her, see if she needs help carrying anything. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” I didn’t bother telling Tybalt to go. He wouldn’t have listened, and I didn’t want him leaving me. Not when he had that tone in his voice, like he should have known better than to believe anything could go right for very long.
“Okay, Toby,” said Quentin, and handed the flask of fireflies to Tybalt before following Mags into the stacks. I opened the blue book and started to read, not looking up even when Tybalt came and sat beside me, curled so close that I could feel his body heat. He placed the fireflies on the table, where they added just that extra edge of light. I leaned slightly to the left, just enough that my shoulder was resting against his, and continued reading.
The first chapter was a history of the hope chests—when and why they were made, and why Oberon thought they were necessary. He made the first as a gift for Titania, to allow her to manage her own Court. The others had been created later, and their makers were lost to history. It was all stuff I’d heard before, and none of it was particularly relevant until I got to the end.
I sat up a little. Tybalt tensed beside me.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Listen to this,” I said, and read, “‘When the last of the hope chests was crafted, Oberon gathered them, and gathered also his children, and the children of his Queens, to ask what they would do with such power as those chests contained. Five were given to the best of them, and five to the worst of them. One was given to the author of this book, for safekeeping, and one to her direst enemy, for sake of balance. The hope chests exist to keep Faerie in balance. Forget that at your peril.’”
Tybalt frowned at the page. “I don’t see why this excites you.”
“Oberon gave the hope chests to the Firstborn, right?”
“According to this text, yes.”
“Well, we have more Firstborn around here than you can shake a stick at. Maybe someone we know has a hope chest, and we’ve just never asked.” Not Mom. She was too young, as Firstborn went, and she didn’t need one. Acacia, maybe, or the Luidaeg . . . “Maybe there’s an index that says who got which chest.” I flipped to the back of the book.
“You never could have been a scholar, could you, little fish?” Tybalt toyed with a lock of my hair, his voice turning contemplative.
I kept flipping. “I never wanted to be. Research is boring if it doesn’t end in hitting—ha! There is an index. Oberon bless the Type A personalities of the world.” I ran a finger down the list of names, looking for one that I knew. Then I stopped, and blinked. “Whoa. That’s weird.”
“What is?”
“The Mists is a pretty recent Kingdom, right? It’s younger than Mom, and she’s younger than the hope chests.”
“I believe that to be correct, yes.”
“So why is Goldengreen listed in here?” I flipped forward in the book again, stopping when I got to the page indicated by the index. It was an illustration of a hope chest that I knew all too well. It was the only one I’d ever seen, and the intricacy of its carvings weren’t something I’d forget any time soon. Feeling dazed, I lowered the book to let Tybalt see.
Fig. XIX: Goldengreen.
For a moment, we both sat quietly, considering the picture. Finally, in a soft voice, I said, “The key didn’t have anything to do with the knowe.”
“What?”
“When Evening died, I rode her blood. That’s how I found the hope chest in the first place. I let her tell me where to go.” The experience damn near killed me. Her blood was too strong for me, and I was too human to handle it. I glanced at my hand, lips pressed into a flat line. I was more human now than I was then. No blood magic for me. “One of the things she, um, ‘said’ was that the key would open my way in Goldengreen.”
“I see,” said Tybalt, sounding puzzled.
“No, you don’t, and neither did I until now. Tybalt, the hope chests have names, and the key did nothing to help me get into the knowe, or to guide me while I was there.” I twisted to face him, the book still open in my arms. “The key got me to the hope chest, because it was taking me to Goldengreen. This is Goldengreen.” I gestured to the illustration.
“They named the knowe for the treasure it contained?”
“I guess so.” I turned the page, and read aloud, “‘The seventh chest to appear was Goldengreen, made of oak, ash, rowan, and thorn, carved by no fewer than seven hands, and no more than thirteen. The exact number is unknown, but it is unique among the hope chests in that no trace of apple or rosewood was used in its making, nor willow, nor pine. The wood was soaked in blood before it was lain into place, and the hope chest itself does not sit easy in the hands, making some suspect the crafters died in the making of it’ . . . charming.”
“Who was its bearer?” asked Tybalt. “Perhaps we can determine where the others might be by eliminating at least one of the possibilities.”
“Let me see . . .” I turned a few more pages before I found a passage I wanted. “This says it was given to Eira Rosynhwyr for safekeeping. Why do I know that horribly unpronounceable name?”
“It’s Eira Rosynhwyr, and if you’ve heard of her, it’s because she’s the Daoine Sidhe Firstborn,” said Mags, emerging from the stacks with empty hands. My heart sank, and only rose slightly as Quentin came into view behind her, carrying several books.
“Okay,” I said. “Is she one of the ones who’s still around? Do we have a directory or something?”
“No, there’s no, ah, ‘directory’ to the Firstborn, and as for Eira, I don’t know. Maybe she’s alive, maybe she’s not. There are no records of her death, and even if there were, it might not have stuck. Her particular parlor trick had to do with playing Snow White.”