“What of the other domana? Forest Moss?”
“Bite your tongue!” Thorne Scratch snapped. “Do not even suggest such a thing. He is mad. I would not give monkeys to him, let alone a child. And do not breathe a word to her of the possibility that he would happily take her, because she cannot imagine the pain he would put her through. Doubles think of now and tomorrow and maybe the day after that — they do not think in hundreds of years.”
Oilcan nodded. “Is it acceptable then that I continue to take care of her?”
She studied him a moment before asking, “Why are you doing this?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do. There are the oni and wild animals and — I’m ashamed to say — some humans—”
She cut off his honesty with a huff of impatience. “And there are some elves that would see a child of another clan as prey. We are kin at even our baser nature.”
He’d suspected as much.
“What is your name, human?”
“I’m Oilcan.” He held out his hand without thinking. Normally elves didn’t shake hands, so he was surprised when she took hold of his hand with both of hers. Her fingers were strong as steel and rough with calluses. They were a good match to his own rough hands. “I’m nagarou to the Wind Clan domi, Beloved Tinker of Wind.”
“I see.” Thorne Scratch scanned the courtyard. “And where is this double?”
“She’s waiting in the front garden.”
Thorne released his hand and sent off with a long, purposeful stride.
Oilcan hurried after her. “Go soft with her. She’s in the front garden because she is afraid—”
“Yes, yes, they always are.”
Merry squeaked when she saw the sekasha bearing down on her. As Thorne silently studied her, Merry edged slowly sideways until she was tucked up against Oilcan, looking very much like she wanted to hide behind him.
“Where are you from?” Thorne Scratch broke her silence to ask quietly.
“Summer Court.” The city was named for the fact that the queen held court in the city during the summer. It was located in Elfhome’s version of England, approximately where London stood on Earth. Merry had come across half the world by herself. “The Stone quarter by the ninth bridge. My household is small, beholden to Crystal Vein of Stone, who is beholden to the clan head, Diamond. I studied under Bright Melody of Fire.”
Thorne nodded. “Did you sever ties?”
Merry’s lip trembled and she whispered, “I severed ties.”
“Why?” Thorne snapped.
“I had to.” Merry flinched in the face of the sekasha’s anger. “It was the only way they’d let me go.” Merry caught hold of Oilcan’s shirt and twisted the fabric around with her fingers. It was as if she soaked up courage through the touch. She raised her chin to meet Thorne Scratch’s eyes. “If I’d stayed, I’d have had to play everything the way it’s always been played, because only the ‘gifted,’ the ones that play like gods walking the earth, can change anything. You have no idea what it’s like to see your whole future laid out for you, and it’s nothing but fitting into a neat little box they’ve designed for you. And all of a sudden, there’s this place across the ocean where you won’t be locked in because you’re — you’re just acceptable.”
Thorne shook her head and looked away. “I’d tell you at length what an idiot you’re being for coming here — but I was just as stupid at your age, so I have no right to criticize. What is done is done. Try to be a little more wise. You are in a city full of enemies. And terrifying as I might be, I am the only one that you can trust fully. Anytime you think you’re in danger, day or night, come to me, and I will keep you safe.”
Merry gave a tiny, wide-eyed nod.
Thorne turned to glare at Oilcan. “I am trusting you. Betray me, and I’ll have your head.”
Merry squeaked again in alarm.
“I won’t betray you.” Oilcan bowed to the sekasha.
Then Merry all but dragged him from the enclave by the tail of his shirt.
There — permission granted. Oilcan melted on the hot leather of the pickup’s seat in the late August heat. He still wasn’t sure how he was going to work Merry into his life, but at least he knew that he wouldn’t have holy warriors chopping off his head for shacking up with an underage female.
Snow Patrol had come up on the random play of his ancient iPod, and Merry had her eyes closed, air-drumming in accompaniment. She seemed sublimely happy.
“. . there’s this place just across the ocean where you won’t be locked in a box just because you’re — you’re acceptable.”
Windchime used to wave away praise, embarrassed, saying that his amazing skills were just passable. Oilcan always thought modesty was part of the elf psyche; every elf artist he’d ever met, from glassblower to weaver, would denounce their skill. It never occurred to him that the elves were comparing themselves to masters still alive in Easternlands. It would be as if Mozart and Beethoven and Elvis had never died and you were constantly being compared to them.
Hell, even Elvis wouldn’t have been “acceptable” for a world still locked on to Mozart’s standard. Elvis in a powdered wig trying out for the role of Figaro? Oilcan shuddered for the poor elf soulmates to the rock-and-roll king.
Oilcan wrote songs for local bands, but they were a hybrid blend of rock and roll and traditional elf music. No one compared his music to past masters, because there weren’t any. Not many people understood both cultures well enough to create a fusion of the two. A few years ago, before the first generation of humans grew up on Elfhome, there wasn’t even an audience to appreciate it. His art was embraced and celebrated because it was new.
The artistic freedom of Pittsburgh would explain why most of the elves that came to the city were artists. Weavers. Potters. Painters. Musicians. They settled close to the enclaves and sold their wares to humans. They were all young, and they all had been Wind Clan. But that was most likely about to change. Merry was probably just the first of the Stone Clan artists to arrive.
The next Snow Patrol song cued up on the iPod.
“Oh, I don’t know this one!” Merry waved her mallets in agitation. “He didn’t have this song.”
“He?”
“Chiming of Metal in Wind.” Merry gave Windchime’s proper name in Elvish.
The songbook with the mangled Simon and Garfunkel lyrics clicked into place. Windchime had been called back to Easternlands last spring by his family. He had left with a solar-battery recharger, two MP3 players, and promises to return within a decade or two. His leaving had seriously crippled the band he played with, since all their sets were built around his olianuni.
“If you know Windchime, you could have gone to Moser.”
Merry made a raspberry. “I asked for a reference letter, but Chiming of Metal said I was too young to travel alone. He wasn’t sure if Briar Rose on Wind would let Rustle of Leaves above Stone stay. He was sure, though, that she would refuse someone else from the Stone Clan, since they only needed one olianuni player.”
Yeah, that sounded like Briar. Carl Moser technically owned the artist commune, but his elfin lover had ultimate veto power. Oilcan hadn’t heard anything about a new olianuni player in town, but then again, elves operated on a different time sense than humans.
“When was Rustle of Leaves coming to Pittsburgh?”
“He left ahead of me.”