By Seanan McGuire
Issues are having a look up.
For the 1st time in what seems like years, October "Toby" Daye has been in a position to pause lengthy sufficient to take a breath and view her existence -- and she or he likes what she sees. She has associates. She has allies. She has a squire to coach and a King of Cats to like, and perhaps, simply probably, she will be able to allow her safeguard down for a change.
Or now not. whilst Queen Windermere's seneschal is elf-shot and thrown into an enchanted sleep by means of brokers from the neighboring state of Silences, Toby reveals herself in a task she by no means anticipated to play: that of a diplomat. She needs to shuttle to Portland, Oregon, to persuade King Rhys of Silences to not visit struggle opposed to the Mists. yet not anything is that straightforward, and what October unearths in Silences is worse than she could ever have imagined.
How some distance will Toby cross while lives are at the line, and while allies either previous and new are threatened via a strength she had by no means anticipated to stand back? How a lot is October prepared to renounce, and what kind of is she keen to alter? In Faerie, what's prior is rarely rather gone.
It's simply anticipating a chance to pounce.
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Extra info for A Red-Rose Chain (October Daye, Book 9)
But she was not, November found, when she kissed her outside the restaurant, under the washed-out constellations. She tasted like flour, flour and salt. Their breasts pressed tight together between two fog-dewed overcoats, the ache of it half-painful and half-pleasant. Xiaohui took her to a little apartment above a grocery store, and they fell together just inside the doorframe, awkwardly, like great beasts too eager for niceties. She bit November’s lower lip, and there was blood between them then.
He would watch her angles under the strings, the crease of her legs beneath an immodest skirt, her lips moving against the glass. The little wet fog of her breath. She could almost tell what he looked like without turning her head: good black suit, a little too small, clutching his briefcase like a talisman, probably a little gray at the temples, no rings on his hands. They all looked like that. Sei turned, her blue hair brushing her hipbones. Good black suit, a little too small, clutched briefcase, freckles of gray in the hair.
It was not his fault that that simple thing instilled so much trust in him, so much instinctive, automatic familiarity. Lyudmila had locked herself out of her tall, narrow house, where her cats mewled in panicked sopranos from within. “That was my sister’s name,” he said softly as he put his eye to the lock in her brownstone, his lashes falling just inside the old metal. The woman spoke to him hopefully in Russian. This occasionally happened, and he dreaded it. He could speak no more than a few words now, those snow-slushed consonants and swallowed vowels having receded into the same icy mist as Novgorod.
A Red-Rose Chain (October Daye, Book 9) by Seanan McGuire