Rosemary and Rue by Seanan McGuire Page B

smell of the sea and the natural decay of any seaside city. In most of the city, parking is at a premium because of the tourists. Near the Queen’s knowe, it’s hard to find because there just isn’t very much of it. Warehouses and aging industrial buildings don’t exactly inspire the construction of parking lots. It took fifteen minutes of circling before I found a space without a meter tucked halfway down a side street that was more like an alley. I shoved my purse into the glove compartment before getting out. Maybe it was an invitation to theft, but I don’t like to carry anything unnecessary when I’m visiting the Queen. There’s too much of a chance that I’ll need to run.
    The taste of roses flooded my mouth as I got out of the car. I staggered, the image of a sprite with tattered oak-leaf wings flashing across my mind. The key . . .
    Whatever it was, it was important, but it was something I’d find when I was through telling the Queen what had happened. I forced the image down, along with the thorny arms of Evening’s entangling curse. I had a job to do. Hiking my coat up around my chin, I started down the alley, moving toward the sea.
    Almost all fae Courts are tucked in hidden places called “knowes,” little pockets of reality balanced between the mortal world and the Summerlands. Some of them are easy to get to while others require everything up to and including blood sacrifice just to get inside. It depends on who built them, and who controls the doors.
    I’ve seen doors tucked away in carnival photo booths, gas station restrooms, and old cardboard boxes, as well as in the more traditional grass rings and stone gateways. The Queen of the Mists opened her own doors, which means that her knowe is well-hidden and not easy to reach; getting inside means walking a quarter mile of largely uninhabited beach, scrambling over damp rocks coated in seagull shit and old seaweed and trying not to fall into the Pacific Ocean on the way. An after-dark hike across a slippery beach isn’t exactly the ideal follow-up to a murder scene unless you’re a masochist, which I’m not. Fortunately, the tide was out. Unfortunately, the moon wasn’t providing much light, and even changeling vision is no help when the fog is rolling in.
    Sneakers aren’t really made for wet sand and slippery stone, but I somehow managed not to fall into San Francisco Bay before I reached the cave that marked the entrance to the Queen’s Court. It was narrow, dank, and dark, almost hidden behind a seemingly random fall of rocks. Altogether, it managed to project the impression that the whole thing might come crashing down at any moment, and of course that meant it was the only way in.
    I stepped off the rocks and winced as my socks were immediately soaked through with seawater. The night just kept getting better. Now I had bad news to deliver to a powerful woman who didn’t like me, a terrible crime to avenge, and wet socks. Grumbling, I walked into the darkness.
    The water in the cave got deeper as I moved farther in, reaching to the middle of my calves and soaking my jeans to the thigh. I shivered, keeping one hand against the damp wall for guidance. Someday, I hope Her Majesty discovers central heating and basic drainage systems. Until then, visiting her is a matter of stumbling around in the dark and hoping that there’s nothing nasty waiting there to jump out and shout “surprise.”
    The stone began to glow a pale, luminescent white about twenty feet from the entrance. I kept walking, ignoring the feeling of phantom hands plucking at my clothing and hair. The ground abruptly leveled out, water disappearing as the rough stone was replaced with polished marble. I walked on, my wet shoes slapping against the marble with every step, and after another ten feet, the walls opened up, and I was suddenly walking through a vast ballroom with ice-white marble floors and fluted columns holding up the distant ceiling. Courtiers thronged like