The Winter Long by Seanan McGuire Page A

opened behind us. I pulled away from Tybalt, turning to see Sylvester standing there with an assortment of coats slung over his arm. He had added a military-style greatcoat to his own attire, tan camel hair or something close, with patches on the elbows. “It occurred to me that you had not made allowance for the weather in your plans,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind if I reduce our chances of dying of exposure during the walk.”
    There was no point in arguing now. “No, coats are great,” I said, shivering exaggeratedly before I held out my arms. “Gimme. Please. Before I lose feeling in my fingers.”
    â€œYou chill too easily,” said Tybalt, with an “I told you so” look.
    â€œYou love me anyway.” The coat Sylvester had brought for me was patchwork wool in a dozen shades of red, trimmed with rabbit fur and large enough to fit over my leather jacket. Slipping it on was like enfolding myself in a giant fabric hug. I stuffed my hands into the pockets, enjoying the feeling of being completely surrounded.
    â€œTrue enough.” Tybalt’s coat was of a similar style, if in a more masculine cut, and made of shades of brown and gray. He sniffed once, and then said, “These will do.”
    â€œYou’re darn right.” I took the last coat from Sylvester—this one done in shades of purple—and held it up, shouting, “Quentin! Come put this on before you catch your death of cold! I need you to live long enough to be cannon fodder when Simon decides to attack.”
    â€œYou’re really inspiring, you know that?” asked Quentin, as he trudged through the snow to take the coat from my hands.
    â€œI learned from the best,” I said. “Come on. Let’s move.”
    The boundary of Sylvester’s land was always marked by a forest. We walked toward the trees, our feet crunching in the snow, and into a veritable winter wonderland. Everything was limned in glittering white. Most of the trees were leafless and dormant. Meanwhile, the scattered trees that always appeared brown and dead during the summer had come alive, putting forth frost-laced leaves and even delicate winter flowers. I glanced to Sylvester, who knew more about fae flora than I did.
    He took the hint. “Luna planted some of these, of course; she took cuttings from others, for the winter gardens. They’re all naturally occurring. They can lie dormant for years while they wait for a good snowfall.”
    â€œHuh,” I said.
    Quentin was ranging ahead again, too delighted by the snow to be sensible about staying with the pack. Tybalt walked to my left; Sylvester to my right. They didn’t look at each other, and I was too tired from lack of sleep and too worried about my mother to play mediator. They were both big boys. They’d figure it out for themselves, or they wouldn’t.
    The wood ended at a meadow. That was normal. What wasn’t normal was the dividing line that ran through the middle of the open ground, cutting it into two distinct landscapes. On our side, the Shadowed Hills side, everything was white and frozen. On the other side, as the land grew closer to Mother’s tower, everything was growing resplendently green, completely ignoring the season. In Faerie, the king is the land, and that goes for anyone who holds dominion over even the smallest scrap of territory. The space between Shadowed Hills and Amandine’s tower was unclaimed, responding in a general fashion to the kings and queens around it.
    â€œIs there a reason Shadowed Hills is having a white Christmas?” I asked, glancing to Sylvester.
    He sighed, and looked away. “Luna is . . . not well,” he said, before beginning his march down the gently sloping hillside, toward that slash of improbable green.
    I winced. “Right.” I looked to Tybalt. “Mom probably doesn’t even know what season it is.” Actually, thinking about