Summer by Sarah Remy Read Free Book Online Page B

liked his little dramas and they’d kept him from boredom.
    “Tea, m’lady?”
    Siobahn glanced at the spread of tea and biscuits Morris had set out for guests on a low, battered table that looked more Ikea than turn-of-the-century.
    “Something stronger, Morris. Whiskey. One of the old bottles, from the bar.”
    “Yes, m’lady.” Morris sounded disapproving, but Siobahn didn’t care. Morris disapproved of everything. It was why she liked him.
    A blast of chill winter air blew in through the open window. Siobahn shivered, pulling the sleeves of the sweater she wore down past her wrists and over her fingers. The sweater had belonged to Malachi. It still carried his scent, as did the Gold Street office, and the penthouse over at The Plaza, and the Italian cafe on Thames Street, and every single pore of her body.
    Morris bustled back. He extended a snifter of dark brandy. Siobahn took it, warming it between her covered palms, Morris in position behind her chair once more. Together they contemplated the open window.
    “They’re late,” he sniffed after a moment.
    Siobahn lifted her eyes to the clock on Malachi’s desk. It was a small carriage clock, enameled, a twin to one she kept in her own bedroom.
    “Not yet,” she replied. “Give them time to remember.”
    Morris cleared his throat disapprovingly, but kept silent. Siobahn drank from her snifter. She swirled the liquid around her teeth. She swallowed and considered Morris’s bland reflection in the windowpanes.
    “Don’t you think,” she said, “the British butler routine is a tad out of date?”
    Morris didn’t blink.
    “No, my lady,” he said.
    Siobahn shook her head and took another swallow of liquor. Before, Morris had been in charge of feeding the Progress, a dangerous job few in the Court volunteered to take on. Now he seemed perfectly happy arranging cookies on a tea plate and polishing silverware.
    She knew he still wore a knife under his black dinner coat. She wondered if he remembered how to use it for anything other than slicing fine cheese.
    The wind gusted again, this time carrying in flecks of snow, and the distinctive, earthy smell of sidhe .
    “They come,” Morris murmured, relieved.
    “Yes.” Siobahn closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she was ready. “As I said, they but needed time to remember.”
     
    They came through the window in groups and straggles, and arranged themselves the same way throughout the apartment, talking quietly amongst themselves, or staring vacantly out through the glass walls. Most were thin and ragged and more than half-mad. A few looked less fay than mortal. Three came in animal form: a cat, a raven, and a gray mouse.
    The mouse made Siobahn miss Gabriel. But this mouse easily turned itself into a lean young man. He collapsed into the Chesterfield, pulled his mobile from a pocket, and was immediately engrossed. He didn’t once turn his head Siobahn’s way.
    “Twenty-five,” Morris said quietly. “By my count we’re missing Katherine Grey, Nightingale, and seven more.”
    His tray of sandwiches was mostly empty. Many of the exiles lived on the city streets where good food was hard to find. A few had tastes that had nothing to do with mortal fare.
    “Katherine Grey isn’t reliable. Nor Nightingale. The rest will come.”
    Morris set down his tray. He regarded the gathering, lips pressed together into a thin line. “Reliability isn’t something I’d expect from this lot, m’lady.”
    “No.” Siobahn set her drink aside. She rose, unfolding her long limbs from the Stickley. “But loyalty is.”
    She arranged the long skirt she wore beneath Malachi’s sweater. Freeing her palms, she clapped them together once, sharp. The sound, purposefully magnified, bounced off furniture, walls, and glass. When it hit the open window, it rattled the casing, dropping the upper sash with a bang.
    The quiet chatter in the room went silent. Palpable tension rose until their fear and anger pricked against