Longeye Read Online Free PDF

had hardly been possible to move in the garden without stepping on leaves, bending stems, or endangering flowers. She recalled her efforts to prune and thin the overfull beds, not to impose order or artifice, but to give the plants room—and she recalled how they filled in again, almost before she had cleared the clippings away.
    She remembered that last day, sitting on the bench beneath the elitch tree, duainfey leaves in her lap, green life rioting all about her, and the tree-or-trees sharing her thoughts.
    "What has happened?" she breathed.
    You spoke to us of seasons, of an orderly march from seed to seeding, each plant according to its nature, all according to their kind. The memory was buried deep, but the trees recall.
    It was true, Becca saw. All of what she knew to be summer plants were sere, as if kissed by autumn. The breeze, however, was not autumnal, but springlike, precisely as always, nor had the height of the sun in the sky shifted by so much as a finger's width. Across the gate, the thin walkway lay uncontested all the way to the back door of Altimere's house.
    "Trees," she said.
    Yes, Gardener?
    "Is Altimere at home?"
    "He is not," Sian said from just beyond her left shoulder. "If he were, we should be hearing the bells, summoning all of the Queen's Constant to their places at the table."
    "He might have no wish to—to bruit his return about," Becca said. "And trees might notice what others do not."
    "Depend upon it, the trees of this city notice much, and forget little. But they do not notice all , and things may be hidden from them. Also . . ."
    Becca looked over her shoulder and up, into a pair of ironical sea-colored eyes. "Also?" she repeated.
    "It is well to recall that trees—wise as they are and amiable—are . . . naïve with regard to certain matters. I rejoice in a cousin who is Wood Wise—as unpredictable and as willful as anyone might wish. Leaving aside what his kin might make of him, he is much beloved of the trees, and even he owns that their thought is sometimes beyond him."
    Altimere , the voice was loud inside her head, has passed beyond our ken, Gardener.
    Becca's heart lurched. Was he dead, then? Was she free of him at last, and truly? Her eyes filled, the tears making the garden into a wonder-weave of greens and silvers. She blinked, clearing her eyes, her hand gripping the gate so tightly her knuckles ached.
    Sian reached past her to work the latch. The gate swung open, and Becca staggered, unbalanced, into Altimere's garden.
    "Forgive my hastiness," the Engenium said, dryly. "I have been long absent from my own country and yearn to be on the road to home." She slid a steadying hand beneath Becca's elbow. "Gather your belongings quickly, Rebecca Beauvelley."
    As simple as that. And yet, Becca thought, as she walked up the pathway, each step a compromise between fear and necessity, how could it be otherwise? Sian was High Fey. Exalted, and full of power. She could have no fear of meeting Altimere, of having her will overridden and her good name destroyed, all in the service of another's ambition.
    Becca's feet slowed on the path. Mindful of Sian at her back, she forced herself to move on, knees trembling. There was the place where they had taken her, one with his manhood in her mouth, the other buried in her anus, while Altimere—her protector! , who had named her a treasure of his house, whom she had trusted, once, and found fair—while Altimere had looked on, his protection withheld, even the false wantonness stripped from her so that her abusers might fully savor her anguish . . .
    "Rebecca Beauvelley?" Sian's voice was low, tinged with an emotion Becca in her agitation could not name. Perhaps it was concern. Or perhaps it was only boredom.
    Becca bit her lip, drawing blood, trembling where she stood, unable to go on, the events of that night before her eyes, overlaying even the bank of sweetcarpet where she and Benidik . . .
    "Rebecca Beauvelley?" Sian's voice was