My knuckles hadn’t even hit the door when April appeared, expression—for her—distraught. My arm was going straight through her throat. I yelped, jerking backward.

“Quentin is sleeping. Connor is monitoring his condition. Please do not persist in your attempts to disturb him. His batteries must recharge if he is to remain on the network.”

I glanced at Elliot, bemused. He looked as bewildered as I felt. “All right, April. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Apology accepted. Leave now.” She vanished, the smell of ozone hanging in the air.

“That was weird,” I said.

“She seems to have taken a shine to your assistant. Maybe it’s just that he’s the age she appears to be. Shall I show you the way outside?”

“Please.”

The simplification of the knowe had continued while I slept; Tamed Lightning was in mourning, just like the rest of us, and there was no reason to complicate the halls. It had nothing left to hide. The more I see of our world, the more convinced I am that everything in Faerie is alive. April was a sentient computer, and one of my pets is a rosebush with feet. Why shouldn’t the places where we live be just as awake? In Faerie, the land can hold opinions.

Elliot respected my obvious desire for silence, pulling a few steps ahead of me as we approached what was presumably the door to the outside. He undid the lock and pulled the door open—only to squawk in surprise and vanish, yanked out the door by the hand that had suddenly latched around his throat. Swearing, I broke into a run, rocketing out the door only a few seconds behind him. Then I stopped, clamping a hand over my mouth, and stared.

Tybalt was holding Elliot a foot off the ground. He’d shown at least a little bit of mercy, letting go of Elliot’s throat in favor of grabbing his collar. While this seemed less likely to rip Elliot’s jugular open, it wasn’t doing him any favors in the “breathing” department; Elliot was thrashing, face turning a worrying shade of plum. Every cat in the place seemed to have gathered around them, turning the lawn into one teeming, furry mass.

“Tybalt?” I said, lowering my hand.

He turned toward me, and dropped Elliot. “October?” His eyes flicked from my pristine condition to the scrapes on my cheek and the bandages on my hands before narrowing, attention swinging back to Elliot, who was huddled in a graceless, gasping heap. “Is this one responsible for your hands?”

“What? No! No, I did it myself.” I was smiling, irrationally relieved by his arrival. Tybalt doesn’t normally move me to smile, but somehow, having additional fire-power didn’t strike me as a bad idea. “I sort of had to.”