Music to My Sorrow Read online

  Her hearing was quite good. The subject was, as always, Billy himself: his unjust persecution, his many enemies, his good works, and the certainty the Lord was on his side. For a preacher, he surely spoke the word "I" a lot more than he spoke the word "He."

  The Lord might be with him, but the IRS is a different matter, Ria thought with grim amusement. Without Gabriel Horn's Unseleighe glamourie to smooth the way—and his Underhill wealth to jump-start Billy's various programs—the many weak points in the Fairchild Ministries house of cards would soon be exposed. The civil suits being brought against Fairchild Ministries as a result of the Pure Blood concert were only the tip of the iceberg. Ria had friends in low places, and after she'd gotten the full story from Eric and Magnus about Christian Family Intervention and the Soul-eaters, she'd dropped a few words in the right ears. Once people started checking into the kids who'd come through that program—Devon Mesier for one—and took a really good look at them, there wasn't going to be any pit deep enough for Billy to hide in.

  Then there was the question of where all that money had come from and gone to. Ria wasn't the only one to whom it had occurred that the two best places for money-laundering were a church and a casino, and here had been both, under the same roof.

  And the IRS was looking into the legality of combining a church and a casino in the first place. Bingo was one thing . . .

  All that, before the business of setting a bomb on his own property to kill hundreds, if not thousands, of people kicked in.

  At last the doors opened, and the senior Fairchilds entered the courtroom. This time Billy Fairchild had an entire legal team with him—not that that would do him any good, Ria thought cynically.

  And this time Donna Fairchild had accompanied her husband.

  Billy's wife looked very much as her fans would have expected her to look, a combination of folksy and very "done." Her hairdo was elaborate, her makeup was emphatic without being vulgar, and her "ladies who lunch" suit managed to combine plaid, ruffles, and tweed and was just—barely—on the side of good taste. It was modest, though, as modest as a Mennonite, high-necked, with a skirt well below the knee. She wore low-heeled "sensible" shoes.

  Ria priced the string of demure pearls around her throat at the cost of a new Mercedes.

  She gazed around the courtroom, obviously looking for her daughter, and when she finally saw Ace, she looked horrified. She would have run forward then, but Billy's hand on her arm kept her beside him. In her place, like a good Christian wife.

  The two of them reached the front of the courtroom.

  Ace stepped forward.

  "Mama. Daddy."

  For once in his life, Billy Fairchild didn't try to bluster.

  "I'm in a power of trouble, Heavenly Grace," he said simply.

  "I know, Daddy," Ace said. "You did a lot of bad things. And there's not one thing I can do about what's going to happen now. I won't lie for you. And I'm telling you now, when that judge comes in today, you have to tell her that you're withdrawing your objection to my petition. Both of you have to tell her that."

  "Honeylamb—" Donna began. Billy silenced her with a look.

  "Now Heavenly Grace . . ." Billy began, and now the wheedling note was back in his voice.

  "You have to do that," Ace said softly. "Or I promise you, I will be appearing on every talk show that's asked me. Every. Single. One. If it takes me every day for the next year to do it. And I will answer all their questions, and I expect the answers won't please you. I'm going back to New York with Ms. Llewellyn, and you're going not going to stop me."

  "Billy," Donna said, turning to her husband as if she could no longer bear the sight of her daughter. "Don't you think . . . ? I mean, Grace can take care of herself. She's always been such a sensible girl, truly she has. And you know how those reporters twist things." She looked from Ace to Billy, obviously more distraught over making a scene than over what was actually happening. "It's only temporary," she added meaninglessly. "And maybe when that nice Mr. Horn gets back from that business trip you sent him on we can all sit down together and talk things out."

  * * *

  "You'd rather go off with strangers?" her Daddy asked her, as if he were hearing her for the very first time.

  The question made Ace want to laugh aloud—or burst into tears—or both. It was he and Mama who were the strangers, and had been for as long as she could remember. And things wouldn't be better now that Gabriel Horn was gone—and he wasn't coming back, no matter what Daddy'd told Mama. From what Ria had pieced together, Fairchild Ministries was in a real mess right now, and things were only going to get worse. Daddy would want her to go right back to using her Gift in that ugly way he'd always made her use it, just to make him money and get him out of his trouble. No matter who it hurt.

  "Yes," Ace said evenly. "I'd rather go off with strangers, than live one hour in your house. 'Better a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox, and hatred therewithin.'"

  Billy's face hardened—as hard as his heart had surely become. And the only reason she didn't cry right there and then was because she had cried up all her tears for him a long time ago. "Then go," Billy Fairchild harshly. "And burn in Hell with the rest of the sinners."

  * * *

  The actual legal proceedings were over quickly once the court convened. Billy and Donna Fairchild withdrew their opposition to the petition for the grant of Emancipated Minor status for Heavenly Grace Fairchild. Judge Andrea Springsteen granted the uncontested petition, which would become final in ninety days.

  * * *

  "I will make him regret that," Ria said, as they drove back toward New York. It was almost an hour later; Ria had considered it diplomatic to give the media its pound of flesh, and a carefully tailored sound-bite. It had been scripted and rehearsed in advance, of course; spontaneity was always much better when it was planned.

  "Condemning me to Hell? Ria, he does that to most of America five nights a week," Ace said evenly. "Or did. I would rather be in that hell than his heaven."

  "And I disapprove of that, too," Ria said, her tone lightening slightly. "But since it looks like he'll be losing his bully pulpit—along with most of his fortune—maybe I won't have to keep him on my 'To Do' list after all."

  Ace licked her lips. "Don't think I'm feeling guilty," she said, finally. "'Cause I'm not. Did you ever read The Last Battle?"

  Ria looked puzzled. "No. History?"

  "Fantasy," Ace replied. "Or some people would call it that. It's supposed to be a kid's book. By a friend of Mr. Tolkien—C.S. Lewis. In the end of it—well, there's these folk that are the good people, with the Lion Aslan, that's supposed to be like Jesus, and there are some folk that are the bad people, with this devil-thing called Tash. Except it isn't that simple, and there are some good people who are on the side of Tash because they're ignorant, but they keep doing good, not bad. And in the end of the book, there's this little boy, with the Tash people, and he realizes that the last battle is over and he's being let into Heaven with the Aslan people. And he asks why, since he was with Tash."

  She looked expectantly at Ria, who had an eyebrow raised. "So? What was he told?"

  "That even if you did something in the name of Tash that was good, you were still doing it for Aslan," she replied, slowly. "And even if you did something in the name of Aslan that was evil, you were still doing it for Tash." Then she shrugged. "I think—I think I know who Daddy was really doing what he did for. Besides himself."

  Ria raised an eyebrow. "Rather sophisticated for a children's book. But I would have to say that your father was definitely on the side of—Tash."

  "I guess it's all sorted out then," Ace said slowly, still sounding faintly sandbagged by it all. "I got what I wanted. Eric's parents aren't going to try to take Magnus away from him any more. And Jaycie is—I guess—safe."

  Ria shrugged. "As safe as things get in Underhill. And even though I doubt anyone would want to suggest such a thing to Eric, I suspect that in their current condi
tion, his parents are happier than they've been in years. God moves in mysterious ways."

  "Ria!" Ace said, sounding scandalized.

  "Even the devil may quote scripture to her own purposes," Ria Llewellyn answered serenely. "And my happiness would be complete if I knew exactly what had happened to Prince Gabrevys. . . ."

  Epilogue:

  Don't Look Back

  His prison was by the sea—or what passed for the sea here in Underhill. He knew that much, though he knew little more. There were many Domains, many oceans.

  As Gabrevys ap Ganeliel had many enemies.

  Death . . . oh, death would have been kinder, but the Unseleighe were not a kindly folk. Not while there was advantage to be gained in keeping a fallen foe alive.

  It was Toirealach who had found him—Wheatley knew much about their kind, but not that they could summon aid, mind-to-mind, even when bound with steel and iron—but by then it was too late.

  The steel mesh that entrapped him had eaten its way into his face, marring his Unseleighe beauty past the skill of all but the greatest Elven Healer—and worse.

  He was blind.

  Toirealach—a loyal liegeman, then—had brought him through the Everforest Gate, hoping the power of his own Domain would Heal him. But Gabrevys was marred past all Healing, and none who was maimed in body could rule, by Danu's ancient law. The moment Toirealach had brought him through the Gate to his own Domain, his mutilation had shattered the magicks which held Bete Noir apart from the Chaos Lands.

  Had Gabrevys been conscious at the time, he would have prevented Toirealach from doing what he had done. It would have made no difference to the fate of Elfhame Bete Noir in the end, but it would have bought him time. Perhaps that would have made a difference to his own fate.

  For the moment the wards had shattered, Toirealach had realized the truth.

  Gabrevys was Prince no longer.

  And Toirealach was still Unseleighe.

  There was profit to be made in delivering Gabrevys—powerless, now—to his enemies. It was a profit Jormin was too proud to share in—the injured Bard had come home as well, and, finding himself masterless, had simply taken his own personal followers and left to seek a new Court.

  And so might Toirealach have done. But Toirealach had seen opportunity. He had always been one of the strongest of Gabrevys's vassals. It had taken all his strength, and that of those whose temporary self-interest he could compel, to retain Gabrevys against the others of this now-decaying Domain who sought to claim the prize for themselves.

  Gabrevys, conscious by then, had fought as hard as he could against this treason, but the destruction of his Domain had taken much of his power with it, so closely had he bound himself to his Domain. And scarred as he was by Wheatley's bindings, he could no longer summon the spells of a Magus Major.

  And so he had been bound again, though this time with silver instead of iron, and carried from his crumbling Domain—his no longer!—into an unknown realm by Toirealach and those who now followed him.

  And there, he had been sold.

  No one had spoken their names in his presence—for even as he was now, to know the names of his enemy was to hold power of a sort—and so Gabrevys did not know who they were. But they used him as he would have used them, should their situations have been reversed. He would not die, but he would have little cause to enjoy his life, either.

  He drew small comfort from the knowledge that Toirealach had not survived to savor the fruits of his treason. The first secret Gabrevys had been forced to surrender at the bidding of those who held him was that of calling the Soul-eaters from their pocket Domain and controlling them when they fed, and Gabrevys had listened as Toirealach and all who had accompanied him were given to them, one by one.

  Now only he remained. And all who knew where he was and that he yet lived were dead.

  And he would live a very long time. . . .

  * * *

  Eric would not have called it a "small" bright spot in his day—it was certainly bright, but it was not small. It was also very, very, pink. Barbie pink. Bubblegum pink.

  Pink as only 1950s pink could be.

  Ria had not called in help for the problem of finding a way to keep Margot from killing him and Hosea over the destruction of her car.

  Kory had.

  "Help" had come from Elfhame Fairgrove, and had arrived in the person of a tousle-haired man with a deceptively young face and a pronounced limp. "Deceptively," because when you looked closely, and you saw the crinkling of laugh-lines around his eyes, you realized that he dressed like someone out of the eighties in his "Battlestar Galactica" field-jacket, not because he was being "retro" but because this was his favorite jacket, acquired new, and lovingly cared for. And he was not nearly as young as he first looked.

  Eric had first met Tannim Drake a few years before, when Chinthliss the dragon, to whom he had gone for aid in his battle against Aerune, had rescued him and his companions from its aftermath. Chinthliss had called Tannim his son; something Eric had never gotten a real explanation of. He did know that Tannim was a test driver for Elfhame Fairgrove, which was turning out to be more than handy.

  "Help" had advised telling Margot that he'd had an accident, but that Big Pink was being restored to pristine perfection at the hands of the automotive wizards of Fairgrove Industries. "Help" had given him a series of photos and a contact phone number for Margot to call to prove it—and the keys to a loaner for Margot, a red-and-white 1967 Corvette, which was a car she had coveted so much the first time she laid eyes on it that she forgot to be mad at either him or Hosea.

  And now, almost six weeks later, "help" had turned up again, with—to all intents and purposes—Big Pink. A new, and substantially improved Big Pink.

  "All I can say is," said Tannim, "I, for one, am really, really happy that she told us she's a big fan of Rides."

  Eric blinked. "Who?"

  Tannim laughed, and tossed the keys in the air and caught them again. "Show on the Discovery Channel. Doesn't matter, except that it means she won't be mad that this isn't exactly her original car. In fact, she'll probably be all over the improvements and won't notice that the only thing that matches is the VIN number."

  Eric could certainly understand that. He'd taken a look inside. The sound system alone must be worth—well, probably more than the original Big Pink. But he was still puzzled. "I thought Kory said you could restore the car. . . ."

  Tannim shook his head, and a curl of black hair fell into one eye. He brushed it back, before he began to look too much like a Japanese anime hero. "Nuh-uh. Cold Iron, my friend, which Keighvin Silverhair and his merry band cannot touch nor ken, and don't go borrowing this beast again and trusting her to keep you sheltered from Unseleighe. She's all-aluminum now. They weren't going to make her fiberglass, because your Margot would certainly have noticed that, so aluminum is what you got. Even the engine block. All we did with the original was to use her carcass to Far-See into the past to find out what she'd actually looked like, then take her VIN and consign her to the honorable grave of a warrior." He laughed a little. "Of course, your friend Margot will probably notice a substantial improvement in the gas mileage now, given how much lighter she is. But—"

  But at just that moment, Margot shot out of the door of Guardian House with a squeal of glee, and whatever else Tannim Drake might have said on the subject was forgotten. And by the time Margot stopped dancing around the car and Eric thought to ask him to continue the sentence, the auto-mage was gone . . . like the Lone Ranger, into the sunset.

  * * *

  Now it was June, and the New York weather had finally become seasonable. Columbia's course year had ended a few weeks before, and this coming fall, Grace Fairchild (Ace intended to change her name legally as soon as possible) would be joining Kayla there as a freshman.

  Donna Fairchild had moved back to Tulsa, Oklahoma, leaving her husband to weather the escalating storm of lawsuits, controversy, and criminal charges on his own. The Fairchild Bu
siness Park—and the Casino and Cathedral of Prayer—had been shut down, and would undoubtedly be sold to help defray Billy's swiftly mounting debts and legal expenses.

  But Ace had decided exactly what she wanted to do.

  "I," she announced to Ria, "am going to help you run the Llewellyn Foundation."

  At Ria's astonished and utterly speechless stare, Ace had blushed and dropped her eyes. "Not run, run, or at least not at first," she had stammered, flushing. "But I'm going to get a business degree and a minor in psychology, and I'll be the assistant for whoever you put in charge of the school, and I can do it, Ria, I want to! You said yourself even thinking about trying to run it makes you crazy! And if you've got me there, you'll have someone telling you what you need to hear about all the time, and—"

  "All right!" Ria said finally, laughing, and holding up her hands to stop the torrent of words. "All right! You win! I was going to ask Inigo Moonlight—but I knew he wouldn't want to do it for very long. Well, 'long' as the Sidhe see it. But if you want to take the whole thing on—"

  "Yes." Ace set her chin. "I do."

  Ria just shook her head. "All right. I'll put Moonlight in charge, with you as his apprentice. You are hereby in training to become Professor X, does that suit you? Just do me a favor and don't do anything that puts you in a wheelchair or makes you go bald . . . it's a good look on Patrick Stewart, but not on you."

  * * *

  Parker Wheatley's contribution to the entire concert-slash-bomb affair had dropped off the media radar after a few news cycles, but Ria's Washington contacts reported that his former colleagues and employers were extremely unhappy with him. She was fairly certain that this time they would arrange matters so that he led a very quiet life, assuming he managed to escape prison on some charge or other—though as far as she knew, he'd had nothing to do with the bomb plot at all. The rest of his anti-Sidhe technology cache—green suits, sunglasses, fancy wristwatches—had all vanished before anyone else in the government could get their hands on them. Ria had thought that was best.