I was touching his arm, so I could feel the warmth, the muscles underneath, the softness of his skin. It was almost as if his skin reflected the lights like carved and polished wood. The lights played over his face, painting colored shadows against his black skin. What were you thinking about so very hard? he asked. Would you prefer that we be out among the humans, working with them, mating with them like the fey that stayed behind in Europe? They are no longer fey, just another minority. There's hundreds, thousands under our feet. Your thoughts are far away, Meredith, Doyle said.

The rest of my treasures were scattered to the winds. Now the medals were back in their satin box in a drawer in my dresser.

I'd carried them around in a carved wooden box along with the rest of my childhood treasures: colored bird feathers, rocks that sparkled in the sun, the tiny plastic ballerinas that had graced my sixth-birthday cake, a dried bit of lavender, a toy cat with fake jewel eyes, and two silver stars given to my dead father. But when he died, he left them to me in their satin-lined box. I never remembered being particularly proud of the medals, mainly because my father never seemed to care about them. My father had gotten two silver stars in the war. That I will stake my oath on.ĭoyle looked up at the mounds. You are Meredith, Princess of Flesh, and as sidhe as I am. I'd never been around a man whose face reflected so many emotions, and yet been able to read so few of them. He let the cloak slide off his shoulders, spilling it over one arm.Ī look passed over his face, some serious thought that I couldn't read.

Why?Įasily done, he said, and undid the cloak at his neck. I realized that except for the small knot that captured the front pieces of his hair, the rest of his hair was spilling out underneath the cloak, loose.īut yet the comparison of the two cities saddens you. The long feathers brushed his neck, mingling with the spill of black hair that was only partially trapped down the back of the cloak. What of him? Doyle turned his head to look at me as we walked. I think so, but I'd need to see the hair without the cloak to be sure. I'd never heard him ask anyone's opinion of anything. Except the colors in his eyes were rich and pure, not ghostly, and there were reds and purples and colors that shone nowhere near us. We were standing in a pool of yellow light, but there were pinpricks of every color of will-o'-the-wisp in his eyes, swirling like a tiny cloud of colored fireflies. I looked up at him, and he looked down at me.

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