“Is it because she is your daughter that it hurts you more?” she whispers to the fallen fae. Lorcan tries to speak then but coughs blood instead.

The fire heats her skin, bites her insides, and demands release. Croi bows her head and clenches her fingers so her nails leave half-moon gouges on her palm. A moment later, she turns and looks at the king with the fiery eyes and the wild hair; she looks at the shell-shocked soldiers; she looks at a little cat on the side, snacking on a careless bird.

The moment of breaking approaches once again.

Croi closes her eyes for a brief second, savoring the feeling of being whole, before she loosens her hold on the fire and it flows back, scalding her, tearing her, on its way out. The Tine King first catches the flames with his fingers, absorbing them.

Severed once more, Croi leaves the clearing, holding herself together until she reaches her room in the royal pavilion. She changes out of the nightgown the princess gave her and into the dress she is supposed to wear the next day. Then she lights a candle and sits in front of the window.

Will he come?

“We’ll wait until he does.”

TWENTY-SIX

THE CANDLE FLAME FLARES WHEN the Tine King arrives.

Croi is sitting in front of the window, gazing out at the desert that has been painted with the colors of the night. A full moon commands the horizon. Looking out at the sand dunes, she wonders which one is the true illusion. The desert outside the window or her.

He’s here.

Warned by her other self, Croi is ready when the knock sounds on the closed door of the room. It opens after a short pause, and the Tine King enters the room. She looks at him, choosing not to speak.

What can we say to him anyway? “Surprise”?

The king’s eyes have no smile in them. His lips are a thin line, and his body is tense.

Surely, he has something to say to us.

He comes to stand in front of her; Croi remains seated, feeling no need to show him obeisance. His eyes look her over carefully, raking over the planes of her in-between face; he flinches when he meets her gaze.

Our existence seems to hurt him.

“I must ask you, how do you come to be?” His first words surprise Croi.

“Should you not be asking who I am? Or is that a question you already know the answer to? As for how I came to be, surely you know that better than I do?” Croi has no expectations of warmth from the Tine King. She knows better now.

“Will you not answer my question, child?” the Tine King asks.

“Why should I? What right do you have to command me?” Croi gets to her feet, desiring to put physical space between herself and the king, but she forgot the pain her body has suffered in the past hour. She stumbles, and the king reaches out to catch her. Once again, their magicks align and sing together. A choked sob escapes Croi, and she wrenches herself away from the king.