So he waited while she fussed with bowls and cutlery. “What’s this green stuff in the mac and cheese?” he ventured, hoping to tease a smile out of her.

“Bok choy. It’s very good.”

“Sure, in a salad or something. Not in mac and cheese.”

“Green vegetables are good for you. You need vitamins in the winter or you’ll catch a cold.”

He smiled at her. “Will you take care of me if I get sick?”

“No. I’ll stay away from you so I don’t catch it.” But her dimples had reappeared as she handed him the tray.

He took lunch to Oberon’s office, where the electric hum in the air was stronger. Oberon was writing, his pen scratching swiftly across the paper; his body seemed taut with concentration.

“Is something happening?”

“A message,” said Oberon. His voice thrummed like a beehive. “From the rose bush. In the middle of the day.”

“Is it good news?”

“If true . . . Beloved, I cannot say. I cannot eat. Leave me, won’t you? Forgive me. I must—” He waved a hand, eyes on his work.

“Okay,” said Ángel, backing toward the door. “Oberon—I hope it’s good news.”

Oberon’s gaze flickered up to him. “It might be the best news,” he breathed.

Chapter 25

Ángel didn’t find out what was going on until late that night. He was up in his room, on the purple chair, playing his guitar, when Oberon came in.

Oberon dropped to his knees on the carpet in front of Ángel, his big hands gripping Ángel’s thighs.

“Ángel,” he said, his voice rough with excitement. “Ángel.”

Ángel carefully put the guitar aside, leaning it up against the wall, because Oberon was all but shaking him in his excitement. “It’s true, then?” he asked, smiling, putting his palms on Oberon’s shoulders. “The good news?”

Oberon yanked him into an embrace, then stood, lifting Ángel off the ground, and spun. He was saying something in his own language, a rapid, melodic run of syllables as he held Ángel tightly and twirled them around the room. Ángel clung to him, gasping a little for breath, laughing. “What is it?” he demanded, tugging Oberon’s hair. “Put me down and tell me!”

Oberon set him gently on the floor. “I almost cannot believe it. They are sending another envoy. They are sending me another fae.”

Ángel blinked up at him. “What? Really?”

“The roses gave me another box. They’re pleased that I’ve lived so long, so they’re beginning the spell to send another. He is a biologist. He is coming here to study plants.” Oberon’s voice was resonant with excitement.

Ángel stepped backward, and when his legs contacted the purple chair, he sat in it. “When will he get here?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” repeated Ángel, dumbfounded.