“No, sir, I live at the gatehouse. My husband works for the security team.”

“Oh, please don’t call me sir.”

Oberon said, “Tell Lily your food preferences, or if there is anything you don’t eat.”

Ángel nodded. Oberon and Lily stared at him expectantly. “Oh. Now? Um, no allergies. I don’t really like zucchini. Or veal, veal is gross. That’s all.”

“Good,” said Oberon. “Come, I’ll give you a tour of the house.”

He led the way, and Ángel followed, casting a longing glance back at Lily. She nodded at him gravely.

The house was decorated within an inch of its life in shades of pink, purple, and turquoise. The living room had a sectional sofa of dark-pink leather like sunburned skin. The sofa curved around a fieldstone fireplace large enough to roast an ox. A gigantic mural of mermaids and seahorses shone on the opposite wall. The dining room featured lavender paneling, a white lacquer and gilt table that seated twenty, and a mirrored chandelier the size of a Volkswagen Beetle. “I usually eat in the kitchen,” said Oberon.

The more Ángel saw of the big house, the more unreal it seemed. He associated elves with nature—they liked woods and forests and . . . natural fibers. Right? Surely the creatures that inspired everyone from Spenser to Tolkien wouldn’t live in this glossy kitsch mansion?

“Did you decorate?” he ventured.

“No, these are the original furnishings. I have changed almost nothing. It seems rather ornate to me. Do you agree?” Oberon turned to Ángel so suddenly that he nearly startled.

“It’s a little, yes,” he stammered.

“Here is the music room. I know you are a musician.” Oberon gestured with a liquid hand around the small, surprisingly cozy room with a piano, an electric organ, and several other instruments. “It has the best acoustics in the house. It’s a good place to play or sing. And my office is through here.”

The office was someone’s dream of manly power: dark wood paneling, a huge mahogany desk like an altar, flanked by big burgundy leather wingback armchairs.

One object stood out: a big plain ceramic pot by the window, in which grew a plant: glossy dark-green leaves, sturdy thorny stems bearing silver-white roses. Ángel had never seen a rose bush indoors.

“That didn’t come with the house,” he guessed.

“No, the roses came from home. I spend most of my days here in the office. You’re welcome to join me anytime.”

Ángel risked a sidelong glance at the envoy’s inscrutable face. God. He imagined himself hanging out here while Oberon worked, and suppressed a shiver.

Oberon must have seen it. “You’re tired,” he said. “I’ll show you your room; you can rest before dinner.”

To be alone, away from the envoy, for a little while. The idea almost made Ángel light-headed with relief. “That would be nice.”