“The distinction is obvious,” said Oberon. “The distinction between watching and searching is as clear in your language as in mine. The first implies enjoyment and appreciation, the second something hidden, and therefore suspicion of wrongdoing.”

“There is no distinction if I’m not a willing participant in either the watching or the searching. It’s disturbing to know I have cameras on me when I should be alone.”

“Why should you be alone?”

“I can’t believe you don’t understand this,” Ángel grumbled.

Giving up, he crossed his arms on his knees, rested his forehead on his arms. Beside him, Oberon stretched his legs, leaned his head back against the wall, and sighed.

Ángel discovered something, in the quiet minutes that followed.

If he didn’t look at Oberon—if he just breathed his air, his warm smell, and listened to his rich voice—Oberon was attractive. He was always beautiful, in an achingly uncomfortable way. But if Ángel didn’t confront that terrible face, those expressionless eyes, the mouth that always seemed to be judging, mocking—Oberon was . . .

After a moment, Ángel cleared his throat. “Do they make you do this often? Come down to the cellar?”

“A few times a year, when there are people about.”

“Alone, usually?”

“Yes.”

“I asked the DOR agent who brought me if you liked living out here all by yourself. He didn’t really answer me.”

“I hate it.” Oberon’s face was blank, but his voice was sad. Resigned. “When I first came I lived in a condo near Candler Park, in Atlanta, and I liked that much better. I lived alone, with security of course, but I could look out the windows and see people on the street. Going about their lives. And there were trees. But the protests in the street grew and grew, and the DOR agents hated being so close to me. And then I got shot. So when this place became available they moved me here, where I never see anyone.”

“And there aren’t any trees,” Ángel realized. “You’re in the middle of miles of forests, but they cut down all the trees.”

“Security.” Oberon rubbed his thigh absently, perhaps touching the scar from his bullet wound; the loose fabric of his pants rustled softly against his skin. “There is a small Japanese maple on the terrace. It is a very good tree.” His face was still, aloof, but his voice was sorrowful. “We underestimated the degree of resistance to my being here,” admitted Oberon. “When I first came, I read about elves, and watched movies, trying to understand what humans think of us. All the movies about beings from other worlds. Something Wicked This Way Comes. Nightmare on Elm Street. The Thing.”

“One of my favorites,” murmured Ángel into his folded arms.