“My friend . . . my cousin . . . is dead. She was killed. An accident. I loved her.” His head was still down on the desk, concealed by the soft fall of his hair, and his voice vibrated with grief. “I knew I would never see her again, of course. I can never go home, and she could never come here. But I thought of her often. When I imagined home, I imagined her. I imagined that she was happy. But she’s been dead for years, and I didn’t know.”

Ángel’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry.” He clasped Oberon’s hand between both of his. Oberon didn’t lift his head, but squeezed his hand back.

“You— We— When we grieve, we cry,” Ángel said. “I’m sorry, I have to ask you. Is this how you grieve? Because you look terrible. You look like you’re dying.”

“I . . . might be.”

“No,” said Ángel. “Do you need medicine? What do you need?”

Oberon lifted his head, looked at Ángel. “I cannot,” he said dully.

“Oberon, I don’t know anything,” insisted Ángel. “You have to tell me what to do.” Oberon made no move though, and Ángel begged, “Please, baby. Please tell me.”

Oberon leaned back in his chair, breaking contact with Ángel’s hands; he folded his arms tightly over his chest. The rotting-turnip color of his complexion was frightening; his eyes looked glassy.

He said, “We grieve . . . When we grieve, we send our grief out for others to feel. And then those who love us come to give us comfort.” He sighed. “How can I explain? If a friend were here, he would share my grief. He would touch my skin, and we would grieve together; he would feel my grief and I would feel his love, and the feelings would combine to create a new feeling, and that would, that would be . . . comforting. But there is no one, and so the feelings just build and build. There’s no one to feel or to share the feeling, so it just builds. And I can’t . . . I can’t . . . Do you understand? What’s the name for a system that reinforces itself?”

“I don’t know,” said Ángel, slowly. “A feedback loop, maybe?” He hesitated. “A vicious cycle.”

“Yes.” Oberon’s voice was strained and tired. “A cycle. I don’t know if I can break out of it this time.”

“This time? This can kill you?”

“We aren’t well adapted to living alone.” Oberon’s eyes closed. “We poison ourselves with our emotions when we’re alone. I wasn’t expected to make it this long, really.”

Oh my sweet Rebecca, how your sadness claims you. Ridiculously, the MelodEye lyrics sang in Ángel’s head. How your loneliness chains you.

He knew what he had to do, of course.

“I can’t believe they sent you here by yourself,” he said angrily, getting to his feet. “Fae are assholes.”