“Just hungry.” Ángel found some bread and peanut butter and began assembling a sandwich, aware that Oberon was watching. “Are you all better? That was quick.”

“You are lying. You are upset. But I can’t tell what’s wrong from your expression. Won’t you tell me? Or let me—” He extended a hand again, as if to cup Ángel’s cheek.

“Stop!” snapped Ángel, leaning away from him.

“Ángel—”

“No!” His hand was tight around the knife he was using to spread peanut butter. A pathetic, blunt weapon, but he was clutching it. “I get to say no, right?” he snarled.

Oberon faltered backward, as from a hot stove or a vicious dog. “Of course you get to say no,” he said, his voice low.

“You won’t get sick, will you? You’re not telling me you’ll die if I don’t let you touch me?” Ángel knew he had gone nasty, and couldn’t seem to help it.

After a moment, Oberon replied, “Not touching you hardly causes the same degree of pain as learning of the death of one of my oldest friends,” he said. “I expect I will survive it.”

Ángel’s face went hot, as though he’d been slapped. It stung; not just the words, but something in Oberon’s tone scorched the tips of Ángel’s nerve endings.

He drew in a shuddering breath. “What was that?” he whispered.

Oberon didn’t say anything.

Ángel carefully braced his hands on the counter.

Oberon copied the gesture, his fingers splayed on the granite countertop.

Okay, Ángel told himself. Okay. Oberon didn’t understand. He was trying to understand. He had requested that they not lie to each other. He had asked for information. They needed to get clear. Ángel could do this.

“You have magic . . .” Ángel’s words came out slowly, not sure what he was trying to say. “You have magic in your voice, and you can use it.”

“That was wrong of me,” Oberon said. “I am confused and angry. I hurt you and I am sorry. I apologize.”

“Okay.” He nodded. “And I’m sorry for lying to you. I am upset.”

Oberon nodded as well—an unnatural thing for him to do; he must be copying Ángel’s gesture. “Will you tell me why you are upset?”

“I—” Ángel took a steadying breath. “Okay. I’ll try. But sometimes when I’m upset, it’s hard to talk about why.”

“Oh. I did not know that.”

“I’ll try,” he repeated. “So. You can’t go home again, even if you get sick?”

“When I get sick. No. I cannot go back, and I know of no plans to send another. I am alone here, until I die.”

“Which is why you need me.”

Oberon’s voice had gone soothing. “This was my life before you came. This will be my life when you leave. It’s not something I expect you to fix.”