"So anyone can use this glamour stone? Even non-fey?" he asked.

"Sure. Someone fey needs to make it, but once it's charged, it's charged. It should work for anyone, even a human."

"I thought you needed essence to make it work." He cut across two lanes of moving traffic to make a right-hand turn.

"The essence is in the glamour, which then interacts with the essence of the user."

"So what happens if this enhancer one we just bought is worn by someone who already is a fairy?"

"It'll work like the first one I tried on. It'll just make him look more powerful."

"Is that why I was able to use the self-bored stone?"

"Right. They're just tools. They only don't work if applying essence is necessary to make them work. Like the wand. It won't do anything for a human no matter how much he waves it around because it retains no active essence in and of itself. There's no danger in wearing one."

"Good. Ruiz isn't too fond of the fey. He'll want to know there's no danger."

I suppressed a sigh. A cop who didn't like the fey was becoming a cliche. Sure the fey caused trouble, but so did everyone on the wrong side of the law. I didn't think it helped race relations if law enforcement was part of the problem.

Murdock dropped me at my place and pulled away without a word, like he usually did. I phoned Briallen, and her answering machine said, "I know what you're going to say, but leave a message anyway." I left a message. As I waited for her call, I went on the roof above my apartment to read in the sun. In no time, I dozed off.

A cool breeze across my skin woke me with a shiver, and the shiver immediately turned into a wince of pain. I had been out for a couple of hours. A bright tinge of red covered the entire front of my body.

Briallen had not called back. I decided I would just show up at her place. At best, she'd be pleased to see me. At worst, she wouldn't be home.

I hopped a cab for the short ride over to Beacon Hill. I paid the driver and stood on the sidewalk in front of Briallen's house on Louisburg Square in the heart of the old Brahmin neighborhood. She's lived in the townhouse for decades. A double-wide, five-story structure in the classic brick bay window style with mullioned windows of purple glass panes. Large green double doors flanked by old gas lamps that still worked marked the entrance. A new growth of ivy was slowly making its way up the first two floors.

I rang the bell. After several moments, I rang again. When no answer came, I tried the doorknob and was surprised to find it open. I let myself in. The empty entry hall greeted me. I had rarely been in Briallen's house alone. The scent of history hung over the silence, not musty, but the rich odor of timelessness. Mahogany gleamed on the floor and stairs, and brass doorknobs shone with polish. A great clock to the left measured time with its steady tick. Briallen invariably liked to entertain in the rear second-floor parlor, so I went up the stairs in the entry hall.

In the middle of the staircase, where it turned around the back of the house, a landing window looked out over the back garden. A movement there caught my eye. A tree blocked the view, but I could distinctly see someone moving beneath it I quickly descended and made my way through the back of the house, passing through the long kitchen, with its rich cooking aromas. As I opened the rear door, I saw lights flickering in many colors and the sound of hushed voices. I stopped on the steps, amazed. Briallen sat on the ground amid a whirl of flits, most of them talking at once, vying for her attention. There had to be a couple dozen of the little guys. I'd never seen more than four or five of them together before. As I shifted for a clear view, my boot heel scraped loudly against the stone step. Amid a series of soft gasps, the flits disappeared. I moved around the tree just in time to see Briallen rise from the ground, turning angrily to face me.

"Who…? " she demanded, only to check her anger when she recognized me. At that moment, a flit materialized in front of her. The blue-winged fey gave me a long, hard look, glanced at Briallen and spoke softly, then disappeared.

"Connor! I thought you might turn up tonight, but not for another hour," Briallen said, striding toward me across the short lawn with her arms outstretched. She wore a long robe of white silk embroidered in gaudy flashes of orange and red that flowed sensually around her when she moved. She had cut her hair since I'd last seen her. It was short now, almost above the ears and falling in loose chestnut waves. She looked stunning as always. Briallen Gwyll had been my first crush and longest-lasting love. I had met her at the age of twelve, brought before her to judge my ability. The first thing she did that night was step naked out of her robe and perform a moon invocation rite. The image so excited me, I had to cross my legs every time I saw her after that for a year.

"I didn't mean to interrupt. Do you know you left the door unlocked?" I said, as we hugged.

She slipped her arm through mine and pulled me out into the garden. "I was distracted. It's always unlocked. It's just not warded against you. Come sit down."

She pressed me onto a stone garden bench that was uncomfortably hard and cold. Silently, she cradled my head in her hands and closed her eyes. For a moment I felt a vague pressure, as though I were wearing a hat too tightly, then it was gone. It had become a ritual whenever we met and no one was around to watch. Briallen dropped her hands and sat beside me on the bench.

"No change," she said.

In a way I didn't understand, Briallen could feel the thing in my head. She seemed more vexed by it than I, if that were possible. She hates not understanding something. Every time we meet, she tests it, to feel it, to see if it's changed, and, with no real sense of hope, to see if it is gone.

"What are you doing out here?" I asked.

Her hazel eyes caught a gleam of moonlight. "I've persuaded almost an entire family of Welsh flits to let me study them! Thirty-two! Have you ever seen thirty-two flits at once? Wasn't it marvelous?"

"Yes, it was. What are you studying?"

"I guess you'd have to say their sociology. And anthropology. And biology if they'll let me." She stood abruptly. "Come, let me show you something."

She walked away without checking if I was following, as though the idea of me not doing so never occurred to her. She was right, of course. We went back through the kitchen, passing through the wonderful smells, and up the stairs to a small study on the third floor. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the walls, filled with just as much an assortment of odds and ends as books. Dusty crystal orbs held art portfolios in place; little boxes with colorful Chinese silk covers were wedged in between old leather bindings. An old computer monitor stared moonily out from a bottom shelf, not used, I was sure, since Pong was a best seller. And everywhere papers splayed out in a spectrum of color from nearly brown parchments to brilliant white photocopy. A large table dominated the cluttered room, piled high with more books and papers, a broken celestial sphere, a teacup, various pens including a handmade quill, a box of pebbles, the fourteenth edition of Bartlett 's Familiar Quotations, and a kitchen sponge. And in the cleared center space, a glass cube with what looked like a dried-out milkweed pod.

Briallen lifted the cube gently and handed it to me, her eyes shining.

As I held it, I could feel a strong warding surrounding it. I peered at the object, trying to understand what it was. A chill went through me. What I had taken to be the dried husk of the milkweed were actually the gray, lifeless wings of a flit. They bent unnaturally forward, cradling the still, crouched corpse, whose impassive face was barely visible through the small opening where the wings met. Wordlessly, Briallen retrieved the cube and replaced it on the table.