The faeries' murmurs rose, tumbling together, like discordant songs, "What if she's not the one? How could he be so foolish…? But the Eolas said…"

Still kneeling, Keenan bowed his head to her, hand outstretched. His eyes twinkled dangerously as he looked up and asked, "Will you dance with me now? Just take my hand, Aislinn."

All she had to do was dance with him—join the faery revelry for this one night—and she could ask him to leave her alone. It was a small price for such a reward. He'd never even have to know she knew what he was, never know about the Sight.

"I will." She slipped her hand into his, almost giddy with relief. Soon it would all be over.

The throng cheered and laughed, raising such a din that she laughed too. Maybe they weren't cheering for the same reason, but it didn't matter: they echoed her rejoicing.

One of the smiling girls with vines around her arms held out plastic cups filled with the sweet golden drink that most everyone seemed to be drinking. "A drink to celebrate."

Aislinn took one and sipped. It was amazing, a heady mix of things that shouldn't have a flavor—bottled sunlight and spun sugar, lazy afternoons and melting sunsets, hot breezes and dangerous promises. She downed it all.

Keenan took the cup from her hand. "May I have my dance?"

She licked the last taste from her lips—like warm candy—and smiled. She was strangely unsteady on her feet. "With pleasure."

Then he led her through the crowd, spinning her in dances old and new, from a stylized waltz to modern moves without any choreography at all.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that something was wrong, but as he twirled her through the dance, she couldn't remember what. They laughed, and drank, and danced until Aislinn no longer cared why she'd been worried.

Finally she put her hand on Keenan's wrist and gasped, "Enough. I need to stop."

He scooped her up in his arms and—holding her aloft— he sat back on a tall chair carved with sunbursts and vines. "Never stop. Only pause."

Where did the chair come from? All around them, faeries danced and laughed.

I should go. The humans had all gone home. Even the bone girls—Scrimshaw Sisters—danced. Groups of Summer Girls spun by, swirling far too fast to ever be mistaken for humans.

"I need another drink." Sitting on his lap, Aislinn leaned her head on Keenan's shoulder, breathing hard. The more she tried to make sense of her flashes of unease, the less clear they were.

"More summer wine!" Keenan called, laughing as several young lion-boys tumbled over themselves to bring tall goblets to them as she sat in his lap. "My lady wants wine, and wine she shall have."

She took hold of one of the etched goblets, spinning it in her hand. Delicate scrollwork traced the surface, surrounding an image of a dancing couple under a bright sun. The colors in the wine spiraled and shifted like a tiny sunrise burned inside the cup. "Where'd the plastic cups go?"

He kissed her hair and laughed. "Beautiful things for a beautiful lady."

"Whatever." She shrugged and took another long drink.

With an arm securely around her waist and a hand between her shoulder blades, Keenan dipped her backward. "Once more around the faire?"

Her hair fell onto the dew-damp grass as she looked up at him—the faery king who held her in his arms—and wondered that she was having so much fun.

He swung her back up and whispered, "Dance with me, Aislinn, my love."

Her legs ached; her head spun. She hadn't had so much fun since…ever. "Definitely."

On every side, faeries laughed—dancing in ways that were graceful, wild, and sometimes shocking. Earlier they'd seemed sedate, like couples in old black-and-white movies, but as the night wore on, it had changed. When only the fey remained.

Keenan swung her up into his embrace and kissed her neck. "I could spend eternity doing this."

"No" — she pushed him away—"no kissing, no…"

Then they were moving again. The world spun by, a blur of strange faces lost in a cloud of music. The sawdust-covered paths of the carnival were hidden under shadows; the lights of the rides were darkened.

But dawn was coming, light spilling out over the sky. How long have we danced?

"I need to sit down. Seriously."

"Whatever my lady wants." Keenan lifted her into his arms again. His doing so had stopped seeming strange several drinks ago.

One of the men with skin like bark spread out a blanket by the water. Another brought over a picnic basket. "Good morrow, Keenan. My lady."

Then, with a bow, they left.

Keenan opened the basket and pulled out another bottle of wine, as well as cheese and strange little fruit. "Our first breakfast."

Definitely not carnival food. Oops, faire food. She giggled. Then she looked up—behind him the carnival was gone. As if they'd never been there, all the faeries had left. It was just the two of them. "Where did they all go?"

Keenan held out the goblet again, filled with the same liquid sunrise. "It's just us here. Later, after you've rested, well talk. Then we can dance every night if you will it. Travel. It'll all be different now."

She didn't even see the invisible faeries that always lingered at the river. They were truly alone. "Can I ask a question?"

"Of course." He held a piece of fruit up to her lips. "Bite."

Aislinn leaned in—almost toppling over as she did—but she didn't bite the strange fruit. Instead she whispered, "Why don't all the other faeries glow like you do?"

Keenan lowered his hand. "All the other what?"

"Faeries." She gestured around them, but it was as empty of faeries as it was of humans. She closed her eyes to try to stop the world from spinning so madly and whispered, "You know, fey things, like the ones dancing with us all night, like you and Donia."

"Fey things?" he murmured. His copper hair glittered in the light that was creeping over the sky.

"Yeah." She laid down on the ground. "Like you."

It sounded like he said, "And soon, like you…" But she wasn't sure. Everything was blurry.

He bent over her where she lay on the ground. His lips brushed hers, tasting like sunshine and sugar. His hair fell onto her face.

It's soft, not like metal at all.

She meant to say stop, to tell him she was dizzy, but before she could speak, everything went dark.

Early the next morning, Donia awakened on the floor, Sasha's body between her and the door. No one had brought her a message from Keenan. No guards had knocked on her door.

"Has he forsaken me?" she whispered to Sasha.

The wolf laid his ears back and whined.

"When I actually might welcome his presence, he's not here." She wouldn't weep, though, not for him. She'd done enough of that over the years.

She'd expected him to hear of Agatha's death, to come demanding she accept his help. She couldn't, but it would've been easier—safer—than what she'd have to do now.

"Come, Sasha." She opened the door and motioned Evan to her. At least he's here waiting.

The rowan-man joined her, keeping a respectful distance, standing in the withered grass in front of the porch until Donia said, "Come inside."

She didn't wait to see if he'd follow. The idea of inviting one of Keenan's guards into her home—even Evan, whose presence had been steadfast the past few decades— unsettled her.

Gesturing to the seat farthest from her, she asked, "Has Keenan been told about Agatha?"