Misty figures formed in front of Sorcha. Somewhere in the mortal world, faeries were unaware that she was watching them. In the haze of the garden, Devlin stood near his queen and watched the faeries who were the focus of Sorcha’s attention. Unless the faeries’ or mortals’ threads twined too closely with her own thread, Sorcha could see into their lives.

The Summer Queen, Aislinn, stood in front of a fountain, talking to one of the water fey, Aobheall. In the background, the land flourished even though fall had come. In the patch of earth the Summer regents had claimed, Winter wouldn’t ever reign again. Shrubs bloomed out of season, and faeries danced over green earth. Aislinn laughed and sat down on the edge of the fountain. One hand idly traced patterns on the surface of the water, and in its wake, water lilies blossomed.

Aobheall lazed in the fountain like a half-bared Grecian statue come to life. The water streamed around her in a small waterfall. “I think that dress is the one you wore just a few moons ago. We could shop, or”—Aobheall leaned forward—“get a dress made for you.”

“I don’t know.” The Summer Queen glanced behind her to where several members of her Summer Court were weaving flowers into garlands. “Does it really matter what I wear?”

Aobheall frowned. “It should matter, Aislinn.”

“I know… and… choose happiness, right?” A too- bright smile lit the Summer Queen’s face. The Summer Queen had reigned for barely more than a mortal year, but during that time she’d had to deal with intercourt conflicts, being stabbed, losing a friend to the Dark Court, and trying to make sense of centuries of rivalry, allegiances, and old angers. An illogical urge to send her good advisors flared to life in Devlin, but he quashed it: the Summer Queen was not his priority.