Sorcha jabbed a finger toward the misty tableau, sending ripples through the image. “How can she be happy if he’s not?”

“She chooses to pursue happiness for the good of her court,” he pointed out. “It’s not the same as true happiness. You can’t fault her for trying to keep her court strong.”

Sorcha obviously disagreed: thorns continued to grow, weaving together like threads on a loom until they formed a daunting barrier between Sorcha and Devlin.

“Tell me, Brother.” She sounded fragile, not at all like the confident queen she’d been since the moment Devlin had first drawn breath.

“Summer is happy by nature,” he reminded, but even as he said it, he watched the Summer Queen. Her eyes were shadowed as if she wasn’t sleeping, and her mannerisms were out of synch with the frolicking around her. Aislinn was doing what Sorcha should be doing: making the best of whatever sorrows plagued her. Of course, the difference was that the High Queen shouldn’t be lost in sorrows at all. Emotional flux was not a High Court trait: it was out of order.

“I want him home,” Sorcha whispered. “Their world is unsafe. Bananach grows stronger. The courts are in discord. If there is true war there, the mortal world will suffer. Do you remember the times she has been strong, Brother? The mortals die so easily. He will not stay out of her path…. He is too recently mortal. He needs to be here where he is safe.”

“Soon.” Devlin didn’t try to reach through the thorns that now twisted around his queen like a cloak. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that he was there, but such displays of untoward emotion had always offended her. He’d made a life of hiding the emotions that proved that he was not truly High Court, not truly hers, not worthy to advise the Queen of Reason. The rest of the court might not realize that he was filled with illogical emotions, but she knew. She’d always known—and found it abhorrent.