“Do you refuse my orders? Have you finally decided to disobey me?”

He knelt. “Have I ever refused your orders?”

“You have acted without direct orders; but refused? I don’t know, Devlin.” She sighed softly, a whisper of air that made the garden seem to hold its breath. “You could, though. I know that.”

“I am not refusing your order,” he said. It was not a real answer. Truth would lead them into a discussion he had avoided for fourteen mortal years: it would mean admitting that he had disobeyed her direct order to kill one half-mortal child.

An offense for which I could be executed, abandoned, cast out of Faerie… and rightly so. A feeling that he recognized as guilt twisted inside him. I am High Court. I am Sorcha’s to command. I will not fail my queen ever again, he repeated his daily reminders silently to himself. Aloud, he added, “I am not refusing, but I am your advisor, my Queen, and I do not recommend leaving you alone when you seem…”

“Seem what?”

Devlin’s position was one of obeisance, but he caught and held her gaze with a boldness none other in Faerie would dare. “When you seem to be developing emotions.”

She ignored the reality he’d spoken and said only, “Tell him I wish he would come home. You will stay there… for as long as he needs you.”

“I am yours to command, my Queen.”

“Are you?” Sorcha leaned into the veil of thorns that had grown around her, and just as the jagged edges would pierce her, they vanished. Then, thorns sprouted from the earth at his knees, around her feet. The vines climbed her body, and crept over her arm to her fingers. She raised her hand and pressed it to his cheek, so that the sharp edges pierced them both. “Are you truly mine, Brother?”