Stopping Time and Old Habits (Wicked Lovely 2.50)

“I’ve not heard any more of War’s intentions.” Devlin’s expression didn’t alter, but she saw the tension he was restraining. “The Dark Court seems unaware. The Summer Court remains clueless . . .”

“And Winter?”

“The new Winter Queen is not receiving guests. I was refused entrance.” Devlin paused as if the idea of being refused was perplexing to him. He existed from the beginning of time, so it was somewhere between pleasing and befuddling for him when a faery managed to surprise him. “Her rowan said that I could leave a . . . note.”

“So we wait.” Sorcha nodded. The newer fey were peculiar; their methods seemed crude to her sometimes, but unlike her brother, she was not amused by it. It simply was. Emotional reaction to it was unnecessary. She lifted another figurine and dropped it to the marble floor, where it shattered into dust and pebbles. “That play hasn’t worked for centuries, Brother.”

Devlin lifted another piece and replaced it in the same square. “Will you take dinner or will you be in cloister?”

“I’ll be cloistered.”

He bowed and left the hall then, leaving Sorcha alone and free to meditate for the evening. She stood and stretched, and then she too left the stillness of the hall. Even the minutia of business must be handled in the same way it always had been—in austere spaces with reasonable answers.

Only the swish of her skirts disturbed the quiet as Sorcha made her way to the small room where she intended to spend the remainder of the day. It was one of the indoor spaces where she meditated. The gardens were preferable, but tonight she’d opted to forego the openness of such places in favor of the intimacy of a tiny room.

Her slippers made no sound as she entered the empty chamber, nor did she verbalize the moment of discord she felt when she found the room occupied. “I did not summon you.”

Irial stretched on one of the plush chairs she’d had brought in from a local shop. “Relax, love.”

She leveled an unyielding look at the former Dark King. “Faeries of your court aren’t welcome in my presence—”

“It’s not my court. Not now. I’ve walked away.” He stood as he said it, tense as if he had to restrain himself from approaching her. “Do you ever wish you could walk away, Sorch?”

Sorcha cringed at his bastardization of her name, at the familiarity in his tone. “I am the High Court. There is no walking away.”

“Nothing lasts forever. Even you can change.”

“I do not change, Irial.”

“I have.” He was barely a pace away from her then, not touching, but close enough that she felt his breath on her skin. It was all she could do not to shudder. He might not be the Dark King anymore, but he was still the embodiment of temptation.

And well aware of it.

He took the advantage. “Have you missed me? Do you think about the last time we—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I believe I might’ve forgotten.”

“Ah-ah-ah, fey don’t lie, darling.”

She backed away, out of reach. “Leave it alone. The details of the last mistake aren’t even important enough to be clear anymore.”

“I remember. A half moon, autumn, the air was too cold to be so”—he followed, letting his gaze linger

on her, as if her heavy skirts weren’t in his way—“exposed, but you were. I’m surprised there wasn’t oak imprinted on your skin.”

“It wasn’t an oak.” She shoved him away. “It was a . . .”

“. . . willow,” he murmured at the same time. He looked satisfied, sated, as he walked away.

“What difference does it make? Even queens make mistakes sometimes.” Even though he wasn’t looking at her, she hid her smile. She had always enjoyed watching him draw her emotions to the surface, enough so that she’d pretended not to know that the Dark Court fed on those emotions. “None of this explains why you are here, Irial.”

He lit another of his cigarettes and stood at the open window, inhaling the noxious stuff. If she did that, it would pollute her body. Irial, the whole Dark Court, was different this way as well. They took in toxins to no ill effect. For a moment she was envious. He made her feel so many untoward feelings—envy, lust, rage. It was not appropriate for the queen of the Court of Reason to be filled with such things. It was one of the reasons why she’d forbade members of the Dark Court from returning to Faerie. Only the Dark King had consent to approach her.

But he’s not the king anymore.

She felt a twinge of regret. She couldn’t justify giving in to his presence now, not logically.

And logic is the only thing that should matter. Logic. Order.