"I smoke," she said, sitting on the floor. Eyes already watery from coughing could no longer hold back tears. It seemed stupid that this was the thing that would set her off, but she sobbed, feeling more like puking with nothing in her stomach than any crying she'd done.
"They're poison," he said incredulously. "Even Ironsiders die from those."
"I know." She pressed her face against her knees, wiping her cheeks against the faerie gown, wishing she'd let him leave when he'd wanted to.
"You're tired," he said with a long sigh that might have been annoyance. "Where do you sleep? You might consider glamouring yourself as well." His face was impassive, emotionless.
She smeared the tears on her cheeks and nodded. "Are you tired?"
"Exhausted." He didn't exactly smile, but his face relaxed a little.
They went up the stairs quietly. Her new senses were distracting. She could hear the whistling snore of her mother and the lighter, muffled breaths of her grandmother. Up the stairs, she could smell the woodchips and excrement of her rats, smell the chemical soaps and sprays in the bathroom, could even smell the heavy coating of oily dust that covered most surfaces. Somehow, each odor was more vivid and distinct than she could remember it being.
Ignore it, she told herself; things had been the same way the last time she had the heavy glamour removed. Just a perk to make up for the fact she couldn't touch half the metal things in the house and one drag on a cigarette could make her almost pass out.
They went into her bedroom and she turned the old-fashioned key to lock the door. There was no way she was going to be able to explain Roiben to her grandmother, glamour or no.
"Well, I saw your room," she said. "Now you get to see mine."
He waded through the mess to sit on the mattress on the floor. She dug through the garbage bags and found a musty green comforter riddled with cigarette burns for herself. The pink one she usually slept with was already piled on the mattress, and she hoped that it didn't smell too much like her sweat.
Roiben pulled off his boots, looking around the room. She watched his eyes settle first on the rat cage, then on the drifts of clothing, books, and magazines lining the floor.
"Kind of a dump, I guess." She sat down on the boxspring that still graced the frame of the white bed.
She watched him, stretching out on her mattress, fascinated by the way the compact muscles moved beneath his skin. He looked dangerous, even tired and bandaged and wrapped in her pink comforter.
"What did you do with her?" He looked up through silver lashes of heavy-lidded eyes.
"What?"
"The girl this room really belongs to—what did you do with her?"
"Fuck you," she said, so angry that for a minute she didn't even care that she was supposed to be convincing him how sorry she was.
"Did you think I would credit the tears of a pixie?" he asked, turning so that his face was hidden from her.
Unspoken slurs hung on her tongue like thistles, hurting her throat with the effort of swallowing them. They were both tired. She was lucky—he was still talking to her.
As tired as she was, she couldn't sleep. She watched him instead, watched as he tossed and turned, tangling the blankets around him. Watched as his face relaxed into exhaustion, one hand curling tightly around the edge of the pillow.
He never had looked as real to her as he did in that moment, hair loose and messy, one bare foot hanging over the edge of the mattress, resting on a library book she'd always meant to return.
But she didn't want to think of him as real. She didn't want to think of him at all.
And then she was being shaken awake. She blinked in the unnatural darkness of drawn shades. Roiben was sitting next to her on the hard boxspring, hands gripping her shoulders so hard she was sure they would bruise.
"Tell me that you meant to tell me, Kaye," he said, eyes bright.
She struggled to be more fully awake. Nothing about this scene made sense, certainly not the anguish so plain on his face.
"You were going to tell me that you were a faerie," he insisted. "There was no time."
She nodded, still stunned by sleep. He seemed huge; the whole room was swallowed up by his presence so that it was impossible to look anywhere but into his eyes.
"Tell me," he said, letting go of her shoulders, his hands moving to smooth the hair back from her face in a rough caress.
"I never meant… I wanted to," she stammered drowsily, the words hard to fit together.