Ink Exchange

And then she walked inside the Carnegie Museum of Art, and everything felt right. The oddities and questions slid away. The very world slid away as Leslie wandered aimlessly, past columns, over the smooth floor, up and down the stairs. Breathe it in.

Finally her need to run eased completely and she slowed. She let her gaze drift over the paintings until she came to one that made her pause. She stood silent in front of it. Van Gogh. Van Gogh is good.

An older woman walked through the gallery. Her shoes clacked in a steady rhythm as she moved, purposeful but not hurried. Several art students sat with their sketchbooks open, oblivious to everything else around them, caught in the beauty of what they saw on the gallery walls. To Leslie, being in the museum had always felt like being in a church, as if there were something sacred in the very air. Today that feeling was exactly what she needed.

Leslie stood across from the painting, staring at the verdant green fields that stretched away, clean and beautiful and open. Peace. That's what the painting felt like, a bit of peace frozen in space.

"Soothing, isn't it?"

She turned, surprised that anyone could walk up to her so easily. Her usual hyperawareness was absent. Niall stood beside her, looking at the painting. His button-up was untucked and hanging over the waist of loose-fitting jeans; his sleeves were folded back, giving her a glimpse of ta

"What areyou doing here?" she asked.

"Seeing you, it seems." He glanced behind him, where a lithe girl with vines painted on her skin stood staring at them. "Not that I'm complaining, but shouldn't you be in classes with Aisli

Leslie looked at the vine-girl, who continued to watch them openly, and wondered if she was a living art display. But then she realized that it must've been bad lighting or shadows: the girl had nothing painted on her. Leslie shook her head and told Niall, "I needed air. Art. Space."

"Am I in that space?" he said as he took a step back. "I thought I'd say hello since we never seem able to speak … not that we should. You could go. I could go if you have things—"

"Walk with me?" She didn't look away, despite the too-pleased look on his face. Instead of being nervous, she felt surprisingly bold.

He gestured for her to lead the way, acting more gentlemanly than she thought normal. It wasn't quite stiff, but he seemed tense as he glanced around the gallery.

Then Niall looked back at her. He didn't speak, but there was a strange tension in the way he held himself away from her. He lifted and lowered his right hand like he didn't know what to do with it. The fingers on his left hand were curled tightly together; his arm was held motionless against his body.

She rested a hand on his arm and told him, "I'm glad you're actually here instead of with Keenan for a change."

Niall didn't speak, didn't answer. Instead he looked away.

He's afraid.

Inexplicably, she thought of the strange guest at Verlaine's, could almost imagine him sighing as she breathed in Niall's fear.

Breathed in fear?

She shook her head and tried to think of something, anything, to say to Niall—and to avoid thinking about the fact that his fear was a little exciting. She just stood beside him and let the silence grow until it was uncomfortably obvious. It felt like the other museum patrons were staring at them, but every time she glanced at them, her vision would catch at the edges, as if a filter slid over her eyes and distorted what she saw. She stared at the painting, seeing only blurs of color and shape. "Do you ever wonder if what you look at is the same thing everyone else is seeing?"

He went even stiller at her side. "Sometimes I'm sure it isn't the same … but that's not so bad, is it? Seeing the world in a different way?"

"Maybe." She glanced over at him, at his nervous posture, and wanted to reach out to him—to frighten or calm him, she wasn't sure which.

"Creative vision creates art" — he motioned around the gallery—"that shows the rest of the world a new angle. That's a beautiful thing."

"Or some sort of madness," she said. She wanted to tell someone that she wasn't seeing things right, wasn't feeling them right. She wanted to ask someone to tell her she wasn't going crazy, but asking a stranger for reassurance was pretty far from comfortable—even with her feelings skewed.

She folded her arms over her chest and walked away, carefully not looking at the people watching her or Niall, who was following her with an expression of pain on his face. The past few days it seemed like people were behaving oddly—or perhaps she was just starting to pay attention to the world again. Perhaps it was a waking up from the depression she'd been fighting. She wanted to believe that, but she suspected she was lying to herself: the world around her had become off-kilter, and she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know why.

Chapter 9

With a wariness that felt out of place in the museum, Niall watched the fey watch them. Vine-covered Summer Girls wore glamours to seem mortal. One of the Scrimshaw Sisters slid through the room invisibly, peering into mortals' mouths when they spoke. Another faery, whose body was nothing more than wafting smoke, drifted past. The faery plucked invisible traces from the air and brought them to his mouth, tasting mortals' breath, feeding himself with hints of coffee or sweets that they exhaled. None tested others' boundaries. Here was a place where the faeries all minded their ma

And Niall was taking advantage of that safety to break his courts rules. He'd appeared to Leslie, spoken to her on his own. He had no explanation for it. It was an irresistible compulsion to be near her, worse than he'd felt at Verlaine's. He'd disobeyed his queen—not a direct order, but her obvious intent. Should Keenan not intercede with Aisli

I can explain that… that… that what? There was nothing he could say that would be true. He'd simply seen Leslie, watched her blind wanderings, and revealed himself to her—stripped his glamour away right there in the gallery where any mortal could have seen, where plenty of faeries did see.

Why now?

The pull to go to her, to reveal himself, was like an order he simply could not refuse—nor, truth be told, did he want to. But he knew better. Until today he'd done fine with not approaching her, but that did not undo the embarrassing number of witnesses to his actions. He should excuse himself, turn back before he crossed lines that would result in his queen's anger. Instead he finally asked, "Did you see the temporary exhibition?"

"Not yet." She kept her distance now, after his too-long silence.

"There's a painting from the Pre-Raphaelites I wanted to see. Would you care to join me?" He had made a habit of viewing every Pre-Raphaelite painting he could. The reigning High Queen, Sorcha, had been inordinately fond of them and lent her likeness to a number of their canvases: Burne-Jones had almost done her justice in The Golden Stairs. He thought to tell Leslie—and stopped. He was visible to her. He shouldn't be talking to her at all, about anything.

He stepped away. "You're probably not interested, I can—

"No. I am. I don't know what the Pre-Raphaelites are. I sort of walk around and look at the paintings. It's not… I don't know a lot about art history, just what" — she blushed lightly—"moves me."

"That's all you really need to know, isn't it? I remember the term, in part, because I know that their art moves me." He put a hand gently on the small of her back, allowing himself to reach out and touch her. "Shall we?"