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?"

"Sure." She walked forward, out of reach, away from his hand. "So who are these Pre-Raphaelites?"

That was something he could answer. "They were artists who decided to disregard the rules at their art academy, to create new art by their own standards."

"Rebels, huh?" She laughed then, suddenly relaxed and free for no obvious reason. And the beautiful paintings and fabulously carved pillars were less stunning with her for comparison.

"Rebels who changed the world by believing they could." He steered Leslie past a group of Summer Girls— invisible to her—whispering and pointing at him with pouts on their faces. "Belief is a powerful thing. If you believe you can …" He paused as faeries clustered nearer them.

Keenan will not be happy.

No mortals, Niall. You know better.

Unless Keenan agreed to that one …

She's Aislinn's friend.

Niall! Leave her alone. This last was delivered with an outrage that bordered on maternal.

"Niall?" Leslie was staring at him.

"What?"

"You stopped talking. … I like your voice. Tell me something else?" She wasn't bold like this, not during the months he'd been watching her, not a few moments ago. "The artists?"

"Right. They didn't follow the rules. They made their own." He refused to look at the faeries watching them and chattering their warnings. Their voices were angry and afraid, and although he knew better, he was excited by it. "Sometimes the rules need to be challenged."

"Or broken?" Leslie's breathing was uneven. Her smile was dangerous.

"Sometimes," he agreed.

There was no way she understood what breaking the rules would mean for him, for her, but he wasn't really breaking them. He was just bending them. He offered Leslie his arm as they walked toward the next gallery. Her hand trembled as she laid it on the curve of his arm. My king sent me here to watch over her. He knows I can do this. I can be careful, stay within the rules.

It will be fine. More often than not it was Niall who Keenan asked to guard Leslie. Despite the dangerous consequences of mortals being exposed to Niall's embraces, Keenan trusted him. They'd not spoken often of the way mortals lost themselves after they'd been too long with Niall; they'd not discussed how many mortals he'd destroyed under Irial's influence. All Keenan had said was, "I trust you to do what needs to be done."

Niall had intended to keep Leslie safe from the corruption of his affection. And I will. But today, all of Niall's good intentions had faded when he saw her looking so lovely and alone. After today, he would resume watching her invisibly.

I am able to do this: walk with her, talk, and be heard. Just this one conversation.

He'd keep himself distant; there was no harm in that. It wasn't like telling her what he was, or how often he walked with her unawares. He could walk next to her without kissing her.

"Do you want to grab a sandwich before we go to the exhibit?" she asked.

"A sandwich … I can do that. Yes."

It's still within the rules. Eating with her isn't dangerous. It would be if it were faery food he offered to her, but this was mortal fare prepared and delivered by mortal hands. Safe.

Her hand tightened on his arm, touching him, holding on to him. She murmured, "I really am glad I ran into you."

"Me too." He pulled his arm away, though. He could be a friend, perhaps, but anything more—that was forbidden him. She was forbidden.

And all the more tempting for it. After a couple of too-brief hours, Niall excused himself and retreated, uncomfortably grateful when Leslie's evening guard arrived early. The time with her was painful— beautiful but painful in its emptiness—reminding him of what could not be his.

As he left the museum, he encountered several badly injured faeries, all but insensible from whatever drug they'd found in Irial's houses. It wasn't surprising to see such things so close to Irial's currently favored haunts, but it wasn't only the fey who shimmered with the taint of faery bruises. Mortals—far too many mortals—walked by with the ugly colors of healing bruises on their skin. The mortals might not recognize them as the handprints of something with talons where fingers should be, but Niall saw the bruises' true forms.