I hadn’t thought about the fact that we had more than one throne to sit someone on, and suddenly Sholto’s worries about his father’s genetics didn’t seem so silly.

“You’re saying that it was your extra bits that helped make the sluagh comfortable making you their king,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “They will not take a completely sidhe king or queen.”

“Bryluen is not completely sidhe,” Galen said.

“She is demi-fey, and perhaps goblin, but those wings are nothing that flies with my people.”

I wondered if he’d meant to make the modern Americanism It doesn’t fly with me, but I thought it more likely he’d meant it literally.

“Galen is right, Sholto. The babies haven’t been here a whole day yet; they’ll change how they look and who they look like as they get older.”

“They won’t change that much,” Sholto said.

“You might be surprised how much babies change as they get older,” Rhys said.

“That’s right,” Galen said. “You’ve had children before.”

“Yes,” Rhys said. Gwenwyfar moved restlessly on his chest, and he rubbed her back, laid a soft kiss on her curls. It was all done almost automatically. I knew that it had to have been centuries since he’d had other children—did parenting skills stay with you forever once you’d learned them? Or was Rhys just more of a natural father than I’d expected? I wanted to ask him but wasn’t certain how to ask it without implying that I hadn’t expected him to be this good with the babies.

Doyle had felt instantly bonded with Alastair, but he hadn’t helped feed and take care of him as much as Galen had. Maybe it was what Galen had said: He hadn’t felt bonded, so he’d worked at it. Doyle had, so he didn’t have to work at it. Or maybe Doyle was just too busy trying to keep the Queen of Air and Darkness from doing something bad to be a baby-daddy right now.

“Did the queen threaten us, or the babies?” I asked.

The men shifted uneasily—Galen looking at the floor, not meeting their eyes; Rhys kissing the baby again and again purposefully not looking at the other men. Sholto glanced at both of them and then back at me. His face was very serious, arrogant, unreadable, which let me know that whatever the queen had done was frightening, or would at the very least upset me.

My heartbeat was in my throat now, and I was frightened. What could the queen have said, or done, to make them not want to tell me? I probably didn’t want to know. I just wanted to enjoy being a new mom and watch the men I loved be fathers, and just enjoy the moment, but my relatives had been ruining the happy moments of my life for as long as I could remember. Why should this be any different?

“One of you talk to me,” I said. My voice was only a little breathy. I gave myself a point for sounding so much calmer than I felt.

It was Royal who rose into the air on black-and-gray moth wings, with a bull’s-eye spot on the lower wings of scarlet and yellow. His tiny silken loincloth was red, to echo the red in his wings and make you see it more. His wings beat much faster than those of any actual moth, more like the buzzing wings of a dragonfly or bee. Royal was ten inches tall, bigger than any real moth, so he needed wings that were bigger and moved as no moth or butterfly could. He had short curly black hair with delicate antennae coming out of those curls. Bryluen’s hair color was mine, but the antennae were his. But I hadn’t had sex with him until after I was supposed to already be pregnant with the twins. Unless there was some unknown demi-fey genetics in my background, or one of the other men’s, then she had to be partly Royal’s child, but how? I’d accepted it calmly in the moment of wonderment of holding Bryluen, but now I was thinking, not feeling, and it made no sense.

I’d invited Royal and the other demi-fey to the hospital in a fit of postdelivery endorphins and baby intoxication, but now I was sobering up and logic had never been a friend to faerie. We weren’t about logic; in fact, most of faerie defied logic and science. We were impossible; that was sort of the point of fairyland.

I was the first of my kind to go to a modern college in the United States, and my degree was in biology. It was like I’d been driven temporarily mad and now sanity had returned, and I didn’t understand why I’d been so happily sure about Royal and about Kitto. Poor Kitto was out shopping for all the things we needed to turn our twins’ nursery into one for triplets. He’d been so happy, and Bryluen could be his, because he’d been my lover longer than Royal, but … she had wings and antennae, so it had to be demi-fey blood, didn’t it?

One minute Royal looked like the picture from some child’s storybook and the next he stood beside the bed as tall as I was, taller than Kitto, who was only four feet tall, the smallest of my lovers. The moth wings that had been a blur of color when he needed to fly were like some fantastic cape at his back, except this cape flexed and moved with his breath, his thoughts, emotions. Wings could be like the tail on a dog, giving away involuntary things.

He stood unselfconsciously nude, because the little bit of silk he’d worn hadn’t survived the shape change. It wasn’t like the Incredible Hulk’s pants that always magically stayed on; when Royal shifted size, his clothes either shredded or became a mound of cloth for his smaller self to fight free of.

“I will tell you what the queen said.”

“Merry looks pale, as if she already knows all our news,” Sholto said.

“Are you all right?” Galen asked. He stood up and stopped touching Alastair, who waved tiny fists in the air almost immediately, as if only Galen’s touch had kept him still. Maybe he was a cuddly baby and liked skin contact, or maybe it was magic like the tree and the roses?

“I don’t know,” I said.

“What’s wrong, Merry?” Rhys asked. He was sitting up, rubbing Gwenwyfar’s back as she rested against his chest. She was moving fitfully even with the touching.

I didn’t want to say it in front of Royal. I wanted time to think and to be able to discuss it with the other men. I needed time to think.

“Royal, tell me what my aunt has done to frighten everyone.”

“She wants to see her great-nieces and nephew,” he said.

“She wants to visit the hospital?”

“She does.”

I pictured my aunt, the Queen of Air and Darkness, tall, sidhe slender, with her long, straight black hair tangling around her legs, dressed in her signature black, her eyes circles of black and shades of gray with black lines encircling every color so that it always looked as if she’d outlined the iris with eyeliner. It was always a startling and frightening effect, or maybe that last part was just me? Maybe if she hadn’t tried to drown me when I was six, or torment me casually on so many occasions, I would have simply thought her eyes were striking. Perhaps, if I hadn’t seen her covered in the blood of her torture victims, or had so many of them flee to us here in California looking for a sort of political asylum with the wounds of her creativity still unhealed in their flesh, I would have thought her beautiful, but I knew too much about my aunt to ever see her as anything but frightening. “Is she still torturing her court nobles on mad whims?” I asked.

“Last we checked,” Rhys said.

“Then she’s too crazy to be trusted among humans, or near our babies.”