Free Ink Exchange by Melissa Marr Page B

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.

C HAPTER 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 manners, regardless of court affiliation or personal conflicts. It was neutral space, safe space.
    And Niall was taking advantage of that safety to break his court’s 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 herobvious intent. Should Keenan not intercede with Aislinn, the consequences would be severe.
    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?”
    “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