“Who was the royal family of the Seelie Court, then?” I asked. It had never occurred to me that Taranis didn’t descend from a “royal” line like Andais did, but then he’d been king for over a thousand years. I wasn’t thirty-five yet; it was a little before my time.

“They were killed in the last great war between the two main courts,” Doyle said.

I stared up at him. “Then why isn’t our queen the high queen of everything in faerie?”

“Because the remaining Seelie nobles preferred death to the Golden Court being swallowed into the Court of Nightmares, which was one of the Unseelie names back then.”

“Why didn’t my aunt just slaughter them until the survivors surrendered? It is one thing to say you would rather die, but if you see enough people die before you, most relent, or so I’m told,” I said.

“Not always,” Doyle continued, “but though we had won the war, our side was sore hurt, and if we had continued the fighting it might have meant the destruction of all the sidhe.”

“So a Pyrrhic victory,” I said.

“If the fighting had continued, yes.”

“I did not know things were so dire,” Frost said.

“What do you mean, you didn’t know?” I asked.

“Belief and need did not turn me into the Killing Frost until Taranis was already king. The first battles I fought in were against the goblins when the courts of the sidhe joined forces against common foes.”

I knew that once my tall, commanding Frost had been little Jack Frost, a child-size embodiment of the hoarfrost that he painted on windows and the edges of things as he followed in the train of the Winter King. But people thought his work beautiful and paid attention to it, and once mortals pay attention and begin to believe or tell stories about something, it grows stronger, more alive. Just as love and belief made the toy rabbit in the Velveteen Rabbit story into a real bunny, so, too, had the man beside me gone from something that danced over the snow, barely more than a thought of cold and icy beauty, to the Killing Frost beside me. For my Frost, it had been the love of a mortal girl named Rose. She was long in her grave, but it was for love of her that Frost had been willing to grow tall and strong enough to build a life with her. I owed her a thank-you, and since I could not give it, when we had a second daughter to name and Frost suggested “Rose,” no one had argued. We’d just found the prettiest version of it, Bryluen, Cornish for “rose.”

I kept one hand on the knife he had given me, but reached out my other hand to touch his thigh where it lay peeking from the covers.

“I forget sometimes that Darkness and the Killing Frost were not always paired beside the queen.”

He put his hand over mine and gave me a smile that held everything I wanted to see in that moment: tenderness, love, and a gentleness that harked back to his first form that had skipped across the snow and decorated the world in icy beauty.

“There were small battles between the sidhe courts after that, and in those a very new Frost fought against me.”

I turned to look at Doyle. “Are you saying the two of you fought each other directly?”

He smiled. “No, I saw him across the battlefield a time or two. He was a shining thing and hard to miss, but he was new to battle and they had not schooled him to arms as I would have before allowing a newly risen warrior to take the field.”

“I believe that the Seelie saw me as an accident. I was the first lesser fey to become sidhe in a long time. You do not train lesser fey the way you train sidhe.”

“True enough even among the Unseelie, but I believe they expected you to die in those small battles; no need to waste training on cannon fodder.”

Frost started rubbing his thumb over my knuckles where I still touched his thigh. “You are probably right, but I survived and they began to teach me.”

“If you were once Seelie, then how did you get exiled from them?”

“A human serving girl spilled hot soup on the king’s hand. It would have healed in minutes, but he hit her, and when she didn’t fall down and cower, but kept her feet and glared at him, he started to beat her.” He rubbed my hand over and over, his eyes staring at nothing, empty with remembering.

“You saved her,” I said.

“I stepped between them, because I could not watch him kill her, and I didn’t understand the other nobles just watching.”

“You hadn’t been noble long enough,” Doyle said. “You didn’t understand the privileges of rulership.”

“I still don’t, but our queen taught me not to stand between her and her victims.” He shivered, his broad shoulders huddling in upon himself as if the Frost could be cold, but some chills go beyond temperature and reach the heart and soul.

Doyle reached across me to touch Frost’s shoulder. “We all learned not to risk the queen’s mercy.” It was a saying among the Unseelie; to be at the queen’s mercy had come to mean any hopeless situation, and to avoid being at the real queen’s mercy you would do much, or not do, as the case may be.

Frost looked up and met the other man’s eyes. They looked at each other and there was such pain in Frost’s face, and such long sorrow in Doyle’s. It was as if I had caught a glimpse of the long centuries that had made them the men they were now, and the friends they were to each other. They had been forged in fires of battle and torment.

In that moment I was so glad they were mine, so glad I could keep them safe. Once Queen Andais had said that any man who wasn’t father to my children would be forced back into her Raven guard, there to be celibate again except for servicing her. It showed how distracted her son’s death had left her, that she believed she could make that threat and still have me come home to accept the crown, to force all the guards I had come to consider mine back to be tortured by a madwoman for all eternity. Everyone wants to be immortal—even I did—but there were times when living forever and healing most injuries could have serious downsides, and being tortured forever was one of those.