I looked up at her and shook my head. How could I say in front of Aisling that the thought of Bryluen sharing his fate of having to hide his face for all his life seemed awful?

Maeve looked where I was looking and her eyes showed that maybe she knew me as well as I knew her now. She drew me into a hug and whispered, “We will not have to hide her cute little face.”

I didn’t so much return her hug as hold on to her. What was wrong with me today?

Aisling stood up with Bryluen in his arms and came to stand next to us. “Merry, why the tears? She is lovely and powerful, but no reason for such sorrow.”

I heard myself saying my fears out loud, while the crying grew. Aisling helped Maeve hold me while I cried. Bryluen stared up at me with those big, solemn eyes and I realized that there were distinct lines in her irises; they were still blue, but it was as if someone had drawn faint lines that were dividing the color up. Was this how a tricolored iris started to change? I realized that I’d never seen a baby with triple irises. I was the last baby born to the sidhe in America, so I didn’t know if Bryluen’s eyes were just going to be blue with pale circles like Aisling’s spirals of birds, or whether this was the beginning of her irises separating out into different colors. For some reason that made me cry harder, as if the fact that I didn’t know what it meant for her eye color was just another symptom of me not knowing about her magical powers, or Gwenwyfar’s for that matter. How was I supposed to raise them if I didn’t know the answers?

Maeve took Bryluen and let Aisling hold me while I wept. It was close to the way he’d cried earlier in the garden, but there I’d had Doyle and Galen to help me comfort him; here a man who had never been my lover, or even a close friend, held me tight while I cried so hard my legs gave out and he was left holding all my weight as if I were fainting. Part of me knew it wasn’t logical, and stood aside in a sort of horror that I would show such weakness to someone who didn’t even love me, but the rest of me was consumed with a near-hysterical grief.

I just had no idea what I was grieving about.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

THEN THERE WERE other arms holding me from behind, helping Aisling hold me, and it was Galen, dressed and showered from practice. “Merry, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”

I shook my head, too lost in my hysterics to answer, and honestly I had no good answer.

Aisling was trying to explain when another set of arms reached in and took me from between both of them, lifting me so I could curl against his chest, as he held me. Doyle’s hair was damp from the shower, loose of its braid so it could dry faster. I wrapped my arms around his neck and buried my face against his shoulder and neck. I breathed in the scent of his skin, the soap and shampoo and the fresh smell of the clean shirt, so that it all mingled together to make him smell so good and fresh and real, and … just the scent of him began to calm me, as if I could breathe easier when he held me close.

“Let us go visit our Killing Frost,” he said in that deep, rumbling voice of his, that seemed to vibrate through my body as if the deep, thick sound of it could fill me up and leave no room for anything else.

He walked out of the room and down the hallway, moving effortlessly toward the room where Frost was still resting, healing from the last time Taranis had tried to kill my Darkness, or force him to kill us. Taranis was mad, insane in a very real way; how do you keep yourself safe from someone who can enter your dreams and turn them into nightmares?

Doyle was so strong, and I felt so safe as he carried me down the hallway, but it was an illusion, because no matter how good you were with a sword or gun, or how much magic you had, death could still come, could still carry you away. I could not protect anyone, not really, and by that same thought, they couldn’t protect me. Eventually, we all lost.

I kept my face buried against Doyle. I breathed in the scent of him, and didn’t look up as he adjusted his hold on me and opened the door to our bedroom. He kicked the door closed behind us, and I heard Frost say, “What has happened now?”

What had happened now? It wasn’t just me. We were all getting … battle fatigue, hadn’t they called it once? Doyle started to explain what little he knew, and I just let their voices wash over me. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered, because no matter how hard I tried, or what I did, I couldn’t defeat all our enemies, I couldn’t find us a safe haven in the midst of it all. Even here in the Western Lands, as far from my family as I could travel, they would not leave us in peace.

Doyle laid me on the bed between the two of them, my favoritest place in the world to be, and for once I felt nothing but a dim numbness, like trying to sense the world while wrapped carefully in cotton and put away somewhere so I wouldn’t break.

Frost was above me, propped up on one arm. He touched my face, traced the still-wet track of my tears, and said, “Merry, our Merry, what has happened to make you weep so?”

I stared up into that heartbreakingly handsome face, those gray eyes, and I saw again that image that sometimes showed in them, like the inside of some magical miniature snow globe. It was a winter-barren tree on a hillside with snow all around it, but for the first time there was a mist of pink buds, the promise of blossoms to come. For no reason that I could name, the sight of that promising pink blush of life made me start to cry again.

I wept as if my heart would break and spill out of my eyes in shattered pieces on the sheets, and their hands tried to comfort me and save the pieces I was crying away. The light and the dark hands touching me, caressing, their voices saying all the things you say when the people you love are in pain. I started to yell at them, tell them that they were wrong, that it wouldn’t be all right, that it would never be all right. I told them they were lying to themselves if they believed it would be all right. I screamed and cried and fought, and it wasn’t them I was fighting, it was everything else, but as so often happens it’s your nearest and dearest who take the brunt of your rage.