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datatime: 2022-09-30 17:59:11 Author:PVzfyCXT

I hadn't expected him to ask my opinion. I'd never heard him ask anyone's opinion of anything. I think so, but I'd need to see the hair without the cloak to be sure.

Easily done, he said, and undid the cloak at his neck. He let the cloak slide off his shoulders, spilling it over one arm.

I've never seen your hair when it wasn't braided or tied in a club. I've never seen it loose, I said.

I closed my eyes, suddenly dizzy and nauseated. I answered with my eyes still shut. Sad to think that Washington may someday be a tired ruin. Sad to know that the glory days passed this place by long before we arrived. I opened my eyes and looked up at him. His eyes were just black mirrors once more. Sad to think that the fey's glory days are passed and us being here in this place is proof of that.

I've never seen your hair when it wasn't braided or tied in a club. I've never seen it loose, I said.

What of him? Doyle turned his head to look at me as we walked. The long feathers brushed his neck, mingling with the spill of black hair that was only partially trapped down the back of the cloak. I realized that except for the small knot that captured the front pieces of his hair, the rest of his hair was spilling out underneath the cloak, loose.

I shook my head. I don't know. Thinking about faded glory, I guess. The mounds remind me of the plaza in Washington, D. C. All that energy and purpose. It must have been like that here once.

I looked up at him, and he looked down at me. We were standing in a pool of yellow light, but there were pinpricks of every color of will-o'-the-wisp in his eyes, swirling like a tiny cloud of colored fireflies. Except the colors in his eyes were rich and pure, not ghostly, and there were reds and purples and colors that shone nowhere near us.

I'm sorry, Doyle, were you speaking to me? I shook my head.

His head cocked to one side, studying me. The movement pulled some of his hair farther out of his cloak to fold under but not fall free as he straightened his neck. I have felt your power, Princess, I cannot deny it.

Do you like it?

He kept walking but turned his face full to me, never missing a step. He looked bemused. Why would you be thinking of that now?

I shook my head. I don't know. Thinking about faded glory, I guess. The mounds remind me of the plaza in Washington, D. C. All that energy and purpose. It must have been like that here once.

I closed my eyes, suddenly dizzy and nauseated. I answered with my eyes still shut. Sad to think that Washington may someday be a tired ruin. Sad to know that the glory days passed this place by long before we arrived. I opened my eyes and looked up at him. His eyes were just black mirrors once more. Sad to think that the fey's glory days are passed and us being here in this place is proof of that.

What were you thinking about so very hard? he asked. The lights played over his face, painting colored shadows against his black skin. It was almost as if his skin reflected the lights like carved and polished wood. I was touching his arm, so I could feel the warmth, the muscles underneath, the softness of his skin. His skin felt like anyone's skin, but light didn't reflect off skin, not like that.

Would you prefer that we be out among the humans, working with them, mating with them like the fey that stayed behind in Europe? They are no longer fey, just another minority.

I was thinking about his medals that he won in World War II.

What were you thinking about so very hard? he asked. The lights played over his face, painting colored shadows against his black skin. It was almost as if his skin reflected the lights like carved and polished wood. I was touching his arm, so I could feel the warmth, the muscles underneath, the softness of his skin. His skin felt like anyone's skin, but light didn't reflect off skin, not like that.

I was thinking about his medals that he won in World War II.

But yet the comparison of the two cities saddens you. Why?

Your thoughts are far away, Meredith, Doyle said.

I was thinking about his medals that he won in World War II.

Am I just a part of the minority, Doyle?

What of him? Doyle turned his head to look at me as we walked. The long feathers brushed his neck, mingling with the spill of black hair that was only partially trapped down the back of the cloak. I realized that except for the small knot that captured the front pieces of his hair, the rest of his hair was spilling out underneath the cloak, loose.

But yet the comparison of the two cities saddens you. Why?

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