Author's Note: hello, everybody! Here's the latest chapter of Once! Are you guys excited? I'm excited. I know it took awhile, but that's because I had to rewrite the second half of this chapter twice (not just edit, but completely rewrite) and so it took awhile. But hopefully I have delivered some stuff of quality, so everyone give a shout-out to my beta, because she's awesome! And without her, this fic would suck. Like, for shizzle.

And now for some kind of sad, important new. *sigh* So just a quick head's up, someone (I am not naming names) has decided that my advertising for my original fiction on my profile or in my chapters violates the Terms of Service for this site (it doesn't, I've checked many times, and so has my husband, and I'm pretty sure we've been over this before in this fic) and has decided to report me to the admin. See the following message for details.

"I figured I should give you a fair warning that I'm about to report your account for breaking a TOS rule. You're using this place to get sales on your original fiction. That's strictly prohibited and may result in the termination of your account."

Uh, yeah, because Cassandra Clare, the 50-Shades-of-Gray Chick, Alydia Rackham, StarTrekFanWriter, and a crud-ton of other people haven't done that, apparently. *utterly baffled* And I can't respond to this person via PM because they blocked me from PM-ing them, so I can't write them back and inform them that they're wasting their time (and are in danger of being banned themselves, since falsely accusing someone and wasting the admin's time has gotten people banned before).

And honestly, unless someone's doing something offensive, who actually reports people for breaking rules? I mean, look at all the grammatically terrorized, un-beta'd fics out there. Nobody reports those people. I'm just wondering because it seems like there are better ways to handle this (like messaging me and saying, "You know, I think this might break the TOS." At which point I can gently correct their error).

Anyway, so I'm taking this opportunity to respond here in case they ran into one of my little adverts in here somewhere. I'm doing this on my other fic that I'm updating today, as well as posting a thing on my profile for anyone else who decides to report me over something that isn't actually an infraction.

In the meantime, enjoy the Christmas chapter. We've finally gotten to Christmas day! How long has this taken? Two years? And it's not even Halloween in real time. Blargh. Gotta love the timing, huh? Anywho, have fun! Enjoy! See you at the end.

PS - This is my longest chapter in…like…15 chapters. Only by about 2000 words, but still.

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Chapter Ninety-Seven

Men Do Battle but Women Wage War

that is

A Short Tale of Faux Mistletoe, Panda Hat, Christmas, Transformers, Dylan's Portrait, a Cherry Pie, Dressing for Success, and Breakfast with the King

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Despite her lateness in getting to bed, and waking long enough to comfort Nuada, Dylan woke before dawn Christmas morning. Jolting awake from a nightmare of shadowed hands grasping and clawing at her, a horrible dream of Nuada crying out like a wounded beast somewhere in the darkness, Dylan sat upright, scrubbing her hands over her face as if trying to scrub away the terrible nightmare. She shouldn't have been dreaming at all. Her medicine should have kept the nightmares away.

Well, she thought as she tried to slow her breathing and calm her pounding heart, the meds were sort of working. The dream had been foggy and abstract, more shadows and smoke than an actual dream. Only Nuada's agonized cry had actually seemed real. That anguished scream was what had dragged her out of drugged sleep. Still…she'd have to talk to Lóegaire and Táebfada about it sometime in the next couple days.

"Milady?" Guardswoman Fionnlagh murmured, watching the human woman. "Are you all right?"

Dylan nodded. "Fine," she mumbled. "Just a nightmare. I'm fine." Her face was clammy with drying fear-sweat; Dylan wiped it away before her guards could notice and comment on it. "What time is it?"

"Approaching the fifth hour after midnight, milady."

She sighed and dropped back against the pillows. Not even five in the morning. Were the children awake?

A knock sounded at the door. Two small, furry bodies racing into the bedroom and jumping on the bed answered the mortal's question. 'Sa'ti and A'du'la'di bounced on the bed, jostling Dylan, and chattering so fast that even she couldn't follow what they were saying. She caught the words "presents" and "Christmas," but that was about it. Tsu's'di stood in the doorway, torn between amusement and humiliation.

"Good morning, A'ge'lv," the ewah youth mumbled. "I couldn't hold them back any longer."

"The natives were getting restless?" She asked with a grin. "No problem." To the cubs, she added, "Whoa, whoa! Slow down, guys. Hang on. Relax."

Laughing now at their exuberance, pushing aside the nightmare—she could pull it out and examine it later, when two hyperactive ewah cubs weren't desperate to race into the sitting room and rip some wrapping paper to shreds—she slid out of bed. She always dressed in modest pajamas—more modest than usual—on the off-chance she had to get out of bed in the middle of the night for some Nuada-related emergency. "I have to go wake up Prince Nuada. He's going to be really grumpy, okay? So try to tone down the bouncing."

"Okay," 'Sa'ti said, beaming.

"Go get him," A'du added. "Go, go, go! Go get him!"

Tsu's'di bowed slightly. Dylan studied his face. If she was guessing correctly, he was just as excited as his younger siblings. He was just better at hiding it. "I'll take them into the sitting room, A'ge'lv. Come on, ya little crazies."

Leaving the cougar youth to chase his brother and sister into the other room, Dylan knocked on the door joining her room to Nuada's. Hearing a muffled response, she poked her head in the room. Her lips twitched when she saw Bat stretched out on Nuada's back, paws kneading the air an inch from his scalp. The white kitten lay curled up on the pillow, tiny ivory head barely visible against the silvery-blond hair. Nuada, oblivious to both, opened one eye and glared blearily at her.

"What?" He demanded.

"You know my cats are using you for a bed, right?" Dylan asked with a bright smile.

Nuada blinked, then twisted to look at Bat. The cat, sensing impending doom, rolled off the prince's back and scrambled between Dylan's legs for safety in the other room. The kitten yawned and rolled over, putting a little space between herself and Nuada. The mortal just raised an eyebrow.

"By the way," she added, "we have three kids in the sitting room waiting for you to wake up so they can open their Christmas presents."

He stared at her as if she were mad. "It's still dark."

"It's almost five in the morning. They're entitled, it's Christmas. Come on, you can go back to sleep afterwards." He just looked at her. "If you don't get up, you can't take advantage of the mistletoe up there." She pointed above her head.

Golden eyes stared at the top of the doorframe. "I see no mistletoe," he mumbled.

"Really?" She glanced up, frowning. "That's weird. It's right there. Look." She kept pointing. "You don't see that? Maybe you need to look closer."

Nuada sat up. "This is just a ploy to make me get up."

She gave him a flat look. "Are you saying I would lie to the man I love just so he'll drag his butt out of bed on Christmas morning?"

"Yes."

"I would never lie to you, Nuada," she said sweetly. "I'm serious, you'll never be able to take advantage of the mistletoe if you don't get out of bed and come over here. I know you want to. Come here. Come see it. Someone put it up."

Narrowing his eyes, the prince got up, grumbling under his breath. When he approached Dylan, he glared at the ceiling. "I do not see any mistletoe."

A small smile curved her mouth. "No? How 'bout that. Well, we'll just pretend there's a lot up there for you to use to argue your case."

The glare softened as he placed his hands at her hips and drew her to him. "My case?"

"Yeah," Dylan murmured. "Your case for why I owe you a kiss for getting out of bed when it's still dark outside. I know that kind of stinks, but it's only for half an hour, if that. And I plan on making it up to you."

She smiled when Nuada asked, voice a silky purr, "Oh, do you? When?"

Her hand rested against the back of his neck. Exerting the smallest pressure, she urged him to bend his head to her. "Now," Dylan whispered, and met his lips.

There was a difference between kissing Nuada when he was fully cognizant and kissing Nuada when he was still sleepy, still rumpled, still loose and limber and warm. He slid his arms around her, dragging her against him. One hand slid along the back of her neck, a velvet-warm weight. His other hand fisted in the back of her pajama top. Brushing his mouth over hers in teasing phantom kisses, he whispered, "Merry Christmas, my love."

"Keep kissing me and it will be," she whispered.

A rakish smile spread across the moon-pale face. Amber eyes lightened to gold-kissed ivory as Nuada murmured, "For my lady's pleasure, then." He lost himself in kissing her, dragging her with him. Shivers raced down her spine as his hands carefully slid down her back, settling at her hips to pull her closer. A small tremor went through him; she realized in a vague, distant way that he was desperately holding back to keep from doing something she'd object to. At that moment, she didn't care. She just wanted him to keep kissing her.

"But there's no mistletoe," a plaintive voice grumbled from the other side of Dylan's bedroom, near the doorway leading to the sitting room. The adults broke apart to glance at A'du and 'Sa'ti, who watched them, looking bemused.

"Maybe it's invisible," 'Sa'ti said. "Who cares? It's romantical!"

"It's icky," A'du replied sourly. "Yuck."

"You didn't care when Abigail kissed you on the cheek yesterday when there was mistletoe," his sister retorted without missing a beat. A'du stared at her with incredulous horror.

"That was different! She's my friend and…and she's not really a girl. She's a polar bear. Sorta." Crossing his arms, A'du glared at his sister. "And it wasn't on the lips, anyway, so it wasn't a kiss."

'Sa'ti grinned and poked him in the ribs. "Yes it wa-a-as! So there!"

Dylan broke in before a squabble could ensure. "Okay, then, presents?" The children whooped and scrambled for the Christmas tree in the sitting room. Dylan and Nuada exchanged a relieved glance. Before the mortal could pull away from him, however, the crown prince brushed his lips across hers one last time.

"I adore you."

"Ditto," she replied, hugging him. "Come on, presents. I wanna see what you got for me this time."

Nuada arched an eyebrow. "No, you don't. It makes you uncomfortable when I buy you things. As if you're not simply an uncrowned queen who deserves to be treated thus."

She grinned. "Quiet, you. Flattery won't get you back to bed any faster."

"It was worth a try."

"Coward."

He gestured to the children. "No, milady, for there lies a foe that would strike utter terror into the heart of any sane, practical man."

"Just you wait till we have kids," Dylan said with a smirk. "They'll actually jump on you at oh-dark-thirty and pry open your eyelids and squeal about presents and stockings and Santa Claus and wanting to duel with wrapping-paper rolls."

"Which are quite deadly. I'm aquiver with fear," Nuada said with gravely. "Please protect me."

Before Dylan had a chance to reply, the cubs ran to her, grabbed her hands, and yanked her forward toward the small evergreen tree that had taken root in the front room of her suite. Underneath were all the remaining packages she'd accumulated over the course of the last three months. The ones for her family were with John, to be delivered later that day—all except for Francesca's gift, because the mortal waitress was sprawled on the sofa, snoring.

A'du and 'Sa'ti released Dylan and launched themselves at Francesca. They didn't jump on her, but they grabbed the arm flung over the arm of the sofa and shook it.

"Wake up, Mistress Francesca! Wake up! Presents!"

"Mmphganurmf," Cesca mumbled. "I don't wanna eat the purple pizza, Mommy."

The cubs looked at Dylan, who grinned and held up a finger. "Hang on. I know what to do." Creeping up to the sofa, she leaned over the edge of the sofa, lifted a finger, and poked her sister in the nose.

Francesca burst awake in a flailing of limbs, heaved and flopped semi-upright, and cried, "Apple muffin cheese…panda hat!" Then she blinked. Realized where she was. She glared up at her younger sister. "I'm not a machine. Don't push my button."

"But it's like you're programmed or something. It's hilarious."

"I'll get revenge."

"Yeah?" Dylan raised an eyebrow. "How?"

She grinned. Turning to the cubs, she said, "Hey, guys. Someone who shall remain nameless—cough, the big fat guy in the red suit, cough—left some chocolate in your stockings. Go eat some while we sort presents." The cubs raced to the stockings hung by the fireplace while Nuada looked down at Francesca. "What?"

"Move."

Francesca hauled herself off the sofa and went to the pile of gifts while Nuada flopped down on the sofa. Dylan rubbed his shoulder. He looked utterly exhausted. She knew he'd be down for the count as soon as he went back to bed. Tsu's'di sat in an armchair. Dylan sank down next to Nuada.

"Okay," Francesca said after she'd sorted the gifts into piles. "One for Squirt, one for Squirtette." She handed parcels to the cubs. "One for you," she added, handing something to Tsu's'di. "For my sister's smokin' hot fiancé. It's from her, so it doesn't have any of the normal human cooties," she added when Nuada eyed the gift. He took it. Dylan might have been wrong, but she was pretty sure his lips twitched. "And one for you, hon. Okay, we're racing. Start ripping paper. Shred it. Kill it dead with fire."

Dylan waited until Nuada started to open his gift before opening hers. Around her, the cubs exclaimed in surprise.

"Another Transformer! Now I got Bumblebee! Look, 'Sa'ti! Hey, you got one, too."

'Sa'ti gasped and squealed. "It's Arcee! It's the girl one!"

The psychiatrist glanced at Nuada, who looked away. "I simply asked for something similar to the toy you bought A'du'la'di," he murmured. "And there was a pink one, as well. I thought they could play with them together."

"You bought them Transformers. That is…so sweet. Do you even know what Transformers are?"

His look was haughty. "Toys."

"Spoken like a true noob," Francesca replied. "Whoa, Dylan! Nice earrings! Are those diamonds? Those things are completely iced. And they're not tacky. Guys normally get tacky earrings for girlfriends. Nice job, Your Royal Hotness. What'd Dylan get you?"

Nuada glanced down at the small box in his hands. He'd torn off the paper. Now he lifted the lid and stared at the folded parchment within. Shooting an inquiring look at Dylan, he picked up the paper.

"It's a letter," Dylan murmured. "Like the one you wrote me. Except longer." She shrugged a little self-consciously. "I thought you'd like it."

He smiled. "I do."

"You haven't read it."

"I don't need to." He kissed her cheek. "But I will, and I will savor every word. Tsu's'di, how do you like your gift?"

The cougar youth stared at the folded paper in his hand. Swallowed hard. Looking up, he said, "Are you…are you serious? I really get to have this?"

Dylan frowned. "What is it?"

"A bill of sale," Nuada replied softly. "If he's going to come with us to the northern villages, he will need a horse. He is old enough to care for his own mount. If he is to be our vassal, it is our duty to see him outfitted properly. Which is why I have this." He gestured to another paper, and Francesca handed it to him. "For young A'du'la'di. He is old enough to accompany us, and he is our vassal."

"I get a horse too?" A'du cried.

"A pony," Dylan murmured distractedly. "But it says…it's a water-pony? Is that like the smaller version of a water-horse?"

Nuada nodded. "It will keep him safe. I had one when I was his age."

"Next round of presents. Squirt, yours is the…pony. Cool beans. I always wanted a pony, but my parents said no. Here ya go, everybody."

By the end of the gift-giving, Dylan had a considerable haul. From the cubs came a box of homemade candy. Apparently they'd gotten a bit of a baking lesson from one of the undercooks. They also gave Dylan another handmade water-globe, this one with a carved wooden statuette of a rose that Tsu's'di had made himself. Dylan set it on the mantel next to the other globe and the mosaic the children had already given her. From Nuada, a very long letter, jewelry again, and socks. Francesca just shook her head when Dylan squealed and squeezed her prince half to death over the cow-spotted socks and the socks covered in mathematical equations (to name a few). And there were three new outfits—trousers and tunics for riding instead of gowns—as well as a gray fur-lined cloak for their upcoming trip. The two best things from the prince, however, were things she hadn't expected.

"What is that?" A'du asked, peering at the ivory thing with the iridescent sheen to it in Dylan's lap. "It smells like the ocean."

"It is a jewelry box," the prince replied, looking at Dylan. "I…used to collect shells on the beach at Renvyle when I was a boy. This one was very large. It was a conch shell from one of the selkie islands near our home. I fashioned it into a jewelry box for you. I give you so many jewels, and you always say you have nowhere to put them."

Dylan stared at the beautiful, elegantly carved and polished box of white and pale pink sea shell with the gold latch and hinges. She caressed the smooth lid. "It's beautiful. You made this for me?"

He nodded. "Look inside."

She lifted the lid to peer inside. On a soft, satin cushion of palest rose sat a white, braided bracelet with white beads. At first Dylan thought the beautiful luster was just a reflection of the light off the inside of the box. Then she realized the beads and cream-pale string used in the braided bracelet held that same luster. Next to it was an almost identical bracelet, except it was black as night. She reached out a finger to touch it. Hesitated.

"What are those?"

"Bracelets, braided with white and midnight seed pearls from the Bethmooran Sea, made from the hairs of two unicorns," Nuada murmured. "I thought it would remind you of…of that night in the forest."

Her mouth fell open. Nothing could make her forget the night Nuada had taken her to the royal forest to see unicorns, and the bracelets were stunning. "Really? Like, really? Oh!" She stared at the bracelet. "It's beautiful. It's so beautiful. Can I wear it now? Can I?" With a smile, Nuada fastened the black bracelet around her wrist. The gold clasp clicked shut. 'Sa'ti and Francesca oohed and ahhhed over the new pieces of jewelry.

The cubs received toys—wooden soldiers, a faerie metal remote-controlled RC car, and a set of faerie metal Tinker Toys for A'du; more paper dolls, another RC car, and some picture books for 'Sa'ti; a wind-up dancing doll from Nuada for the cougar girl; and a clockwork soldier for the ewah boy. Dylan had mentioned to Nuada at one point that weapons and clothes were all fine, but they were still kids and kids needed stuff to play with. However, he'd also gotten A'du and 'Sa'ti wooden shields and small practice swords to use during their fighting lessons—which would ensue after the holidays.

Tsu's'di, being the warrior he was, nearly had a heart attack from sheer joy at the gift of new, leather armor chased in silver to match the vambraces Dylan had bought him for Midwinter, as well as his own shield with Dylan's crest carved into it. There was also a small gift on the table. When he opened it, it turned out to be a magically preserved cherry pie. The note had the name Isibéal written on it.

"Who's that from, Tsu's'di?" Dylan asked.

Blushing hotly, he mumbled, "One of the kitchen maids, A'ge'lv. She, uh…I…we're friends."

Francesca grinned and nudged him in the ribs. "Oh, friends, is it? Yeah, okay."

Nuada's gifts from Dylan surprised him, as well. She gave him a book, the first book of Irish legends she'd ever read—something he knew was very precious to her. There was also a batch of pumpkin cookies. She knew he wouldn't let anyone see how the idea delighted him, but she also knew he was a sucker for those when she made them. But there was one thing he'd wanted for a long time and wondered if he would ever have, and that day, she gifted him with it: her picture.

She had taken the time to have someone paint her portrait in miniature, so that it could fit inside a small silver locket with Bethmoora's Eildon tree etched on one side. Also expertly clipped with silver inside the locket was a single lock of her hair.

"Kaye said it was the kind of thing a lady gave to her prince," she murmured when Nuada stared at the token in astonishment. "Like that bracelet Roiben wears all the time. I thought…I remembered you said you really wanted my picture once. So I talked to Kaye about it and she said I should try this. So…so I did. Is it okay?"

He nodded. His love was plain enough for her to see. Solemnly, the prince took her hand and kissed the back of it. "I am most honored, my lady."

Dylan smiled.

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After the presents had been opened, the children sent to their room to play with their new toys, Francesca had fallen asleep on the couch again, and Nuada had returned to bed, Dylan went back into her room to change out of her pajamas.

Because she remembered last night: waking to the moonlit silhouette of her prince, Nuada's devastation at the king's cruel words, his hurt and her own fury. Dylan moved stiffly because of the cold and her bad knee, limping across the room to the clothespress up against the wall. All of her best gowns were in chests against one wall; her common-wear was kept in the other chests.

"Milady?" Fionnlagh murmured. "What are you…?"

"Oh." Dylan stopped rifling through the clothespress long enough to offer her four female guards a tight smile. "Just looking for a dress. Need to see the king now that His Highness is sleeping. Very important."

She dove back into the clothes-chest. If she'd been Francesca, Dylan knew she'd have been tossing everything everywhere in an attempt to find what she was looking for…but the maids had to clean this place, and the psychiatrist wasn't going to be one of thosewomen who acted like servants were furniture and didn't clean up after themselves. So she carefully set every garment on the clothespresses on either side of the one she searched through, and at long last, she emerged triumphant from the chest with an ebony gown of plush velvet trimmed in crimson silk. It was exactly what she needed. And it would match her new black bracelet.

After putting everything else back and scrambling to her feet, she limped her way into the bathroom, accompanied by Eimh, and half-shut the door. The guards eyed each other as the sound of the shower came on. Usually Her Ladyship preferred a bath in the cold of the mornings. The cold did unkind things to the leg she favored, even after she'd limbered up for a time. No one knew exactly what was wrong with the leg—rumors varied from a torture by the king for speaking out of turn, to some cruelty by His Highness to satisfy a sadistic sexual need, to the mortal woman having been born lame—but the Butchers assigned to the human went out of their way to see to Her Ladyship's unspoken needs in that respect. It was what made them such excellent guards.

It was also what had Ailís and Gráinne going into the bathing room, despite Eimh's presence. They were anticipating when their mortal charge called, "Um…Fionnlagh? Ailís? One of you guys…I'm stuck. Can you come help me real quick? Please?"

Having been helped out of the shower by two of her guards, Dylan dressed hastily, combed her hair, and tied it back loosely with a black velvet ribbon. She had every intention of going to the king to talk to him (if he was awake). And if he wasn't awake, she'd park herself outside his door until he woke up. If he wanted her gone, he'd either have to talk to her or have her carted out of there by his own retinue of Butcher Guards. She'd leave Onóra behind in case the prince woke up; the guardswoman could fetch her if she had to.

Remembering what had happened last time she'd gone to see the king improperly dressed, she put on her gold medallion, a pair of gold-backed ruby and black diamond stud-earrings—another gift from Nuada—her black unicorn bracelet, and after brushing her teeth, added a touch of makeup. Shoving her feet into sable leather boots, she gave herself a quick once-over in the mirror before marching into her sitting room.

Dylan stopped about two feet in front of Uaithne and spread her arms out. "Well?" She asked, smiling. "Am I presentable enough to go talk to the king?"

Uaithne jolted, clearly startled. "You wish to speak to the king now? Milady, it's Christmas."

"It's kind of important. Am I presentable?"

"I…well, yes, but—" Uaithne began.

Young Guardsman Ailbho broke in with, "I think you look very lovely, milady."

She smiled and dipped the tiniest curtsy. "Why, thank you, Ailbho. Look, Uaithne, if the king's asleep or whatever, I'm not going to makehim get up. But if I send him a message and then wait here, the natives," she jerked a thumb at the door leading to the ewahs' room, "might come out and kick up a ruckus that'll wake up His Highness. I really need to talk to the king. Please?"

Uaithne sighed. "Last time you said you needed to talk to the king, you were going to yell at him. Are you planning on yelling at him again? Because if so, I cannot in good conscience allow you to see him. I would be derelict in my duty to protect you. His Highness would see me strung up."

"By your guts if he's in a particularly irate mood," Fionnlagh chimed in helpfully.

Dylan rolled her eyes. "Whatever. No, he won't. He's really not as scary as you guys seem to think. Anyway, I'm not going to get hurt and I'm not going to…I will do my best not to yell. Okay?"

"What has the king done now that you take issue with?"

"He seems to be misinformed about a situation involving my prince," Dylan said coolly. Hopefully her guards would take a hint from the frost in her tone and stop asking questions, because she couldn't explain any further and she didn't know what she'd say if Uaithne refused to take her to the king.

But apparently that was all the leader of her retinue needed to know. With a sigh and a short bow, he gestured to the door. "Judging by your apparel, you wish to make somewhat of an entrance? Or at least look imposing?"

Pursing her lips, Dylan nodded. "Imposing would be good…without looking like I wanna make trouble. You know, so…me being ready for trouble, but not necessarily instigating it."

Uaithne made a sharp, shrill sound that had Dylan cringing. Sétanta, who'd been sleeping sprawled in an inky mound of fur on the sofa after Francesca had gone back to sleep on the other sofa, lifted his head. Ice-blue eyes fixed on the guardsman. Uaithne said, "Sétanta, you will accompany Lady Dylan. You have point."

*No more sleepy time,* the black hound pup said sleepily, shaking his head to wake himself up. *Time to guard. I will protect Mistress for Master. And I will not try to have you pet me, because you are wearing the soft pretend-fur that gets dirty. But I still love you and would let you pet me if I could. Do not worry about that.*

The massive black puppy slowly eased off the sofa and trotted to the door. Dylan glanced down at herself and realized the phrase "soft pretend-fur" must have meant the velvet of her dress. With a shrug, she fell into step behind Fionnlagh and Onóra, who opened the door for Sétanta, and they all stepped out into the hall—one Irish faerie wolfhound, six royal guards, and one mortal. It was only when something butted against the back of Dylan's ankle that she noticed Bat had followed her out of the suite.

"Bat!" Dylan carefully, stiffly crouched down next to the purring black cat and stroked his head. "What are you doing out here? There are all kinds of scary things out here, you have to go back inside."

*He wants to be with you,* Sétanta said, approaching the black cat. Bat's eyes widened and the fur on his tail shot straight out. He arched his back, flattening his ears along his skull, and hissed. Sétanta jerked his head back as if the cat had bitten him. Cautiously, the pup stretched his neck out, bringing his snout to within paws' reach of the cat.

Bat smacked Sétanta on the nose. The puppy yelped softly and jerked back again, licking his nose and crossing his eyes as if to see if the cat had scratched him. Dylan grabbed Bat and started stroking him.

"No," she said firmly. "Bat, it's okay. It's okay. I still love you. It's okay. Sétanta won't hurt you. He's a friend."

The cat gave her an incredulous look, then narrowed his eyes to slits, pinning Sétanta with his gaze. A low growl rumbled in his throat. Sétanta whuffed and blew a hot breath in the cat's face. Bat growled again. Sétanta turned to Dylan.

*He says he is not my friend because I am not a cat and I should go chase a car. What is a car?*

"It's like…like a carriage," she explained absently, frowning at her cat. "Wait…you can understand him?" Sétanta nodded. "Oh. That's actually kind of handy. And you are so his friend, Bat. Sétanta is my dog and you are my cat and you two will get along. It's okay."

Bat hissed. Dylan scooped him up and rubbed a finger along his cheek. He butted her hand affectionately, then growled at the dog from the safety of her arms.

*He says he would rather eat dry dog food than be my friend. He says I am too big and I smell bad. Hey! I do not! You are rude.* Sétanta growled briefly at the cat. Bat screeched, startling Dylan into dropping him. A small black paw took another swipe at the dog's nose. Sétanta reached out and pushed Bat flat to the ground with one massive paw. Bat yowled and wriggled, but to no avail. *You are cute and cuddly, like a mouser, and you love Mistress, but you scratch my nose. I do not like that. Be nice, or Master will put you in the Cone of Shame and the other mousers will think you are a lamp.*

Dylan raised an eyebrow. "The Cone of Shame? What's the Cone of Shame?"

Sétanta let go of Bat and gave a full-bodied shudder, then shook his head so his ears flopped against his skull. *The Cone of Shame is terrible. It makes you itch, but you cannot scratch. You cannot see except in front of your nose. It smells funny. It is hard to eat when you wear the Cone of Shame. And it makes you look like a lamp. I do not like the Cone of Shame.*

"Uh-huh. Look, Bat, you're just going to have to get used to my dogs. Got it? They're friends, they won't hurt you. You need to be nice. Okay? It's okay. I still love you." A few quick strokes down the black cat's back induced him to jump into Dylan's arms. With Ailbho's help, Dylan managed to heave herself to her feet while holding onto the cat. At least this way he wouldn't be hissing at Sétanta or getting into trouble with the palace cats.

.

As she'd expected, Dylan was stopped by a pair of Butchers at the entry hall to the king's wing of the castle. Uaithne stepped forward and spoke in the chittering language of the Butchers—a strange conglomeration of Old Gaelic and another tongue Dylan didn't recognize. The two royal guards nodded and chattered at each other for a few moments before Uaithne turned back to his mortal charge.

"His Majesty has only just awoken, milady."

"I can wait," Dylan replied. "As long as it takes. I can stand out here all day." She couldn't, actually, but Balor's guards didn't know that. Or at least, she hoped they didn't. Her leg wouldn't let her remain upright literally all day, but hopefully it wouldn't take that long for the king to come out.

Uaithne hesitated. "Milady…is this really that important?"

"Yes." Seeing her bodyguard's unease, she added, "Not life and death important, but important enough that I need it resolved as soon as it's feasible. Like I said, I can wait out here all day until His Majesty is willing and able to see me."

A sudden wash of prickling cold spilled down the mortal's spine. She stiffened, and just before she could turn around, a soft lilting voice called, "Dylan?" Inexplicable dread knotted in the pit of Dylan's stomach as she turned to see Ledi Polunochnaya standing several feet behind her, head cocked to one side as she studied the human woman. "Merry Christmas. What are you doing here so beastly early?"

Dylan forced a smile. "Merry Christmas, Ledi Polunochnaya—"

"Naya, please. You are going to be Nuala's sister soon, which will give me the pleasure of considering you my sister. Surely we can dispense with stuffy titles. Where is Nuada? Is he not with you?"

"He's asleep," Dylan said, trying not to fidget. The Zwezdan noblewoman always made her so uncomfortable. For the first time, she considered whether it might be her appearance. She did resemble Eamonn a great deal: the long black hair, the moon-pale skin, and the cat-slit eyes like freshly-minted silver coins. But that was just how the Elves of Zwezda looked. Dylan hoped she wasn't simply holding a racial resemblance against the woman. That…would've been pathetic, as well as simply wrong.

Or was it merely jealousy? Dylan didn't want to think so, but if she was brutally honest with herself, she was jealous of Polunochnaya. The Elven noblewoman had known Nuada a long time, clearly loved him a great deal, and was obviously one of Nuada's favorite people. They were almost as close as Nuada and his sister. And once upon a time, Nuada had loved Polunochnaya. Loved her enough that he'd hesitated to discuss the details of that relationship with Dylan; even now, there were things she didn't know that she felt were important.

Then, of course, there was Ledi Polunochnaya's scent. It hadn't bothered Dylan the first few times she'd interacted with the woman, but for the last week or so, every time she'd seen Nuala's lady-in-waiting, the scent of her perfume had scraped Dylan's temper. She just didn't know why…

Polunochnaya made a dismayed face. "Oh, dear. Lady macAengus was looking for him about twenty minutes ago." At the mention of Lady Dierdre—and the fact that the Fomorian woman was looking for Dylan's fiancé this early in the morning, on Christmas Day, after what had occurred between her and Nuada—Dylan went cold. The noblewoman continued blithely on, "She thought he wouldn't have gone to bed yet; a lot of small all-night gatherings are still taking place throughout the castle. But Nuala had told me that the two of you had gone to your suite some hours ago, so I told Lady macAengus that she should seek Nuada there. I assumed he was…celebrating with you. Ah, well." The noblewoman smiled. "If he's asleep, his guards will simply tell her to come back later. But what are you doing here? Do you want to see the king?"

She made a face. "He's asleep, too. I thought he might be; it's pretty early. I just want to snag him before he gets wrapped up in king-things or Christmas stuff or whatever. It's okay, though. I can wait."

"Nonsense!" Polunochnaya darted forward and snagged Dylan's hand. The scent of poppies and snowdrops caught Dylan's attention. The human stiffened for a fraction of a second before forcing herself to relax. It didn't help; the Elven woman noticed. Her slitted pupils narrowed briefly as she met Dylan's gaze. The bright Elven smile wavered, but Polunochnaya forced it back at full strength. "Nuala, 'Ko, and I are awake. You can visit with us in the meantime. I'm sure the princess has much she wishes to discuss with you about tomorrow. Your elevation to peerage," the Elf explained when Dylan stared at her blankly. "That is tomorrow, is it not?"

Oh. It was. With everything else going on, Dylan had completely forgotten that Nuada had put her on the fast-track to nobility. He wanted to endow her with as much political power as possible, as quickly as possible, to help protect her at court until their marriage sealed her power as a princess (and the potential future queen of Bethmoora).

"Yeah," Dylan replied weakly, her forced smile wobbling a bit. The thought of being the next queen of Bethmoora—if they were successful in making her immortal, which was currently a big if, but still a possibility—still left her a little off-balance. "That's right. I almost forgot. I, uh…I really need to talk to the king, though. I can talk to Nuala afterwards, or you can bring her here if she doesn't mind."

Still smiling, Polunochnaya nodded. "Of course. I'll let her know. Merry Christmas, Dylan.

Dylan's face felt like it might crack in half any second from smiling so hard. "Merry Christmas," she replied.

Watching the noblewoman glide away, Dylan had to wonder about her. She seemed to be trying to make friends with the mortal, but why? Nuala had said she'd spoken to Polunochnaya about Dylan's discomfiture around her. Was she attempting to rectify that? And why did Dylan get the strangest feeling that the silver-eyed Elf needed help of some sort?

And one other thing, one that worried Dylan even more than the questions surrounding Ledi Polunochnaya: why was Lady Dierdre looking for Nuada so early in the morning? What did the Fomorian woman want?

The questions fled her mind when Lord Box-Head of the Creepy Fingers (aka the Lord Chamberlain) came striding down the hall with a swish of black robes and demanded to know what Dylan thought she was doing, disturbing the king so early in the morning. Dylan managed to refrain from rolling her eyes at the always-melodramatic Banquet Keeper fae and prepared herself to give her "I need to speak to the king" speech one more time.

.

Dierdre hovered just at the end of the hall leading to the prince's suite and smiled. Only two guards. Nothing she couldn't handle. Butchers were supposed to be impervious to the glamour of anyone less than a king. Luckily she had the illusion spells provided by King Elatha and Prince Bres. The combined magic of a king and crown prince could surely fool the common-born royal guards, even with the iron in their blood. Thank the Fates Bres had had the cunning to enlist the help of the two exiled princes from Onibi and Dilong.

Taking a deep breath, the disguised gancanaugh broke the seal on the king-fueled glamour spell and let it sweep over her, hiding her completely from the senses of anyone except a king stronger than Elatha. There were only a few in Faerie whose power rivaled or exceeded the king of Cíocal, and only a couple of them—including that infernal Moundshroud—were in Bethmoora.

But they weren't in the corridor, so Dierdre was fine. Time for the next step of her prince's plan. If she did well, perhaps Bres would reward her. The Fomorian envoy needed this ploy to work because if they didn't manage to drive a wedge between Nuada and his whore, they would never be able to reach the next part of the plan necessary to punish him for his treachery. They needed to get Dylan alone. They needed her to leave Bethmoora of her own freewill—without the crown prince or her guards. Because when she did, the Fomorians would be waiting for her.

Invisible, soundless as a shadow, Dierdre slipped down the corridor and past the guards. Her special glamour enabled her to slip into Nuada's suite without the guards even realizing she'd opened the door. Moving through the front room without the other guards catching even a glimpse of her, she stopped at the threshold of the bedroom, cracking open the door to peer inside.

Silverlance lay sprawled on the bed, asleep. His breath came in soft, shallow gasps. Sweat glistened at his temples and across his brow. Dierdre smiled. So, no one had noticed the second, more subtle poisoning of his room yet. It had really thrown a wrench into everything when the Tuathan prince had stripped his room and ordered it to be cleansed, physically and magically, of the gancanaugh poison she'd saturated everything with. She'd had to sneak back in during the betrothal ball on Midwinter's night to leave the faintest traces of venom and magic behind. This time, Dierdre had been especially careful to keep her touch light, to prevent quick discovery.

Stepping into the bedchamber, she shut the door as soundlessly as possible. No point in tempting Fate. Closing her eyes to concentrate better, she activated the second spell around the little bottle she carried.

Her smile widened as she stepped further into the room. Her heart hammered as she came to stand right beside the bed. Lifting the bottle, she lightly spritzed the transparent liquid onto the prince's chest, the pillow beside his own, and his sheets. The faintest scent of snowdrops and white poppies tickled Dierdre's nose as Nuada twisted and turned before suddenly bolting upright. With the utmost caution, the disguised gancanaugh backed away from him while he ran his hands over his face and through his hair.

He was completely oblivious to her presence, thanks to the glamour spells her own liege lord had given her. It was so…empowering, to be able to stand there in plain sight of the Silverlance and know he couldn't see her. She could slide a knife between his ribs, eliminating both of the royal twins thanks to their mystical connection, and slip out of the royal wing with no one the wiser. Such power…!

But that wasn't her purpose this morning. Her purpose was merely to add one more straw to the camel's back, and one more, and one more, until the last straw fell into place, breaking the bonds between prince and mortal. She'd gotten her perfume on Silverlance's pillows, sheets, and his sleep-tunic. A perfume bespelled to hold fast to skin, clothing, bedding, for at least a couple washings, and to be undetectable to Silverlance.

Lady Dylan would recognize that scent from the time Dierdre had snuck a very skillful kiss with the crown prince. And that scent on Silverlance's sheets—and on his body—would make his little mortal begin to ask questions…which was exactly what Bres wanted. Now she could finally go to sleep; she was exhausted after staying up so late.

Pleased with herself, Dierdre slipped out of the room as Nuada swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

.

Balor didn't keep Dylan waiting long. Once the chamberlain tried to have Dylan thrown out—and once Uaithne reminded the chamberlain that, with all due respect, it was within Lady Dylan's rights to request an audience with His Majesty and only Prince Nuada, Princess Nuala, or the king himself could tell her no—Dylan was conducted by an irate Lord Box-Head and one of Balor's guards to the king's private breakfasting parlor.

The entire way down the corridor, Dylan had to remind herself to breathe evenly. She couldn't let her temper get the best of her this time. She couldn't get angry, or frightened. She couldn't flashback—not that she anticipated anything that might incite a flashback. Still, if Balor got nasty with her, she had to keep calm.

This is just like all the family counseling sessions I've done with my patients, she told herself. Yes, he's a king, and yes, he can have my head cut off just like that. But he won't. As long as I don't get mad, everything will be fine. I have to make him see. I have to make him understand. Nuada won't talk to Balor, so I have to. They can't go on like this.

Lord Box-Head's long, wormy fingers curled into a fist with a squirming, insect-like motion that made Dylan faintly queasy before he knocked on the door to the breakfast parlor. The door opened to reveal a female Butcher Guard, her hair in at least a hundred tiny braids down her back, and the silver medal pinned to the shoulder of her black uniform shirt that denoted the rank of lieutenant. Dylan realized she was looking at one of the two lieutenants underneath the pair of Butcher captains who ran the Royal Guard. Captain Sáruit ingen Chuinn, according to Nuada, was one of the greatest warriors in Bethmoora. Lieutenant Muirne ingen Óenfer came in a close second.

"My Lady of Central Park," Lieutenant Óenfer said coolly.

Dylan offered a small curtsy to the Butcher Guard. "Lieutenant Óenfer," she said softly, smiling. "Good morning. Merry Christmas. I'm here to speak to His Royal Majesty, if I may."

Behind her iron helmet, the Butcher's green eyes narrowed. She made a disapproving sound. Nodded. "Come in."

When Uaithne and the others attempted to follow her, Dylan held up a staying hand. "Can you guys wait out in the hall? I need to talk to the king alone." When Uaithne hesitated, she added, "Please?"

"Will you…will you be long, milady?" Uaithne asked softly.

Translation, Dylan thought. Is this going to take forever, or will it be short and sweet? If it's going to take awhile, is it more dangerous than you led me to believe? Are you going to be safe if we remain out here? She nodded. Aloud she said, "I'll try to keep it short."

Uaithne and the other guards offered her their customary fist-to-chest salute and bowed. Dylan took a deep breath, let it out, and turned back to the room…and the king, seated at a relatively small table eating a poached egg. He wore the most informal outfit Dylan had ever seen him in: burgundy tunic and trews and a white shirt. The only thing to denote a kingly rank was the very elaborate gold embroidery at the edges of collar and sleeves.

The mortal clasped her hands in front of her, took six measured paces into the room, and curtsied as gracefully as she knew how. Then she held it. She knew from talking to Nuada—as well as Ailís and Uaithne—that the most formal way to make obeisance to the king was to bow, kneel, or curtsy until the monarch acknowledged the person coming before him. Balor had yet to enforce that in Dylan's presence, but if she did it now, he'd know she was there for something very, very serious.

"Good morning, Lady Dylan," the king said, and Dylan straightened gratefully. Only a hot shower and a full dose of Vicodin had allowed her to hold the curtsy for the thirty-second pause between her movements and the king's greetings.

"Good morning, Sire. Merry Christmas."

"And merry Christmas to you," Balor said. She tried to gauge his mood. He wore a bland smile, but he looked tired. Come to think of it, why was he awake so early? Lines of strain had carved deep grooves around his mouth. The crow's feet at his eyes had deepened even since the previous night. "Would you care to join me for some breakfast?"

"I…" Was that a trick question? "If it pleases Your Majesty," she replied at last.

Balor indicated the chair across from him with a nod and Dylan perched on the edge, keeping her hands folded primly in her lap as one of the king's servants began filling a plate for her. "Sausage, milady? Scrambled eggs? There's pickled quail's eggs, too."

Dylan did her best not to make a face. She didn't eat pickled anything if she could help it, except pickles. "Just a little of that fruit and some toast, if that's all right." She kept an eye on the king, trying to read whether her sparse choices had irritated him. She hadn't come for breakfast, but turning him down flat might upset him. One never could tell with the fae regarding hospitality. She needed to get everyone out of the room before she could start talking about Nuada and what he believed about the king.

She picked toast with just a thin layer of orange marmalade because her father, years ago, had often made marmalade toast when she or one of her siblings was upset. Dylan's paternal grandparents had been English; her father hadn't liked tea, which had made her mother joke about him being adopted, but he'd loved marmalade toast. To this day, it was one of Dylan's comfort foods—not as much as the German desserts her mother used to make, but it was up there. And she needed something comforting right now. This was the most nerve-wracking thing she'd cold-bloodedly done in a while. Nobody liked being told they sucked as a parent.

Which isn't what I'm going to say, she reminded herself, taking a nibble of toast. But that might be what he hears.

"Your Majesty, thank you for receiving me so early," Dylan ventured into the silence. "I know this is very unusual, but I really needed to discus something important with you, if I may."

The king nodded to the two servants, who bowed and quickly exited the room. The king's guards took up positions along the far wall, giving Dylan and the one-armed king a semblance of privacy. "My son sent you to argue his side, didn't he?" Balor asked with more than a touch of exasperation. He shook his head. "That boy…the answer is no. I'll not break Nuala's engagement."

Dylan blinked. "Nuala's engagement? That's why you think I'm here?"

Balor looked nonplussed. "Isn't it?"

She shook her head. "Not at all. This is…I believe it's more important than that, although I also believe that Nuala should not, under any circumstances, marry Prince Bres. But that's a discussion for later, I think. No, Your Majesty, I'm here to talk to you about Nuada." She shot an uneasy look at the guards. "Can we speak privately? Without guards, I mean."

He arched an eyebrow.

"There aren't any windows," Dylan replied to the unspoken challenge. "That's usually my guards' requirement for leaving me alone in a room—there can't be any windows or other doors. And you may not trust me too much, but you know I wouldn't ever try to hurt you, Majesty…don't you?"

A smile curved the pale, thin lips. "Hurt me? My dear girl, I may be an old man with all that that state entails, and I may have only one functioning arm, but if you attempted to harm me, I wouldn't need my guards to stop you. My son, on the other hand…well. He's a warrior. You are not. But why, may I ask, do you need to speak to me without even my guards present? I noticed you banished yours to the corridor. Why?" When Dylan didn't smile at his attempt at humor, the king's smile faded. "Is it so serious, then?" She nodded. "I see. Give me a reason, my dear, and we shall see if I acquiesce."

Swallowing hard, she tried to marshal her thoughts. "What I'm about to tell you…it…" She glanced at the guards, then leaned forward, casually laying one hand against the side of her mouth so the guards couldn't read her lips. "It may put you and Nuada in danger."

Aged amber eyes widened. Dylan watched as the king literally transformed from an old man enjoying his breakfast into a regal, sharp-minded faerie monarch. He flicked a glance at the Butchers, who didn't so much as twitch, before focusing on her again. "I trust my guards with my life, Lady Dylan."

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, I don't trust anyone but you with this. I actually shouldn't even be telling you, but it is my professional opinion that you need to be told, and the person who should tell you won't. People talk; if this gets to the wrong person, it could be disastrous." Because she had learned over the course of the last thirteen months that the wrong thing said at the right time could make or break even someone as strong as Nuada. Eamonn, and everything he had done since his first meeting with Dylan in August, had shown the mortal that.

Propping his elbow on the table, Balor stroked his beard. His shrewd golden eyes never left her face. Dylan wondered if she was about to make a terrible mistake. What if the king used this information against her prince? What if he really did blame Nuada for the queen's death? But the Spirit and her own instincts clamored at her to take the risk.

At last, the king nodded once. "I can see plainly that your fear is genuine. All right, my dear. Sáruit! Muirne!" The two female Butchers jerked to attention. "Take your contingency and wait outside with Lady Dylan's retinue."

Muirne stepped forward. "My king, you cannot order us from your side. What if the human attempts to—"

Sáruit gripped Muirne's shoulder, squeezing hard enough that Dylan heard her leather glove creak. The guard looked at her captain, who never took her eyes off Balor. The king nodded, and Sáruit inclined her head in acknowledgement. Muirne sighed and nodded as well. With a sharp command, the Butcher captain led the half-dozen other guards out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind them.

Once they were alone, Balor pinned Dylan with a regal gaze. "Speak."

Dylan tried to keep her voice steady as she said, "You told me once that you loved Nuada, and I believed you. Was I wrong to believe you?"

The king frowned, baffled. "Of course not. Why do you ask this?"

"I'm about to say something, Majesty, and I don't intend any insult whatsoever. I swear. But you need to know, because you're the only person who can do anything about it, and something has to be done. I know that we're not really supposed to talk about the queen, but—"

"What of her?" Balor demanded sharply. Dylan tried not to flinch. Her heart hammered in her throat as she took a deep breath and let it out. This was only so beastly hard because the last time she'd really ticked Balor off, he'd threatened to hurt—maybe even kill—Nuada. She really hoped she wasn't making a mistake.

She swallowed. "I have to ask you something. Something painful. I'm sorry, but for Nuada's sake and yours, I need to know." She waited then for the king to say something. Anything. Whatever his response was to her warning would determine how she posed the question.

"For my sake?" He murmured. "What is your question? Speak."

"Do you blame Nuada for the queen's death?"

Dylan gasped when Balor's gaze shifted from weary and wary amber to bronze in an eye-blink. Even as she watched, crimson crept in around the edges of his irises. Twisting her fingers in her skirt, she braced herself.

"How dare you?" Balor hissed. He pressed both hands flat to the table; Dylan had seen Nuada do that when he wanted to hit someone. Frost began creeping through her veins. "How dare you ask me that? Insolent mortal chit. Why? Why, when I have given you no cause, do you believe me to be the monster yet fawn over the crown prince as if he is an angel? He says you can sense evil. Why, then, do you fear me and not him? Why?"

Surprised, she tried to speak. Her mouth had gone dry. With a shaking hand, she lifted a cup of juice to her lips and took a long drink. Balor's gaze slashed to her shaking hand and the fury in his face deepened. Dylan managed to set the cup down without spilling.

"Nuada isn't evil," she murmured. "Neither are you. But I had a reason to ask, Majesty."

Balor surged to his feet, incredulous rage etched across his weathered features. "What reason?"

Well, she thought with no little sympathy, this one's going to knock him for a loop or twelve. In her gentlest psychiatrist voice, she said, "Because Nuada told me last night that you blame him. That's why I'm here."

She'd been right; it knocked him for a loop. The anger drained from his face, to be replaced by confusion. "He…what? Why would he tell you that?"

"Because he believes it."

The king shook his head. "No…no." He stepped away from the table and moved to the fireplace. Did he know, she wondered, how often Nuada did that when he was troubled and trying to think? They were so much alike, the prince and his father, but they refused to see it. Dylan wondered if she'd be able to do anything about that. She wondered if she ought to. She wasn't Nuada's therapist, she was his betrothed. Did she have the right to interfere unless absolutely necessary? "No," the king said again, this time with finality. "He's attempting to manipulate you, Lady Dylan, into thinking ill of me. More ill than you do already."

Dylan stayed seated, but she twisted her chair around to better see Balor. Crossing her legs, she leaned back. It was so much easier to slip on the identity of therapist when she sat like this. The position was one she often took in counseling sessions.

"King Balor…I don't think…let me take a step back. I think that you're under a misapprehension about my…opinion of you. I'll admit that when I first met you, I didn't much care for you."

"You despised me," he said flatly. "For punishing Nuada."

She bit back a wince. "It took me a while to get past the fear and anguish I felt when I walked into the Great Hall that night in October," she admitted. "It wasn't the idea of punishing him that upset me so much as…well, when I walked in, I thought…I thought he was dead. That you'd hurt him so badly for something he hadn't even done, so badly that it had killed him. And the thought of him being dead devastated me. It took me some time to move past that when dealing with you."

He snorted. "Move past it? You're still terrified of me."

"You're the king, Sire," she said with a smile. "I think a little healthy fear is an appropriate and very healthy response when in a situation where you might tick off someone who can have you beheaded in ten seconds flat. Human literature is filled with stories about friends of royals who get too comfortable and forget that fact…and pay for it. Not necessarily with death, but you still have to be careful.

"I wouldn't say I'm terrified of you, though, or Nuada and I wouldn't be trying to bring my sisters in on the secret of faeries. But Your Majesty? Nuada wasn't trying to manipulate me last night. I know him."

"Better than I do, you mean," he said coolly.

Dylan shrugged. "I spend more time with him. I know the man he is now. You remember the young man he was. I don't have that shadow to contend with when dealing with Nuada in the present. It's a common issue with parents, actually. There comes a point where they have to reconcile the child they knew with the adult that child has become. And people change. That's hard for parents to accept, too."

Balor waved a hand in dismissal. Turning to face her full on, the king said, "How do you know he isn't lying to you? Perhaps he's unhappy that you seem to be letting go of your prejudice against me. Perhaps he fears I might reveal something to you that will turn you against him—"

"If you're referring to that business with the Golden Army and how he was going to slaughter the human race, I know about that already," she said, pursing her lips and raising one eyebrow. Balor's jaw went slack. "He told me about that a while ago. Right after he realized he couldn't go through with a plan like that. And he's been freaking out ever since because he doesn't know how to do what's right and protect his people from the humans at the same time. He and I are collaborating on a way to get that done. So no, that's not a reason for him to lie to me.

"Let me tell you what happened last night, Your Majesty. I woke up from a very sound sleep in the middle of the night to find Nuada standing in front of my window, his back to me, looking out at the palace grounds. I knew immediately there was something wrong."

"How?" Balor asked.

Dylan smiled wanly. "Because I could feel it. We're connected, he and I. Not to the same extent as Nuada and the princess, but at least as strong as my own connection to my twin brother. I can feel when Nuada's upset, when he's hurting. It has to be seriously intense, but when it is, I can feel it. I felt it then. This…weight of grief on my chest. Terrible pain. When I asked him what was wrong, he wouldn't tell me. He wouldn't even look at me at first. It wasn't until I got him to turn to me that I realized why he didn't want me to see his face."

Balor frowned. "Why wouldn't he want you to see his face?"

She took a deep, steadying breath. Blew it out in a slow, controlled exhalation. She closed her eyes, trying to maintain a semblance of calm, but she knew she couldn't. When next she spoke, her voice threatened to break as she said, "He was crying."

Balor's eyes widened.

"I think…I think I've seen him cry—really cry—twice since I've known him. Once was because he had a nightmare where everyone he loved was killed. Wink, Nuala, his friends. His mother, murdered again in a dream. And me. In his nightmare, you stabbed me in the chest." She saw the baffled horror in the king's gaze and nodded. "This was when we were worried you were trying to kill us. The night before we came back here, Nuada had a nightmare that I died in his arms. That I drowned in my own blood and there was nothing he could do. And when he woke up, he cried like a child in my arms because during that nightmare he'd thought that everyone he loved was dead and the Kindly Ones had been completely wiped out, except for him.

"The second time he's ever cried in front of me in a way even close to that was last night. He was completely shattered by what you said to him. I don't know what you said, don't know what you did, but whatever it was, it absolutely destroyed him. He's always blamed himself for what happened to the queen—"

"What?" Balor cried, taking a step toward her. The horror in his eyes sharpened. "What? Why would he…why would…no. He was only a child when she…when Cethlenn…Why would he blame himself? He was a little boy. There was nothing he could have done. Those…those animals nearly killed him. How could he blame himself? How could he think I would ever blame him?"

The mortal psychiatrist laced her fingers together and settled her hands against her stomach. Now to do the hardest part—lance the oldest wounds and expel the festering poison inside them.

"Because of how you behaved in the wake of her death. He told me once that after his mother died, you wouldn't speak to him for a long time. Why?"

Clearly baffled by the change in direction, he took a moment before speaking. "How do you face a little boy and tell him that because you failed him, failed his sister and his mother, failed in your duty as his father, that his mother is never coming home again? That she will never kiss him goodnight or sing him to sleep again? That she will never see him grow up into a proud warrior, a fine prince, and a good man?"

Balor turned away, but not before Dylan caught the gleam of tears welling in his eyes. "How was I supposed to face my son, who idolized me, and tell him that because of the man he'd always loved and admired, his mother was dead? I always believed he blamed me for that…and he had every right to do so."

Dylan rose to her feet and moved to the king. Laying a gentle hand on his arm, she said, "Your Majesty…you can't blame yourself anymore than Nuada can. It was only chance that you weren't with the queen. You're not at fault for that."

"I am," he snapped, refusing to look at her. "Nuada asked me to come with them. He…he'd found a Fomorian asphodel, one of Cethlenn's favorite flowers, growing in the woods around Renvyle, where we lived at the time. Both my children asked me to come with them to see it. I'd been working a great deal. Tensions were rising between my people and the humans. I was trying to smooth things over, find the diplomatic solution. I told them I was too busy to go look at flowers."

He shook his head, still not looking at her. "If I'd been there, those beasts would never have been able to hurt my wife or my children. Nuada nearly died, did he tell you that? Those animals nearly beat my son to death. I should never have allowed that to happen. I should have been there to protect him, to protect Nuala! And…and Cethlenn."

The king sighed. Reaching out, he plucked something off the fireplace mantel. Dylan realized it was the portrait of Nuada she'd given the king last night as a Christmas gift. Balor stared at it and sighed again. "Oh, my son…how could you ever think…" Balor raised his eyes to Dylan's face. "He truly believes I hate him, doesn't he? My own son."

Dylan tucked a stray curl behind her ear, trying to think. At last she replied, "Not hate, no. Not really. I'm…I'm going to share something with you, Majesty, from when I was young. I told you about the institution my parents placed me in when I was growing up?"

He nodded, but said nothing.

"At first, when I was very little, I thought my parents hated me, and that that was why they'd sent me to that place. Because I was bad and me being bad made them hate me. As I got older, I realized that wasn't it at all. And I came to the conclusion somewhere along the way that my parents really did love me…but that they loved me because I was their daughter, not because of who I was. Does that make sense? That they loved me, but hated who I was. And I think that's how Nuada feels about you. That you love him because you have to, but wish you could hate him. But you know, in a way…in a way, you're very lucky, Your Majesty."

Balor frowned at her. "Lucky? My son thinks that I blame him for his mother's death, my court is in an uproar because he's fallen in love with a mortal who may or may not be in his thrall, my daughter is falling in love with her unofficial betrothed but my son and hisbetrothed want me to break their engagement, and my son still despises humans with every fiber of his being. Forgive me, my dear, but I fail to see any luck in that."

"Your wife is gone," Dylan said very gently. Balor looked away. "She will never have the chance in this life to tell Nuada that she's proud of the man he's become. That she still loves him, will always love him. But you do have that chance. You can go to him today. You can tell him how you feel. The two of you need to talk about this. You can't let this misunderstanding between you continue. He loves you, Your Majesty, and you clearly love him. I can think of very few things more tragic than for two people who love each other to continue believing that there is nothing but hatred and blame in the other's heart. He needs to know you don't blame him; that you never blamed him. And you need to hear from his lips that he never blamed you, either.

"And for the record, Sire, Nuada doesn't hate all humans, if it makes you feel any better," she added. "There's me, of course. And he's becoming very fond of my twin brother, even though he doesn't want to admit it. And my sister is growing on him. A bit like a fungus." At this, Balor chuckled and nodded sympathetically. Dylan smiled. Francesca had that effect on a lot of people. "And he met my uncle yesterday." The king raised an eyebrow. "They shook hands and Nuada said it was an honor to meet him. I know, right?" She asked, seeing Balor's stunned expression. "Pretty surprising. But they got along really well. Nuada has a lot of respect for my aunt and uncle, believe it or not. There's hope for him in that department. There's hope that his hatred and his fear can at least be lessened, even if it can't be erased.

"He's not the man you think he is. The man you think he is wouldn't have practically adopted a trio of orphaned cougar fae. He wouldn't have saved my brother's life or let me bring my sister here for moral support before the midwinter ball. And he wouldn't have saved my life that night in the subway. He's a good man. He's trying so hard to do what's right, to protect his people, and to make you proud of him. He's never blamed you for what happened. Give him the chance to tell you that for himself."

Balor turned away again, swallowing. He covered his face with one hand as if he couldn't bear to look at her. Then, after a long moment of silence so profound Dylan measured it by counting her heartbeats, Balor nodded.

"All right," he whispered hoarsely. "All right. I'll speak to him. I…Lady Dylan?"

Dylan was staring at the door that led to the hallway, wide-eyed. A pulsing force of something was coming down the corridor toward the breakfast parlor. A familiar something. Dylan sighed. "Oh, boy."

The king glanced from her to the door and back again. "What is it?"

"Nuada's awake…and he's pretty mad." She bit her lip. "Maybe I should hide under the table."

He raised a brow. "Would that keep him from finding you?"

"I doubt it, but it might make him laugh. He knew I was going to try to talk to you today about Nuala, but I didn't tell him I was going to talk to you about him. And I'm pretty sure he expected me to wait until he woke up to talk to you about the princess. Since I didn't, he's probably figured out by now that we're discussing something he won't like."

"Are you afraid?"

Dylan just looked at him for a moment. "Of what? The adorable Elven teddy bear from Hades? Please. I mean, no girl wants her cuddle bunny ticked off at her, but I'm not scared of him or anything."

The king blinked. "Cuddle bunny?"

She smiled. "Sometimes, I call him my love muffin. Hey, it's better than what my dad used to call my mom." When Balor made an inquiring noise, Dylan sighed. "He always called her 'my little apple strudel.' My mom was a second-generation immigrant from Germany. They were always calling each other stuff like that. 'Schnitzel' and 'bologna loaf' and stuff. Always embarrassed us."

With good reason, the mortal thought as Balor chuckled for a few seconds over the ridiculous pet names. "And what do you and Nuada call each other? Besides…'love muffin.'"

Blue eyes widened. Dylan bit her lip to hold in her laughter. King Balor had just used the phrase "love muffin." Her life was now complete. "Sometimes I call him Lord Fluff-n-Stuff. Schmoopy-doo. Googly Bear. " The look on Balor's face at that moment was priceless. Dylan burst out laughing. "Kidding. Just kidding. Sorry, I had to. Sorry. Ahem. I call him hot-shot, mo airgeadach, Prince Charming, and my white knight. He calls me…well, normal stuff. You know. 'My lady,' for one thing. Sweetheart. Mo crídh. Mo duinne," she added with a grin, lifting the curling tip of her ponytail. "Whatever. Love-stuff. I don't think calling him Prince Charming is going to help this time, though," she added when a sharp knock rapped against the door. "He's…a bit miffed."

"Well…I suppose we should let him in, shouldn't we?" The king asked in a subdued voice. "To prevent the prince from becoming anymore…miffed." He took a few steps toward the door, then hesitated. He glanced back at Dylan. "What should I tell him?"

She offered an encouraging smile. "The truth. That he's your son and you love him. How you feel. Whatever he needs to hear."

Balor nodded. Clearing his throat and straightening his tunic, he called, "Enter."

Nuada, looking quite miffed indeed, strode in. Before Dylan or Balor could say a word, Nuada glanced at Dylan, then fixed his father with a scathing look and said, "If you've hurt her, Majesty, you will not like my reaction."

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Author's Note: Oh, yeah, he's miffed. But hopefully in the next chapter things can get resolved in a satisfactory manner for all parties involved. So did anyone expect Balor's reaction to Dylan's confrontation (other than a particular genius I may or may not have discussed plot points with on Facebook)? Do we see any hope of salvaging that relationship? Do you think the upcoming conversation will work out? Just an fyi, Dylan is NOT going to be mediating the talk between Balor and Nuada. So let that tidbit inform your theories. Hugs to you all! Reviews are love! Buh-bye!