The quiet of his voice does nothing to dampen the weight of his words. This, the twin lodestars of our loneliness, pulls on us as surely as a moon. I thought I had come here looking for him. But he came here first, looking for me. “So now you have the story,” he says. “Oberon wanted something, and I wouldn’t give it to him. Not for his favor. Not to avert his wrath. Not for anything. I was an obstinate child, so he decided I would come to nothing but a defiant youth, dangerous when full grown.” “Was he wrong?” I ask. The corner of Narciso’s mouth matches the quirk of that eyebrow. “In this
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