Sunday was solace from a week of intermittent rain, the sky now swathed in pewter and mist; the sun became a haze behind the cloud layers, an echo of bright light. That morning, William had taken the opportunity to weed the garden while he still could, and had trimmed away the crushed, dead parts of his hydrangeas. Conditions would not stay dry for long, and as such, he’d retreated indoors instead of watering anything.

As morning stretched into midday, he reclined on the couch with his feet propped on the coffee table; one hand navigated his laptop keyboard, while the other clutched a cup of tea in a knitted cozy. His phone sat squarely on the corner of the table. William had two more assignments due tomorrow, and it was best to complete them before Ainsel could shatter his focus into pieces.

It had not been easy to concentrate since her arrival. He’d had a taste of what ordinary students dealt with -- the looming stress of work piling up to the ceiling -- and had decided that being responsible was more appealing than tempting fate.

No matter how much Ainsel distracted him, whether on purpose or not.

Therefore, when there came a creak from the guest door opening, he felt only two things, but in equal strength: disappointment and curiosity. He was halfway finished with the last of his botany report, and three-quarters with a chapter of chemical equations, but what on Earth could she want now?

He could not keep the sigh out of his voice. “What?”

Her footsteps crept up behind William, and though he knew that she wouldn’t harm him, a chill skittered down his spine. He turned, covering his mug as he did, to prevent the tea from spilling.

She wore the same black sweater and striped shorts he’d first lent her, despite that the guest dresser was fully stocked -- and that she could somehow sneak into his room to take his clothing whenever she pleased. It was one of her gifts, he reasoned, along with her apparent immunity to looking sloppy in pajamas.

“Liam. I want to talk. May we?”

Though he appreciated her getting straight to the point, the appreciation came with a shadow trailing in its wake. It was the same underpinning of dread that accompanied keeping secrets from his mother: something bad was coming. He’d be forced to confront some discrepancy between what he said and what he really thought; if anyone was as good as Eleanor at pulling a person’s true opinions into the open, that would have to be a faerie.

Aloud, he only said, “Okay.”

Her ebon eyes locked on his. Without bothering to ask first, she took a seat beside him. The couch cushion bounced, then stilled, and the two were too far apart for there to be a chance of them touching.

“How long do you think I will stay? I know you’ve tried to take your guesses.”

“And how do you know that?” He stifled the urge to close his laptop, take his tea, and run to his room. It was doubtful -- though still possible -- that Ainsel had intended to scare him. William found the statement itself, simply put, creepy. Could she read his mind?

“Because you have no reason not to guess. This is new, as you said. So, of course you will try to figure it out.”

That was reasonable, he supposed, and somewhat less unnerved, he let himself relax.

“You’re right. I have tried, and I’ve got no idea. So, you tell me. How long?”

Her gaze flicked away from his, and as she leaned with her elbows on her knees, staring at the ground, the air felt somehow heavier.

Just as he pictured himself apologizing, placing a hand on her arm, she replied. “However long is safe.”

“For you?” he asked.

“For you. I wanted to leave a long time ago, and... I couldn’t.”

It took a moment for his brain to catch up with his ears, and as he processed what she’d said, more questions sprung up from the depths of his subconscious. She wanted to actively avoid putting him in danger? Why?

“Do you mean... the night you came back?”

He needed to say nothing more; her shoulders hunched and she lowered her head just enough for her expression to be hidden from him. But she could hide all day, and he would still know that she found the events of her return shameful.

“We can’t just pretend that didn’t happen,” he said, despite her obvious discomfort and his reluctance to upset her. “I still need a lot of answers. What made you want to be here?”

Ainsel shot William a glare that was all empty frustration, no venom. “Nothing.”

At that, he took a breath, steadying himself against revealing the tiniest hint of his own annoyance. His voice, thankfully, remained level as ever. “You’re the one who wanted to talk. You can clam up now... but it won’t erase anything that’s happened. And I’ll still need answers.”

She repeated her glare, but this one was even shakier in resolve than the last, and she clasped her hands together, squeezing them. “I’m just... not sure.”

Her words meant nothing compared to her tone. It was clear, in the spaces between them and the wavering of their pitch, that she was sure but not ready. And in William’s unbreaking awareness of her power, it was clear that pushing her had outcomes as terrible as failing his classes. He bowed his own head, trying to show his acknowledgment.

“Alright. Can I ask you something else, then?”

She fixed him with a baleful stare, but it held leeway enough that he did not feel the need to back away.

“Ainsel, why do you want me to be safe?”

“You are wrong.”

“I’m wrong, am I?”

“I want to keep you safe. I have to. If I am not the reason that you stay out of danger... then there will be an imbalance between my actions and yours.” There was a lull in her speech, and he prepared to respond, but she took his chance. “I did not do enough. For you, that is. Which is why I could not stay away.”

The struggle of processing was longer this time, weighing him down, keeping him from saying anything at all before he managed to pull himself out of it.

“Are you grateful, or are you just... keeping things balanced?”

A wry smile flickered on her lips, so fleeting that he thought perhaps he’d imagined it.

“It is easier to agree with your second guess.”

In typical faerie fashion, she’d replied without really answering, and he was not sure whether to admire that or find it irritating.

“Why do you think that your being here puts me in danger?”

Ainsel’s hand-squeezing resumed -- among the only signs he’d ever seen of her being nervous. Or maybe it was the sole sign.

“Ainsel? Are you running from someone?”

“No!” she snapped. Something in the strange, heavy air seemed to spark. It was as though he physically felt her burst of anger. “Look, Liam. I do not run. But there are people who I’d rather not find me.”

“And...” The question died in his throat, crushed by a deeper, stronger fear than dread. He tried again, wanting to wince at how hesitant he sounded. “And do you think they will follow you to me?”

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“No...” She brought her hands up to comb through her the black silk of her hair, and William could tell it was an attempt to calm herself. “They can’t get here. They didn’t even see where I went. There are so many worlds...”

“I know.” He spoke with a softness brought by relief -- there was no faerie death squad on their way to hunt him down. “If they don’t know where we are, then how am I in danger?”

“I am worried about your friends. They’ll find out.”

“Friend,” he corrected, as if it mattered given the situation. “Singular.”

“Fine. That person is going to start poking around, if they’ve not already.”

His recent run-ins with Thomas played like a film across his mind, and he turned over his phone. If he texted, William wouldn’t have to see it.

“He has. He knows I’m not acting right.”

“Lovely. That means either I don’t have much longer, or... sometimes hiding is best when it’s done in plain sight.”

“Sorry?”

She clarified for him, her eyes once again meeting his: night against day, inky black against heather green. “I want to see your friend.”

“What? But --” The room swam underwater, filling with a million possibilities of what could go wrong. All he ended up saying was, “But... your ears.”

“It’s not hard to hide them. Just lend me a hat.”

William had a set of baskets in his closet holding winter gear, beanie hats included; he could not help but wonder if Ainsel had dug through them on her way to finding his rain jacket.

“Okay. Fine. Your ears are the least of our worries -- we’ll need a whole cover story if you’re going to face him.”

“Cover stories are easy, Liam. It’s weaving little bits of truth into them that’s the hard part. If he can believe some of it, then he can believe the entirety.”

What Ainsel said cast a foul taint of guilt over the doubt that already gripped him: not only was the idea questionable at best, but it sounded as though they’d committed a crime and were crafting an alibi. It wasn’t like Thomas was somehow not to be trusted. Even so, he did his best to fake interest -- if Ainsel was going to plot, then better he keep her plotting as low-risk as he could, especially with his friend involved.

“Your name,” he began at last. “It’s Scottish, isn’t it?”

“Well, look at you.” Ainsel grinned a toothy grin, showing incisors sharp as a carnivorous animal’s. “I knew you could do this. Yes, it’s most common in Scotland.”

Despite being tempted to tell her that another such comment would mean the end of their conversation, he held his tongue. She was an excellent liar, but only when she wanted to be -- or perhaps William himself had been the one to somehow dislodge her knack for dishonesty. Perhaps this craftiness wasn’t even her at all, but a mask. Images of her slid between his memories of every fib he’d ever told his parents, every excuse he’d ever given his few friends. She could cry, and hurt, and feel, and fear. For what purpose would she need a mask? Pride? Beyond that, he could not begin to guess, and it was not the time to analyze her, anyway.

“Right,” he said, hoping hard that he was being convincing. “That’s where you’re from, then. You’re... a student taking a gap year, staying here because you’ve heard great things about London, and why are you staying with me?”

“I am a family friend. But not a friend of the immediate family... that is too close. Do you have cousins?”

He paused to think, cycling through names and locations and ages. The location was most important: if he had no cousins who lived in or near Scotland, their alibi could fail them. And as luck would have it, there was just one.

“Yes. The oldest -- he lives up by the border, outside of Carlisle.”

“Perfect. What else? Oh. I do not have social media. That is in case he tries to find me on the Internet. You and I connected through email instead.”

William supposed he should be surprised at her even knowing what email was, but with Ainsel, very little surprised him anymore.

“What about a job?” he asked.

“I work online. Can’t exactly tell him I’m down at the local Tesco, can I?”

“Well, no. And he can’t exactly tell you his name...” The realization was an instant blow to the story. How could he explain wanting Thomas to keep his name a secret -- to keep both of theirs secrets, for that matter?

“For all intents and purposes, you changed your name, but only with me. Isn’t that what it means when you give someone a nickname?”

“Yes?” His reply came as yet another question. What could Ainsel be up to now?

“Then give it to him, too. Say that you want support with the change.”

Her suggestion gave slow form to the next piece of the plan, and he sat in silence. In his mind, he picked it up and turned it around to see if it would work. Even when his lies were a fraction of this one’s size, he had only to ask for Thomas’ support. If William needed him, then he would be there, all worries and all judgment reserved.

“I guess so. His name -- for you -- is Tom.”

“His name for me. I like that. What if he forgets, though?”

William’s common sense chose that moment to lapse. He recognized that what he then asked was terribly stupid, yet asked it anyway. “Is it so bad if you learn our real names?”

“Yes!” Ainsel half-spoke, half-laughed, a sound less of amusement and more of incredulity. “Gods. You really are naive.”

“It’s not like you’re going to use them against us! You’re not a monster!”

The laughter vanished from her voice, leaving it to fall flat. “Anything can happen. Just make sure that he calls you Liam.”

“I’ll...” He stopped; instinct told him that he should not use the phrase I’ll try. “I’ll make sure of it. Also, clothing. I washed your trousers again, but the tunic...”

“It’s not very modern, is it? I’ll find a replacement.”

“You can borrow another jumper. Or a shirt. That blood isn’t coming out.”

“Is he going to wonder why I’m wearing your clothes?” Ainsel let something else linger unsaid, as if hoping William would pick up on it. When he didn’t, she added, eyebrows raised, “Will he get the wrong idea?”

“The wrong --” Awareness clicked into place. He froze, the heat of embarrassment creeping up his neck and reaching for his cheeks. Why would she even bother to say that? “No! He won’t. I’ll make sure of that, too. And don’t mention it again.”

“Good. I won’t. Never again.”

Ainsel stared wide-eyed at him, and William back at her.

Clearing his throat, he reopened his laptop. “Another X-Files episode?”

“Sure thing.”

❦❦❦

Wet weather had settled into the London sky by nightfall, and William had long since retreated to his room. There he’d stayed until he couldn’t bear putting off dinner, and now, he emerged, steps muffled by a pair of fleece socks. A chill hung in the air, as though the mist had drifted through the windows to settle upon each and every surface in the house. Cold and humidity made an unpleasant pair; as he crept toward the kitchen, he let his sweater sleeves rest loose around his hands. Even the floor left his socks sticking to his feet -- an autumn storm must be gathering just past the horizon.

As he rested his arms on the island, he turned his gaze upward, watching cotton clouds billow. Street lamps cast upon them the orange tinge of sodium; it flickered in the dips and plains along their underbellies, like lightning without its thunder, and he was reminded of when he’d found Ainsel.

How fierce the sky had looked then -- more than just a specter of the great, dark storms that rolled through the foothills of the north, shaking stone and sea. It was a warning that nature’s power was never far beyond steel and lights and concrete. Ainsel, too, was proof that there were things much older than the British Empire, and much more fearsome than humanity’s conquests. He understood why humans did what they did: Greed. Dominance. Refusal to fail.

But the fae? Nothing could explain their capriciousness, or the glee in playing with his people like dolls. Nothing, likewise, could explain what prevented Ainsel from taking part in the latter. That is, unless he asked her why, and he did not expect her to be honest.

Slowly as possible, so he’d make not a sound, he slid a box of almond flour crackers from the cabinet. That would have to do; opening the refrigerator might wake her.

Despite himself, as he began the return to the safety of his room, William found himself stopping. He saw, through the dark, her hair spilling over the arm of the couch; atop the other, a blanket gathered shadows in its folds. With how frigid it must have been, he wondered how she’d fallen asleep at all.

He should at least keep her warm, if she was so determined to keep him safe.

It couldn’t hurt, could it?

He placed his nighttime snack on the shoe bench and inched forward, listening to his heartbeat echo in his ears. As his fingers sank into the blanket, he cringed at the tiny scuffing of fabric on fabric. She lay still, unaware, and before he could convince himself not to, he took his chance. Ainsel did not move except for the faintest rise and fall of her shoulders with each breath, even as he cloaked her form in knitted wool.

In relief that she hadn’t woken to tell him off, he sat beside her atop the coffee table. The wind began to grow, hissing through leafless trees; they conjured skeletons tapping the windows with only finger bones, and vertebrae rattling against wood, but there came no nervous jitter to his own breathing. Instead, he watched her, as though that would somehow reveal the truth that she worked so hard to hide.

The clouds poured upon her a dimness of the sort that pools in small spaces after true night and before dawn. It contoured the curves of her face in silver -- the slope down her nose, the taper up and down her ears. Her cheekbone and her jaw were two cool grey lines, joined where her hairline began. They made her elegant, he supposed, rather than gaunt, as did the upward curl in her eyelids and the Cupid’s bow of her lips. Before, he hadn’t noticed such details. She hadn’t given him the chance.

William snapped back to reality. If she roused to find him staring, he’d be the one hiding the truth: that he’d simply wanted to look at her. That would not be enjoyable to explain, even though there was no deeper meaning behind it.

He did not stay to let it happen. Keeping to a path along furniture and walls, where the floorboards wouldn’t creak, he returned to his room with his box of crackers. There, he chose a novel from his shelf at random, and for hours he could not count, lost himself in a universe of imaginary problems. When at last he drifted into sleep, he did so for the first time in two weeks with his door ajar.