It was a long, cold walk from the parking area to the faerie mounds. The snow was knee-deep on me, and there was no way for my mortal body to wade through it in four-inch spike heels and a miniskirt. Not without breaking an ankle or getting frostbite. So I was carried, and the only one who wasn't wet through was Barinthus. Everyone else's clothes began to freeze in the icy wind, and those who had no magical protection against the elements shivered as we waded through the snow.
Barinthus carried me easily. What would have had me floundering in the powdery depths was nothing to his height. I'd always known he was two feet taller than me, but as he carried me in his arms pressed against his broad chest, I was aware as I had never been before how physically imposing he was.
It was both comforting to ride in his strong arms, and unnerving. Curled up in his arms, I felt quite the child. He had carried me many times as a child, but now I had memories of him that did not match being child-like in his arms. I lay against his body and felt not embarrassed, but not comfortable, either.
I looked up at him from the nest he'd made of his coat for me. If he was cold without it, I could not tell. He looked out before him, and not at me, at all, as if I were indeed a child that filled his arms. Maybe I was to him. Maybe what had happened at the press conference hadn't changed how he saw me. The magic had meant something to him, that I knew, but as for the rest, perhaps I was no more than his old friend's daughter. He had always been more of a true uncle to me than any to whom I was related by genetics.
If it had been almost any other guard whom I had had such an intimate moment with and he'd ignored me like this, I would have done something to make certain he could not ignore me. But it wasn't anyone else, it was Barinthus, and somehow it seemed beneath both our dignities for me to grope him.
I must have sighed heavier than I meant to, because my breath came out in a cold white cloud. "Are you warm enough, Princess?"
The moment he asked, I realized that I shouldn't have been. I was coatless with almost nothing on my legs and lower extremities. "I'm warm enough, and why is that?" Then I realized what he'd called me. "You called me Princess. You never use my title."
He looked down at me, his clear eyelid flickering into sight, then vanishing again. "Do you not wish to be warm?"
"That is an evasion, old friend, not an answer."
He gave that deep chuckle that passed for a laugh. Held this close to his chest, the sound of it reverberated through my body, caressed me in places nothing should have touched me, save magic.
I shivered under that touch.
"My apologies, Princess, it has been long since I felt this much power. It will take me time to control all of it as finely as I once did."
"You're keeping me warm."
"Yes," he said, "can you not feel it?"
I was safe behind the shields I wore every day, every night. Shields that kept me from moving through a world of wonderment and magic. Some fey simply existed in the raw magic that surrounded everything, but I had found it confusing, frightening, as a child. My father had taught me how to shield out the noise of the everyday magic. But I should have been able to feel a spell done next to my skin. Even through the everyday shields.
I didn't lower my shields, because we were too close to faerie. I wasn't sure if it was being mortal, or merely not as powerful, but I found that without my shields to hide behind, the power of faerie was near overwhelming. Of course if it were either of those things, the humans who occasionally lived among us wouldn't have survived long. Madeline Phelps had no magic, no psychic gifts. How did she survive? How did she keep from being driven mad by the singing of the sithen?
I sent a tiny tendril of my own power through my shields. Many would have had to drop shields to do magic, but they were sidhe who did not have to weave their protection so close to their skin, as I did. With every loss there is some gain; with every gain, some loss.
I could feel his magic close above us, like an invisible pressure around us. We moved in a circle of his magic. I tested that magic, and it felt warm and vaguely liquid. I closed my eyes and tried to see his shield inside my head. I had an image of water rolling turquoise and lovely, warm as blood from a shore that was far from here, and always warm.
I could have done something similar by calling the heat of the sun, or the memory of warm bodies under blankets, but I would have had to fight to maintain the spell while I moved. Standing still, I was good at all kinds of shielding; moving, not so good.
"The water is very warm," I said.
He said, "Yes," without looking at me.
Galen came up to stride beside us. He was shivering in his wet clothes. Ice had formed in strands of his shorter hair, and there was a tiny cut on his cheek. His hair was just long enough to touch his face with the frozen strands. "If I hop on your back, will you keep me warm, too?"
"The sidhe are impervious to the cold," Barinthus said.
"Speak for yourself," Galen said, teeth nearly chattering.
Nicca waded through the snow on our other side. He was shivering, too. "I have never felt the cold as I do this day." His wings were held tightly together, rimmed with frost, like a stained-glass window in the snow.
"It is the wings," Sage called from behind us. Rhys had actually allowed the smaller man to ride on his back. Rhys seemed totally unaffected by the cold. But Sage huddled against Rhys, and I wondered why Rhys didn't help the demi-fey keep warm, as Barinthus helped me. "We are butterflies, and that is not a creature meant for winter snow."
"I am sidhe," Nicca said.
"As, apparently, am I," Sage called, "but I am still freezing my nuts off."
Galen laughed and nearly stumbled in the snow.
Doyle called back from the front of our little group. "If you will stop gossiping, we can all get inside more quickly, and all will be warm."
"Why aren't you shivering?" Galen asked.
Amatheon answered over to the far right, shivering with his own newly shortened hair icy and cutting his cheeks every time the wind blew it against his skin. "The Darkness is never cold."