Sy uncanceled his American tour, with a proviso: it was going to be OUR tour now. Side by side, he said as we lay in the sun-drenched haze of a suite in the nearest luxury hotel. I was coiled under deliciously smooth blankets, tucked against the firm heat of his ribs, reading over his shoulder as he typed out typical, curt, Sy-ish texts to his manager, his agent, his producer. He didn't ask; he stated. Tour is back on. Hester is headlining with me. Make it happen.
As he typed, I focused on the pleasant thrill of the magic lingering on our skin: that golden feeling was like the slick of sweat, but if sweat felt how candy tasted. It's hard to put magic into human terms; that's part of the reason fae make such excellent poets and singers and storytellers. We have senses that reach to truths
