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the human world. It was
not a mere static image but a living one: three-dimensional, filled with flesh
and blood, a true connection to the beloved whom it depicted.
    I
wonder, sometimes, about your painting. Your talent was prodigious, although
you were too young to attain the kind of mastery I later learned. What if you
had stayed longer in the palace, Breena? What if you had learned more of fairy
art? Could you have learned how to build bridges between our two worlds – could
those portraits I know you painted of me in your adolescence have come to life,
despite not being crafted with fairy paints; could those images of Feyland have
recalled you home – to and with me, where you belonged? I dream sometimes of
your finding your way back to me – some summer evening – painting our secret
orchard and then slipping with me through our paintings into such a world?
Perhaps the paintings, at least, would have jolted your memories – reversed the
forgetting-spell placed upon you when you left Feyland to alleviate the pain of
your departure – and then, when you remembered all that you had left behind,
you would – perhaps – have called to me.
    And I
would have heard you.

 
    Letter 5
     
    My Dearest
Breena,
    How
happy I was in those days! How happy we both were! We barely understood what it
meant to be engaged, but yet we shared in the promise of our shared future a
unique and unspeakable bond. How fondly I recall the last few weeks we shared
together, when you were staying with us at the Winter Court, your mother and
mine forging a similar bond as they watched us grow together. How idyllic life
seemed to me then – I forgot about the mysterious goings-on of the outside
world: wars and rebellions and chaos and troubles that my mother and father had
sometimes hinted at in hushed tones. I forgot that I was destined to be a
fighter, a warrior – I wanted only to remain in the happy cocoon of childhood,
nestled there together with you, studying art and playing games of telepathy
and experiencing the kind of childhood to which I, as a fairy and as a Prince,
was never really entitled.
    The
first rumblings of discord came a few months after Raine's and your arrival at
the Winter Court. Raine was on her knees, trying in vain to plead with us to
stop painting (our painting had turned into playful roughhousing, and the walls
of the nursery and our clothing alike was covered in shimmering fairy paint)
and to come downstairs for dinner. “Is this how a little prince behaves?” She
tried to shake a wagging, disapproving finger at us both, but her expression
made clear that her sympathies were fully with our own.
    “Five
more minutes!” we pleaded in chiming unison. “Just let us finish this one
painting.” We were working together on a grand map of Feyland, one that showed
the Summer and Winter castles side by side, each beautiful and majestic,
shining with the magic of the paints.
    Just
as Raine was on the verge of giving in, her smiling expression making clear
that we had won her over with our twinned eagerness, my mother strode in, her
expression firm and icy.
    “I
must speak with you immediately,” she turned to Raine. “There is no time!
Hurry!” She gave us a pointed look. “Stay there!” she commanded me, in a voice
that made it clear she would be far less inflexible than Raine had been. She
turned on her heel and marched out, Raine scurrying after her.
    “What's
going on?” you asked me.
    Of
course, as terrifying as my mother's silvery stare was, no amount of maternal
pressure, regal or otherwise, was going to get in the way of sating my
curiosity. Trading our intentions in a quick stream of telepathic thoughts, we
crept down the corridor, using all the magical powers we possessed to silence
our footsteps, until we were close enough to hear my mother and Raine, who were
conversing in hushed tones on the landing of the staircase.
    “But
are you quite sure?” Raine was saying. “I mean – could this be a