A smile curled Doyle's lips, a smile I hadn't seen before. If it had been anyone else, I'd have said it was a cruel smile. «Have you tried to grow small since it happened?»

Sage frowned at him. «What does that matter?»

Doyle shrugged, and that smile deepened. «Have you tried to shift your form since your eyes changed? It is a simple question.»

Sage went very still as he stood between Doyle and me, then I saw his wings shiver, like flowers caressed by a strong wind. He shivered once, twice, then he threw back his head and wailed. Wordless, speechless, a hopeless, wrenching sound.

It wasn't until the last echoes of that scream faded from the room that I could move. «What's wrong?» I reached around his wings to touch his shoulder.

He jerked away from me. «Do not touch me!» He was backing away, toward the door. Frost appeared in the door behind him, and Sage began to back away from him, too. It was as if he was afraid of all of us.

«What's wrong?» I asked again.

«Being sidhe comes with a price for those with wings,» Doyle said, and there was a note of satisfaction in his voice. I'd always known there was some bitter history between the two of them, but I'd never realized just how bitter until that moment. I'd never seen Doyle be petty before.

Sage pointed at Nicca, who was still kneeling on the bed. «He knows nothing of wings. He has never flown above a spring meadow, or tasted how sweet and clean the wind can be.» He pounded his fist into his bare chest. «But I know! I know!»

«I'm missing something,» I said. «What difference does being sidhe mean for Sage?»

«You have stolen my wings from me, Merry,» he said, and there was a look on his face, of such unbearable loss, that I moved toward him. I had to hold him. Had to touch him. Had to try to take that look from his eyes.

He held a pale yellow hand out toward me. «No, no more, Merry. I have had enough of the sidhe for one night.»

Rhys cleared his throat, and the noise seemed to startle Sage. He turned to find Rhys almost behind him, having walked across the room to stand near the mirror. Sage looked wildly around the room as if we'd trapped him and he was seeking a way out. It was true that Frost was near the only door, but he wasn't trapped. Not in any way that I understood.

Sage pointed a finger at Nicca. «Do you know what we would call him if he had gotten his wings as a child?»

Everyone gave their version of blank face, though it looked like everything from humor to arrogance. It was Rhys who said, «I give up. What would you call Nicca if he'd gotten his wings as a kid?»

«Cursed.» Sage spat the word as if it was the worst thing he could ever call anyone.

«Cursed, how?» I asked.

«He has wings but he cannot fly, Merry. He is too heavy for the wings of a moth to carry him aloft» — he smacked his fist into his chest—"as I am too heavy for mine now.»

«What's happened?» Galen asked from the doorway. He was rubbing sleep from his eyes. His bedroom was the farthest away from this room.

Before any of us could answer, Sage marched to him, brushing past Frost. «Look, look at what has become of me!»

Galen gaped at Sage. «What. your eyes.»

Sage pushed past him, snarling one last phrase over his winged shoulder. «Wicked, wicked sidhe.» And he was gone.