We set our guitars carefully on their stands. My mind was racing. The studio was soundproof: no human could have heard us, even if they were prowling around the house. But whatever I’d felt at the edges of our magic had absolutely not felt human. I didn’t want to admit it to myself: I recognized that dark, sour rot. It was Unseelie magic.

I’d stopped being bothered by Sy’s Unseelie magics. I don’t know when. His magic, his nature, it couldn’t be unpleasant to me ...