“Arawn is from the Mallt-y-Nos folklore,” she said when I finished describing what I’d experienced. “But Gwynn ap Nudd . . . ? There is a connection, but to Arawn, not Matilda.” She got up from her desk. “The vision you had before the fever was a version of the Mallt-y-Nos legend,” she said as she perused her bookshelves.

“Right,” I said. “A young woman—Matilda—is about to get married. She loves to hunt, but has promised her future husband she’ll give it up for him. But she wants one last hunt on the eve of their wedding. He says it’s past midnight, and she made a vow. She thinks she still has time and leaves in spite of his protests. She loses him and is cursed to hunt forever as Mallt-y-Nos. Matilda the Crone. Very flattering. Except in my vision, she ran back to her betrothed and the palace was gone, and she fell into flames and perished.”

“Or so it seemed. The hunt is the Hunt. We know that.” Rose took down a book. “The Wild Hunt. Cwn Annwn. In your vision, it’s represented by the man Matilda runs to meet. That would be Arawn. Lord of the Otherworld. Leader of the Wild Hunt.”

“Which makes sense. But in the stories, the fiancé she leaves behind is just some random nobleman. In my vision, he’s definitely otherworldly. Blond guy, all sunshine and daylight and gold. Fae, I’m guessing.”

“Gwynn ap Nudd.”

“Right. He said that he was Gwynn and I was Matilda. We were getting married, and Matilda wanted Arawn to know, but Gwynn didn’t want to tell him.”

“A love triangle, then.”

“I never got that impression. Matilda said she was friends with Arawn, but that he and Gwynn were also friends. When she went to meet Arawn that night, there was no sense that she was running off with a lover or reconsidering the marriage to Gwynn. She’d made her choice. It really was about the joy of the hunt—and sharing it with a good friend. Gwynn couldn’t accept that.”

“Jealousy.”

“I guess, but it still boils down to the basic question: What the hell does this have to do with me?”

Gabriel had been silent until now, listening. He shifted, folding his hands on the table. “An answer I don’t think we’re going to get until you have the full story.”

“Until I see the full vision.”

He shook his head. “If Rose can figure it out, then there should be no need of the visions.”

“Except Rose can’t figure it out,” his aunt said as she lowered herself back into her seat, book in hand. “It’s only following the folklore to an extent. Matilda and Mallt-y-Nos? Yes. Olivia’s vision is similar enough to a version of Matilda’s story. Arawn fits, too. But Gwynn?”

She opened the book to an entry on Gwynn ap Nudd.