“Arthurian legend?” I said. “Please tell me I’m reading that wrong.”

“It’s one variation. Gwynn was said to be a member of King Arthur’s court who annually fought another member over the most beautiful woman in the land. Who was also his sister.”

“And he was fighting to protect her honor, right? Pure brotherly love.”

“Depends on the version you’re looking at. In some—”

“Let’s stick with brotherly love.”

“So there’s that version, a reshaping of local folklore, like most Arthurian legends. In older accounts, Gwynn is the king of the Tylwyth Teg, which seems closer to what you’ve seen. But there’s confusion there, too. Sometimes he’s Welsh fae. Other times he’s more closely associated with the Cwn Annwn and merges with Arawn. Even the etymology of his name is confusing. Ap Nudd just means ‘son of Nudd.’ Gwynn means ‘bright or shining,’ but he’s usually described as dark—a great warrior with a blackened face. He’s linked to woodland, again like the Cwn Annwn. And to owls, which would seem the arena of the Cwn Annwn, too, but . . .”

“They aren’t,” I said. “Ravens are Cwn Annwn and owls are Tylwyth Teg.” I asked her to hand me the book and I skimmed the entry, seeing the same mess of contradictions that Rose described. I put the book down. “None of this helps.”

“Because the answer isn’t here,” she said, tapping the cover. “Your visions reveal the truth behind the folklore.”

Which did not help me one bit. More questions than answers, with no idea what difference those answers made to my life.

—

I’d planned to stay up, working with Gabriel, until Ricky returned. But while it was barely past ten, I was exhausted, and I think “someone” texted to tell Ricky I was falling asleep on my laptop, because at 10:15 I got a message from Ricky telling me he’d be another hour at least, and I should go to sleep. Rose was leaving the front door unlocked so he could take the sofa without disturbing anyone.

I texted back to say I wanted him to wake me when he got there. His response wasn’t exactly a refusal, but when I woke after midnight, I was alone in Rose’s guest room.

I found Ricky in the parlor, sitting on the sofa, lost in thought. Troubled thoughts, his face pensive and half shadowed. The breeze from the open front window ruffled his hair, a tendril tickling his cheek. Normally he’d brush it back, but he just sat there, his gaze fixed on the window, a haunted look in his eyes.