The idea made her laugh, shake her head in delighted amusement. No, she thought, it was best to keep certain areas of her new life all to herself.

Her much-loved and decidedly earthbound parents would never believe, much less understand it.

She couldn’t understand it herself. It was real, it was true—there was no way to deny it. Yet how could he be what he claimed to be? How could he do what she had seen him do?

Her pencil faltered, and she reached up to toy nervously with the end of her braid. She had seen it, less than a week ago. And since then there had been a dozen small, baffling moments.

She’d seen him light candles with a thought, pluck a white rose out of the air, and once—in one of his rare foolish moods—he’d whisked her clothes away with no more than a grin.

It amazed and delighted her. Thrilled her. But she could admit here, alone, in her deepest thoughts, that part of her feared it as well.

He had such powers. Over the elements, and over her.

He’ll never use them to harm you.

The voice in her head made her jolt so that her sketch pad slapped facedown on the forest floor. Even as she pressed a hand to her jumping heart she saw the silver owl swoop down. He watched her from the low branch of a tree out of unblinking eyes of sharp green. Gold glinted against the silver of his breast.

Another page from the fairy tale, she thought giddily, and managed to get to her feet. “Hello.” It came out as a croak, forcing her to clear her throat. “I’m Rowan.”

She bit back a shriek as the owl spread his regal wings, soared down from the tree and with a ripple of silver light became a man.

“I know well enough who you are, girl.” There was music and magic in his voice, and the echo of green hills and misty valleys.

Her nerves were forgotten in sheer pleasure. “You’re Liam’s father.”

“So I am.” The stern expression on his face softened into a smile. He moved toward her, footsteps silent in soft brown boots. And, taking her hand, lifted it gallantly to kiss. “It is a pleasure to be meeting you, young Rowan. Why do you sit here alone, worrying?”

“I like to sit alone sometimes. And worrying’s one of my best things.”

He shook his head, gave a quick snap of his fingers and had her sketch pad fluttering up into his hand. “No, this is.” He sat comfortably on the fallen tree, cocking his head so that his hair flowed like liquid silver to his shoulders. “You’ve a gift here, and a charming one.” He gave the space beside him an absent pat. “Sit yourself,” he said when she didn’t move. “I’ll not eat you.”

“It’s all so … dumbfounding.”