A peal of derisive laughter, a rustle in the ferns, and the creature was gone. All around the camp there was a shifting and a moving in the shadows, as if there had been not one small being here, but many. I had a sense of their folding back into the landscape, merging with the earth and the tree trunks and the bushes. Then, utter silence. I hugged Becan close. “Don’t tell me,” I murmured. “I probably imagined the whole thing. A bang on the head can do that.”

I tried to remember all the tales I’d heard about the various folk who lived in the Otherworld, the grand and powerful Tuatha De Danann and the other races with whom they shared that realm. These included a tribe commonly referred to as the Old Ones, known for their remarkable ability to blend into the landscape, assuming forms not unlike those of trees or stones or streams. Sometimes they were no more than shadowy voices. Sometimes they took creature shapes. They were no friends of the Fair Folk. Indeed, there was a bitter rivalry between the two peoples, dating back to ancient times when a great war had raged across Erin and the Old Ones had been driven back to their deep caves, their wells and their remote islands. I wished one of my druid uncles were here so I could ask about them. I seemed to remember that one of the original ancestors of Sevenwaters had wed a woman of the Old Ones. That meant there was a little of their blood in my veins.

“Still,” I murmured to Becan, “that doesn’t mean they’re trustworthy. I don’t want to do this on my own, little one. I don’t want to leave Cathal behind. That would feel wrong. Heartbreak, the creature said. Does that mean I won’t get Finbar back unless I go on alone? Or is this all some kind of trap?”