But Becan was asleep again, his odd little face peaceful within the folds of the tunic. I was cold. Cathal had been right, his cloak was the only item we had with the capacity to keep out the chill of this forest at night. Fleetingly, I allowed myself to imagine creeping under it and curling up next to him, our bodies warming each other. I felt my cheeks flush. Silly, really, that one might risk freezing to death rather than act improperly. If it grew any colder I would be sorely tempted. Still, I was supposed to be on watch. Sighing, I got up and checked my own cloak, still hanging by the fire. It was almost dry. I put it on and settled to wait until morning. How long it would take to come, there was no telling. Time passed differently here; the stories made that starkly evident. Our journey might seem to last only a few days, yet devour far more time in the human world. I did not think I would cope at all well if I returned triumphant, with Finbar in my arms, to find my family aged by twenty, thirty, forty years, my parents dead, Sibeal and Eilis middle-aged women, my home changed by the passage of a whole generation. More, perhaps: a hundred years, and everyone gone. I patted Becan’s sleeping form for reassurance. In the tales, some folk never came home.