“I told you to prepare yourself. You look as if you’ve just emerged from a tumble in a haystack. Wash your face and comb your hair, Clodagh. Straighten your clothing. You’re about to ask Mac Dara a favor. You don’t want to fail for want of a little tidying.”

Cathal began an angry retort, but I hushed him. There was no point in protesting. I went to the pond and knelt to splash my face with my free hand. Back at the fireside I got out my comb, but Cathal took it from me before I could start the process of restoring my curls back to the order I had achieved earlier.

“Let me,” he said.

His touch was gentle. With Becan cradled in my arms, I stood watching the cavalcade pass by beyond the hedge—here a tall woman whose silver hair was studded with tiny twinkling stars, here a man of arrogant appearance with a pitch-black owl riding on his shoulder—and felt the careful movement of the comb through my hair and the brush of Cathal’s fingers against my neck, my forehead, my temple. He made the simple task an act of tenderness that turned my heart over.

“It’s done,” he said eventually. “You look lovely, Clodagh.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“Any time,” he said, and I heard the tremor in his voice.

“You must stay here,” I told him. “Let me do this on my own.” I glanced at the three small beings who stood in a row, watching me. “These are friends; they’ll help me. Wait for me here and we’ll go home together.”

“Very wise,” said Dog Mask. Its odd companions uttered what seemed assent—the stony one made a grinding sound and the other a liquid gurgle. “If you want our help, leave him behind. We will not walk with his kind. Now come, Clodagh.”

Cathal had fetched my bag, into which I’d tucked the special things from the cloak, the talismans to keep me safe.

“You won’t need that,” said my guide. “The way home is shorter. That bag is ugly. Mac Dara won’t listen if you look like a vagrant who carries all her worldly possessions with her.”

“I’m taking it,” I said sharply, and turned so that Cathal could help me hitch the pack onto my back. “If Mac Dara makes his decisions based on how folk look, it’s time he learned there are better ways to do things.”

The watery being let out a bubbling sound that might have been laughter. Dog Mask sighed. “Mac Dara’s a prince,” it said. “He’s powerful. He’s wayward. You’re an ordinary girl without the least magical ability. If you won’t follow simple advice—”