“Firinne knew her stories. She knew she had seven years, no more, no less; seven years to spin a web of protection around her child so that he could not be reclaimed by his father and taken to the Otherworld forever. For at seven years old, a boy is old enough to leave his mother’s skirts and her influence and to begin learning his father’s trade. That trade might be carpentry or fishing or scribing. If the father happens to be a prince of the Otherworld, then from seven years old the boy’s future lies in that shadowy realm. Of one thing Firinne was quite certain. Mac Dara would be back. Not for her; for her son.”

“You’re telling me Cathal’s mother didn’t waste away for love of Mac Dara?” I asked, shocked that this tale had been turned upside down. “She didn’t kill herself out of hopeless longing? How can you know that?”

Willow smiled again. “You seem to find it astonishing that my memory has anything in it at all. I hope that when you are old, Clodagh, your grandchildren do not expect you to spend all day mumbling by the fire. I do recall telling you, when we first met, that I’m Dan Walker’s aunt. But, just like everyone else, I did have two parents. My father wasn’t one of the traveling people. He was a handsome stranger my mother met out in the woods one night, a fellow who, from her description, looked uncommonly like that young man of yours. My mother was a bit of a wild girl. Well, she got more than she bargained for from her midnight tryst, just as Firinne did. Fortunately, nobody came for me on my seventh birthday. Mac Dara’s only interested in sons, not daughters.”

My head was spinning. “But . . .”

“But I’m an old woman?” She chuckled. “How old do you think he is? That man’s been fathering girls since the time of ancient legend. Why do you think he places such value on the one son he’s managed to get? It’s taken him a long, long time. Long enough to break his heart, though it’s commonly believed that he doesn’t possess one. Your Cathal has older sisters in every corner of Erin, Clodagh. Of course, not all of them make use of the unusual talents their parentage has bestowed; most have no idea what they are. Now, do you want the rest of the story or don’t you? We haven’t long. You need to get that baby home.”

I glanced at Finbar again; he seemed to have fallen asleep. “Yes, please,” I said, still reeling from what she had just told me. This wrinkled crone was a daughter of Mac Dara? No wonder her tales revealed uncanny truths.