For Sibeal, this was an unusually animated speech. “He seems fine,” I said. “He’s been well looked after. It’s a long story. Thank you for being here.” I glanced at Ciarán, trying to work out what he was thinking, but his mulberry eyes gave nothing away. “Uncle, I would prefer not to be seen by anyone else at the nemetons. Not even Conor. I need to explain something to you and Sibeal, something my parents aren’t going to like at all. Not about the baby,” I added hastily, seeing the sudden alarm on my sister’s face. “Another matter.”

Ciarán seemed unperturbed. “My brethren do not disturb me when I am teaching, Clodagh, and our little camp is at some distance from their gathering place. Conor is at Sevenwaters; there’s a council in progress. We, too, have some news.”

“A council? Isn’t that rather quick? Father and Johnny weren’t even—” I halted, a frisson of anxiety passing through me. “How long have I been gone?” I made myself ask.

“Nearly a whole turning of the moon,” Sibeal said solemnly. “Clodagh, there’s some very bad news. It’s about Aidan.”

“I know he’s dead,” I said. “Mac Dara killed him. We saw it.”

“We? Who—”

“This can wait, Sibeal.” Ciarán was watching me closely. “Let us walk to the other side of the hill before we exchange our news.”

“A whole turning of the moon,” I muttered. “So long.” These tricks of time could work either way. I thought of Cathal, and what might happen if months and years passed in the Otherworld before I could reach him. Let him not forget me, I prayed. Let Mac Dara not poison his mind beyond recovery.

We moved to a neat small encampment on the far side of the hill, with a hearth between stones and rudimentary shelters for sleeping. An area under an awning housing various tools—birch augury sticks, a mortar and pestle, a copper bowl and ewer—indicated that my sister and her tutor had been working hard while they awaited my arrival. There was a pot of porridge beside the fire. Ciarán, a man economical with both words and gestures, filled a bowl for me and made me eat all of it before I told them my story.

Sibeal was surprised that Cathal had come with me on my journey. She was astonished that he had proven to be, not just a rather difficult friend of Johnny’s, but the son of Mac Dara himself. Ciarán listened intently, saying very little, but none of it seemed to shock him. I had a feeling he knew a great deal already.

“And so,” I said at the end, “I can’t come home. I have to go back and get him out. But the Old Ones didn’t tell me how to find a portal, so I suppose I’ll have to wander off into the forest and look for one, as I did before.” Somehow, here in my own world with my stomach comfortably full and the fire warming me and my sister sitting right beside me holding the drowsing baby, doing that did not seem quite as possible as it had before. After all, it was Cathal who had found the river; it was Cathal who had taken me across it. “I have to, Sibeal,” I added, seeing her eyes widen in disbelief. “There’s nobody else to help him.”