“Ahhh!” A great sigh of shock and sorrow shuddered around the circle of Old Ones. I held Becan against my breast, wishing from the very core of my being that he would reach out and take hold of my clothing as he once had, grasping at security. I had failed him utterly.

A little silence. Then the stony creature said, “Quick! The hedge of thorn!” and all of them started walking again, much faster this time. Dog Mask still had Finbar.

“Wait!” I made to put Becan back, but Dog Mask turned its head toward me.

“No, no!” it said sharply. “Do not relegate him to your baggage. Carry him in your arms, next to your heart. Fold your shawl around him. Talk to him. Sing to him.”

I slung the bag awkwardly over one shoulder and hastened after them, the inert form of Becan cradled against me. Perhaps they were right; perhaps he deserved better than to be stowed away in the dark. As for singing, that would be more than I could bear. But I murmured as I stumbled up the path under the oaks. “There, there, my love, my baby . . . sleep sound, little dove . . .”

We reached the hedge of thorn. The gate creaked open to let us in and shut behind us with a determined snap. By the cold fire was Cathal’s pack. Perhaps he had intended to collect it on the way home. Or maybe he had known all along how this would end for him. A little further away there was a white nanny goat tethered to a post.

“Milk will nourish little thirsty one,” said the watery being.

“Work,” the stony one said crisply. “Work to be done!”

“Pull yourself together, girl,” added one of the others. “No time to lose!”

But I sank to my knees, rocking the lifeless child, my heart twisting in pain, my tears falling on his little burned face. Dog Mask settled beside me, holding my brother’s shawl-wrapped form with confident ease. The others gathered close. Even those with masks managed somehow to look expectant.

“What?” I asked wanly. “What is it I’m supposed to do? He’s dead. Becan’s dead. He’s not breathing. Anyone can see that. All I can do is dig a grave and . . .” I faltered to a halt, feeling the pressure of their strange eyes on me.

“Clodagh,” said a being that was a curious mixture of dwarf and hedgehog, “you are not required to be a hero right now. All you need to do is be yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Fix!” said the stony one with a snap of its chinklike mouth. “Match! Patch!”

“Tending, mending, gathering, mothering . . .” murmured the watery one.

“You have a reputation as a model housewife,” said Dog Mask.