“How can I prove to you that it’s really me?” I asked him. “The marks on my face from when we crossed the river on the raft and watched Aidan fade into the mist behind us? The burns on my hands from trying to save Becan? Or should I sing the song?”

“No!” he snarled. I saw him gather himself, then he said more quietly, “You are no different from the others. If not a woman of my father’s procurement, changed by his arts to resemble her, then a phantom from the recesses of my own mind. A dream sent to torment me. How many times must I say it? I will not play this game.”

“It’s not the game you think,” I said softly.

“Then what is it? I can never be free of this place; I can never be free of him. If you were really Clodagh”—his voice cracked as he spoke my name—“and if you had spoken to that man before you came to me, you would know that he will never release me. It’s in the charm, isn’t it? I knew what would become of me the moment I heard that old woman telling the story.”

“There was guidance in all three of her tales,” I said. Best be careful with this particular thread of conversation, if Mac Dara was listening. “Clues. Answers. If I’d understood them, I could have stopped you from coming here at all, let alone stepping across your father’s threshold. Even the silly tale about the clurichaun wars had a message in it.” I twisted the green glass ring on my finger and saw his gaze sharpen.

The object on the table glowed more brightly for a moment, then dimmed.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Are you blind? It’s a mirror. As Mac Dara’s only son, I’m required to keep up appearances. No more throwing on an old cloak.”

My heart did a peculiar somersault in my chest. He knew me. For all the outward defiance, it was in his choice of words, and it was in his eyes, careful as he was to mask the spark of recognition. Careful because he believed, as I did, that Mac Dara was watching every move and listening to every word. Perhaps Cathal had known me from the moment I came in here, when he had frozen at the sound of my voice. “If that’s your idea of keeping up appearances,” I said, “you’re not doing much of a job. Why don’t you let me attend to your hair, at least? It looks as if it hasn’t seen a comb since last spring.” I rose and approached the table.

“No!” He edged back along the wall, out of my reach. “Don’t try your tricks on me!”