I retreated to the bed again, seating myself upon it with my knees drawn up and my arms around them, my bag beside me. On the other side of the chamber, in the shadows, Cathal gave a strange little smile. “A wall to screen out truth,” he murmured. “You believe my father has the power to create such a charm?”

No, I thought, doing my best not to look at the mirror. But maybe you do. Maybe that’s what you’re trying to tell me. Is that thing somehow connected with Mac Dara? He sees us through it? No; then all you’d need to do to shut him out is turn it upside down. Can it be that it shows you when he’s watching you and when he isn’t? Ciarán had implied that Cathal could learn to counter his father’s magic, given time. And Cathal had already possessed an exceptional talent at scrying, even before he entered the Otherworld. Could he have acquired sufficient knowledge to devise this powerful tool so quickly? But then, perhaps Mac Dara had lied. Perhaps I had been gone not months, but years. “Your father can do anything he wants,” I said. “Including what you seem incapable of. He promised me that if you couldn’t oblige me tonight, he will do so tomorrow.”

He blanched. Eyes blazing with fury, he made to speak, then clamped his lips tight.

“He did give you the chance to demonstrate your virility,” I made myself say. “But you won’t even try. I hate you, Cathal. I hate that you don’t know me, I hate that you don’t want me, I curse the day I met you. Now stop talking and leave me alone.” I bent my head onto my knees, and although my speech was all pretense, the tears I shed were entirely real.

And then we waited. I sat on the bed; he stood against the wall opposite. We tried not to look at each other, but the space between us was full of the cruel words we had spoken and the tender ones we could not speak. It was alive with my longing to touch him, to hold him, to cling to him and never let go. In the silence, I could hear Cathal’s words: I would kiss her until she begged for mercy. I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off her. And though he held his expression cool and distant, a flame burned in his eyes. What if Mac Dara never turned away his gaze? We could not attempt an escape in full view. If morning came and we had not lain together, and Mac Dara argued that it was because Cathal could not perform the act, I would be obliged to share my bed with the Lord of the Oak tomorrow night. I could be condemned to give him my firstborn son. For that, Cathal would never forgive me. I would never forgive myself.