I saw Mac Dara raise his arm, then lower it again as Cathal said, “No, Father. Till waves are calmed by human hand, remember? Thanks to my mother, that brave woman whom you so wronged, I can claim human blood. And thanks to her I have a certain knack with water. You are too late. The charm is undone.”

Cathal stepped down to the riverbank. As he moved, a small figure cloaked in gray emerged from the forest higher up. One hand supported the silver dog mask that covered its face; in the other it was carrying Cathal’s pack. Mac Dara did not stir as he watched the creature scramble down to stand beside his son at the water’s edge. On the opposite bank, I could see the hedgehog-dwarf anchoring a rope, and the being that looked a little like a rock passing something up to the folk in the trees, and the owl-faced creature perched on a low branch, apparently giving instructions. My breath caught in my throat. Till ancient foes in friendship stand. Cathal had done it. He had won their trust, and he had broken the spell.

“Thank you,” he said to Dog Mask, taking the pack. “Please convey my deepest gratitude to all your kind. Without your aid, and without theirs,” glancing up at the folk of the trees, who were finished their work of making and now clung half-concealed in the foliage, bright eyes observant, “I could not have made my way out from this place. I owe you a debt.”

Mac Dara was no longer trying to hurl bolts of fire. He stood preternaturally still, and his face was as white as chalk. His eyes were desolate. He looked as my mother had looked when we told her Finbar had been stolen. I understood, in that moment, that love is not always simple; that choices can be right and wrong at the same time. Even now, with hope springing high in my breast and home so close I could almost smell it, I knew that look of desolation would remain forever in my mind. He opened his mouth to speak, and I cringed, expecting a curse, a charm, some final malign attempt at sorcery. But all he said was, “I was wrong.” Not an apology; he was incapable of that. An acknowledgment that his son was indeed everything the father had hoped he might be, and that the moment of realization had come too late. The spell was undone. There was no remaking it.