Bryde picked up a framed photograph on the entrance table: the woman, a man, two small kids. He put it back down.

“Please, follow me.” Rhiannon hurried to settle them into a formal sitting room full of mirrors. “Sit. I’ll get us some coffee. On a day like this … ? Coffee. Or tea? For the young people?” She bustled off without an answer.

Ronan and Hennessy sat on either end of a stiff sofa and shot each other more raised eyebrows while Bryde stood by the carved mantel, looking pensively into one of the mirrors. The icy rain continued to spatter against the tall windows.

“Hsst,” Ronan said. “Is she the dreamer?”

Bryde continued to gaze into the mirror like a man perplexed at what he saw there. “What do you feel?”

“Benjamin Franklin Christ,” Ronan said. “Not again.”

“What do you feel?” Bryde insisted.

Hennessy muttered, “Turkeys.”

“Yes,” Bryde agreed. “And not much else. Ronan?”

Ronan was rescued by the return of Rhiannon, who set down a tray of drinks and cookies before retreating behind an armchair. Her hands kneaded the top of it as if she were giving it an anxious back massage, but her face remained kind and worried. Worried for their care, not her own. She clearly wanted them to feel welcome.

“House looks festive,” Bryde said, although he had not appeared to give any attention to the house when he walked in, apart from picking up the framed photograph.

“Christmas is coming up,” Rhiannon replied. “Don’t know if I’m spending it here or with my aunt. She asked me to come stay with her for a bit, you know. I told her I might drive up tomorrow, just in case you really did come … I didn’t know if you were real.”

Bryde smiled that private smile of his.

Rhiannon put her hand to her face again and gazed first at Hennessy and then at Ronan. “But you are. You’re all very real. You three look just like you did in the dream. Ha-ha … I didn’t dream you guys, did I?”

“I don’t know about these two jokers,” Hennessy said, “but I assure you I’m real.”

Rhiannon put a long hand over her mouth. “You even sound like you did in the dream. Maybe this is all real.”

“Put that away, Rhiannon,” Bryde said impatiently. “You already know it is. I told you—you make reality. I’m not here to reteach you what I have told you already. You know it in your heart. And could you dream us? With the ley line as it is?”