“We were watching the sluagh attack someone who’d been falsely convicted of a crime and marked for the sluagh. Then the sluagh was there, with us. It said I belonged to them.”

“What?” Genuine alarm spiked Ida’s voice.

“It said I’d been bought and paid for. Exact wording.”

Ida shook her head. “No, absolutely not.”

“It called us Gwynn and Matilda, but it clearly wasn’t mistaking us for the originals.”

Ida looked sick.

Startled, I glanced at Grace, who seemed to be shimmering between the old woman and the fae.

“It’s a mistake,” Grace said finally. “A trick. No, a lie. It must be a lie.”

“And if it’s not?” Gabriel said.

“Stay here,” Ida said. “In this house, please. With the hound. Lock the doors. Allow no one in but Grace or myself. We’ll bring you dinner and anything else you need.”

Patrick cleared his throat.

“What?” Ida snapped.

“Perhaps you should let them decide who brings their meals.”

“Now, bòcan?” Ida’s voice rose. “You still need to prove you are their favorite?”

“No,” he said evenly. “I was going to suggest Rose.”

“Yes,” Gabriel said. “We would prefer Rose. We will stay here until morning, but no longer. We are not children. If this isn’t resolved by then, you will need to tell us how to stay safe.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

“No, apparently not,” Gabriel said as he stood at my front window, watching the elders leave.

“No to what?” I said from the couch.

“You were about to say, ‘So, I guess no cabin tonight,’ and then you realized I might not appreciate the reminder.”

His phone rang. Lydia’s ring tone. He took it out but only looked down at the screen.

I was about to comment when my own phone blipped.

“Ricky,” I said. “I should bring him up to speed. How about you go upstairs and call Lydia back. I’ll update Ricky, and then I’ll make us a snack. You must be hungry.”

He looked vaguely confused, as if I was asking whether he felt like roller-blading. Then he said, in his normally brisk tone, “Yes, thank you. Food would be wise. I’ll speak to Lydia upstairs.”

—

Fifteen minutes later, Gabriel’s footfalls thumped down the steps as he called, “Olivia?” with fear lacing his voice. “I smell—”

“Fire?” I leaned out the parlor door. “That would be me, trying to be sneaky and forgetting to open the flue. Apparently, closing the door didn’t block the smell as much as I’d hoped. So, having ruined my surprise, ummm…” I threw open the door. “Ta-da?”

He walked over, still looking not entirely convinced that the house wasn’t about to go up in smoke. Then he stopped in the entrance and blinked.