She looks at the numerous frozen figures and identifies various species of kin: fae, brownie, troll, nymph, goblin, even a centaur. There are some with panic-stricken expressions and others with faces permanently contorted in pain. A moment passes, and Croi hears a moan on the tails of a breeze, as if someone is crying in despair. She shivers.

You’ve been avoiding the SoulSeed for a while now.

It is easy to forget the SoulSeed. Everything that has happened, that Croi has found out about her identity and origin, has been much more immediate and urgent.

Stop making excuses. You just don’t want to complete Uaine’s task.

That is true. What does it matter to her where the HeartStone is or if it is found? Death waits for her regardless.

I’d like some dignity in my last moments.

Croi looks at the nearest grotesquerie and shudders. She can’t deny her other self’s words or desire. She’d like some dignity too.

“Fine, I’ll go search for the central hall now.”

Croi retraces her steps to the forest building; as soon as she passes through its door, her right shoulder sinks under the pixie’s weight.

“You disappeared!” Tinder accuses.

“Do you want to check your conscience and say that again?” Croi rolls her eyes.

“Sorry. I got too excited. Where did you go?” Tinder sounds guilty.

Croi refuses to reply. The less said about that garden, the better. Instead she asks, “Do you know where the central hall of the Caisleán is?”

“The central hall only appears the midnight before the Saol ceremony and disappears the midnight after,” Tinder replies promptly. “It will appear tomorrow at midnight.”

Croi brightens at the answer. She doesn’t have to think about the SoulSeed until midnight tomorrow.

“I heard some kin talking about a revelry that’s happening right now. You want to go?” Tinder says in her ear.

Croi perks up. “Yes! Where?”

“We have to go through the grape garden and to the center of the maze!”

“Let’s go!”

They ask the friendliest-looking kin nearby for directions to the maze, but Croi finds that she doesn’t really need them. The Caisleán guides her, letting her know which corners to turn and which paths to walk on. The grounds of the Caisleán are wild, unfettered by gardeners who insist on artificial order and manicured beauty. Instead, honeysuckles grow where they want, roses climb over short walls, and trees appear where the earth suits them. The grounds of the Caisleán are chaotic, championing color and fragrance.

The sound of laughter attracts Croi’s attention, and she walks through a moon gate to find a garden filled with female kin dressed in multihued flowy dresses. At the front of the garden in a swing dressed up in small white flowers is an older fae woman with a crown on her head. She is surrounded by kin of a similar age who show her obeisance and respect. She has a beautiful face on which age has made infrequent forays in the form of faint lines around her eyes and lips. Thick green rings around the irises of her eyes label her Talamh. The crown marks her as royalty. The garden is full of grapevines heavy with clusters of white grapes made transparent by the sunrays piercing them.