Sevenwaters: its image was never far from my mind. The dappled forest paths, the seven streams in all their moods, the rocks by the lake where generations of children had sat and dreamed. The grove of young oaks. The solitary birch. Everything had a story. The keep itself, with the stone steps up to the roof where a child could sit and look out over the vast sweep of the forest. And that forest, with its capricious pathways and its hidden places, secret places housing portals to a world stranger than the strangest tale. Sevenwaters, home not only to man and woman, but to uncanny races of ancient story . . . How could mere words explain something so wondrous, so beautiful, so utterly different?

“But I’m not sad to be leaving my family,” I went on, taking encouragement from the fact that my audience was watching me with apparent interest. “I’ve known since I was quite small that I was destined for a spiritual life. When I feel confused or distressed, when things worry me, I remind myself of the day I first learned that. I should explain that Sevenwaters, my home, is a place of many stories: tales of family, tales of mystery and magic, tales of uncanny folk. We belong to the old faith. Around us, many other families are Christian now. Increasingly that sets us apart. My father’s fortifications defend not only our household and our settlements, but also the druids and . . . certain others.

“Of course, as a little girl I did not understand all this. I just knew Uncle Conor came to visit each festival day, wearing his white robe and his golden torc, and conducted the ritual. Sometimes, if we were lucky, one of us girls would be asked to help in some small way, perhaps carrying an item in a procession or joining in the singing of a prayer. I have five sisters in all, four older, one younger, as well as my baby brother. When we reached a certain age, each of us in turn had the opportunity to dance at Meán Earraigh, the spring celebration, where a young girl takes the part of the Maiden in the ritual.”

I faltered, realizing this was not quite true. Maeve had not had a turn. When she was only ten years old Maeve had been burned in a terrible accident, and soon after that she had gone away to live with Aunt Liadan in Britain. My aunt’s remarkable gift as a healer made her best suited to help a girl with crippled hands and a scarred face. And Clodagh had missed her turn as well, for the year that would have been hers was the year that disaster happened. The ritual had passed a grieving Sevenwaters by.