Still, it didn’t hurt to check. It was always better to know exactly what we might be dealing with.

“Is she a hag?”

Ingrid snorted. “Well, she’s old and a little scruffy, but calling her a hag is going a little far.”

A comment that suggested Ingrid had no idea hags still existed. Interesting, given she was pixie—even if one from a much smaller branch—and should have at least some awareness of the old gods.

“Tell her we’ll be there in fifteen minutes and give her a cup of coffee or tea.”

Ingrid snorted again. “She demanded whisky.”

My eyebrows rose. “Did you give it to her?”

“I got the distinct impression she wouldn’t take a ‘no’ very kindly, and it’s still too early in the day to be dealing with confrontational guests.”

I couldn’t help smiling. Ingrid might be small, but woe betide any customer who thought she could be easily intimidated. Still, if Castell was a hag, then caution was a wise move. Beira hadn’t in any way threatened me, but I’d certainly gotten the impression trouble was only a finger-snap away.

“Keep an eye on her, and we’ll be there soon.”

The minute I hung up, Lugh said, confusion evident in his expression, “Her? I thought you were talking about your father?”

“Castell apparently has a message from him. She’s at the tavern waiting for us.”

“This whole situation is just getting weirder,” he muttered and then pushed to his feet. “I’ll call an Uber while you finish getting dressed.”

I grabbed the last bit of toast from my plate, then ran into the bedroom to shove on my coat, boots, and knives. Once we were in the Uber and scooting through the morning traffic, I gave Cynwrig a call. His line was busy, so I left a message, letting him know that we were on our way to meet Castell, who was currently sitting in the tavern.

Ye Old Pixie Boots—the name Mom had given the tavern when she’d taken it over after Gran’s retirement a hundred or so years ago—was a heritage-listed building in the historic heart of Deva’s famous Rows area. It consisted of an undercroft at street level, one floor at “row” level, and our living quarters above that. Aside from a few layout changes upstairs and the necessary modernizations, it was basically the same building that had stood on this spot since it had undergone minor remodeling in the late 1400s.

I pushed open the old wooden door and clattered down the steps to the main room. Given its age, it was an unsurprisingly intimate space, with five tables in this front area and four smaller ones and the bar on the far side of the stairs. Bright pixie boots of various sizes hung from the exposed floor joists and beams, some of them real, some of them not, but all of them a nod to tourist expectations.

Castell wasn’t hard to miss, given she was the only other person in the tavern. Ingrid was industriously scrubbing things down behind the bar at the other end, making herself useful as she kept an eye on our guest, as requested.