“Sorcha knows the tales and warnings well,” Granny Winter said. “I have seen to that.”

“I do not know how much time I have before Donella will slip beyond saving.” Duncan worried mightily for the young girl. “I will learn as quickly as I can and do whatever I must to discover the location of this loch and gain the knowledge I need.”

Granny Winter shook her head slowly, her silver hair wafting about her. A chill breeze rustled everything inside the cottage, though the door remained snuggly shut. “You must begin your journey now. Sorcha will lead you to Loch Dreva, and, as you journey, she will teach you how to escape the traps that await you.”

Sorcha offered a humble agreement. To Duncan’s relief, she didn’t seem upset at the prospect of making the trek, though she’d not chosen it.

“But you mustn’t set out without this.” From beside her chair, Granny Winter produced a sack made of rough-hewn fabric, lumpy and awkwardly pieced together. “Everything you most need for your journey ahead lies within.”

She held out the sack to him, not to Sorcha, which was surprising. She entrusted to him, whom she hardly knew, something he suspected was of value to her.

“I will guard it well,” he promised.

Granny Winter shook her silver head. “Do not guard it well. Use it well.”

“How long do you expect this journey will require?” Sorcha asked her. “It is nearly Bealltainn.”

Bealltainn was a holiday of some significance in this corner of the world. It fell upon the first day of May, less than a week hence.

“Your wanderings can be concluded by then,” Granny Winter said. “See that they are. I will look after the young girl, tend her until your return. But should you not take my place at her bedside by the going down of the sun on the first day of May, all will be for naught.”

And thus began a journey into the world of fairies and monsters, walking a path riddled with danger in pursuit of answers to questions the two wanderers had not yet thought to ask.

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

For three years, Gemma Milligan had sent a letter every few months to her one-time home in the Finsbury area of London, updating her husband-in-name-only on her whereabouts. He’d sent very few responses, none of which requested her to return. She’d told him before leaving that he needn’t send for her unless he’d come to feel something more than a vague friendship for her. Absence was meant to make the heart fonder, she’d been told. After three years, she’d accepted that some people couldn’t be absent enough to make any heart fond of them.