But not everyone was filled with such gaiety. The piskie lady had barely spoken a word all day. Even now she sat out on the ledge under his window, staring mournfully at the stars. Pocket had not bothered her about teaching him to form a tail, although he had managed to hold the mule’s ears the entire day. She seemed to want peace, so Pocket only smiled when she caught him staring and she always smiled back, but there was something missing. He could see the tips of her wings poking up from the bottom of the window and he watched them flutter slightly in the nighttime breeze for more than an hour before he made up his mind.

Pocket had spent a lifetime in long, quiet solitude; sitting in dark places, away from the world, hoping not to be disturbed by bad people…and all the while wishing someone kind would come and find him and talk to him and be his friend.

Rosheen looked up and smiled when he leaned out the window.

“Trouble sleeping?” she asked.

“Yes,” he told her.

She nodded then turned back to the sky, her eyes careful never to look down at the jam of buildings. He watched her for a moment, nervous to speak.

“You miss him?” he finally ventured.

Rosheen looked over at him, puzzled but not angry as he feared. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

“Me too,” he said, then realized his mistake. “I mean, I miss my friends sometimes too.”

He watched her watch the stars for a long time and worried that she was ignoring him, that he was bothering her. His heart fell, and he was about to duck back inside when she spoke.

“Everyone keeps telling me he may be dead,” she looked over at him, her eyes bright and wet. “But I would feel it, were it true. I know I would feel it. He is alive.” She nodded firmly, dislodging a single tear. “He is alive.”

“Sometimes,” Pocket said. “I talk about them. My friends that are not here. I tell Flyn about them or Lochlann. Sometimes even Backbone, because he listens best. He seems to like the stories about Napper.”

“Napper?” Rosheen asked.

“He’s a cat,” Pocket said. “My best friend. He and Moragh.

She was like you. She was very kind to me.”

“I wish I knew them, then.”

“They would like you,” Pocket said. “But it helps. To talk about them with someone. It helps even if they do not listen. But I would listen.” Pocket took another nervous breath. “Would you like to tell me about him?”

Rosheen smiled at him and this time, nothing was missing. “Yes,” she said. “I would.”

S IXTEEN

SIXTEEN