But it was here. An indentation in the earth, followed by another, and then another. The first few were shaped like human footprints. Then they began to change shape, into prints that were larger, but heavier and rounded, with a pointed tip.

In the darkness, with her enhanced vision blurred, Hæra stared down at a hoofprint with a sharp edge. She looked at the trow’s severed hand and ripped-out guts. She smelled the blood. And then she knew.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Madeleine hated storms.

She wasn’t one to hide from the sound of thunder, but she did brace herself against power outages and structural damage. And, of course, she prayed for everyone’s safety. Coming from New Orleans, she knew about the power of wind and rain, but there hadn’t been anything in the cottage she could use to board up the windows. She had, however, filled the bathtub with water. Reflex.

Hæra had told her, weeks ago, that Ætlaquoy had nothing to fear from storms because of the little trow in his mound. She brought him food, and his magic kept the farm safe. It sounded like an unequal bargain to Madeleine: daily breakfast for the protection of an entire property? But Hæra had assured Madeleine that it was enough for the trow; he wanted the respect signified by a daily offering. His kind, Hæra said, were big on offerings. “And,” she’d added, “I think he likes being seen for what he is instead of having to hide.”

Now, as Madeleine sat on the cottage couch while the wind howled outside, she looked at her hands. Hæra had wanted her to meet the trow, and she’d wanted more than that. She’d wanted Madeleine to see the unseen world from which she came, even if a trow and an Each-uisge were very different creatures.

Tomorrow morning, Madeleine would. It was past time. Hæra had been patient with her, more than she was about pretty much anything else. If Madeleine wanted to keep leaning into doubt as a way to reshape her faith—and herself—then she’d better put her money where her mouth was. Even if the idea made her stomach squirm with apprehension.

The current state of affairs wasn’t likely to calm her down. Summer days in Orkney were long, and it was just the early evening, but the storm clouds had turned the sky as black as night.

Thunder clapped outside, loudly enough that she gasped. Moments later, lightning flashed beyond the rain-hammered windows. Good Lord, it was starting to sound like a hurricane. Much worse than the forecast had said.

Hæra was still out there.