Cormac’s house sits just outside of Towe on the farthest point of Mab, away from the larger villages and one ferry town where the tourists visit. It’s probably the most isolated spot on the island; even hikers and tourists barely pass by, despite the the sea stacks and causeway and general unsettling beauty of the place. It’s like there’s some kind of energy rolling off the coast saying “don’t come any closer, fuckers.”

I’ve always thought that was kind of the nature of Mab. The magic feels woven into the landscape and beaches, keeping itself and the folk who live here safe. It’s like a defence mechanism; it’s gorgeous to look at, but if you look too closely, it draws you in and drowns you.

According to Cormac, the magic comes from the Seelie that first settled the island. I never really believed that, though. Faeries are kind of cliche.

Living in Cormac’s house as a kid felt like living at the end of the earth. There’s only one other house at Eòghan's Point, but it’s farther down the hill, closer to the shore and just on the other side of the old fishing road. So when you approach Eòghan's Point from the main road — the only road that runs all the way through the entire island — Cormac’s house is the only one you can see, standing small and solitary above the ocean.

It’s also standing empty.

There are no lights or signs of life when Isla and I get off the bus at Eòghan's Point and head to my home, and everything is shut up tight.

“Owen?” I ask, knocking on the wind-stripped black door. “You home? It’s, uh, Thomas.”

It goes unanswered.

With a sigh, I scrounge for the key that Cormac kept on a piece of string above the door. It’s rusted from the salt air and it sticks in the lock, and for a moment I think the door won’t open.

“Shove over,” Isla mutters, elbowing me aside. She hasn’t spoken to me since the ferry, and in the dim grey light of the early morning, she looks exhausted. She cracks her neck to each side, and then throws her shoulder into the door.

The door screeches open into a house that smells stale. It’s not dusty or decrepit, but it is abandoned, and the hair on the back of my neck starts to pinprick the moment I cross the threshold.

The house is neat and tidy, but it feels like life just stopped. There’s nothing in the den except orderly stacks of cardboard boxes. Down the hall, my old bedroom looks exactly like it used to — one single bed shoved against the wall with the window, a crooked Talking Heads poster with one corner curling over. Books I haven’t seen in years are arranged on the shelf, and my tatty old Hungarian flag is still hanging by one pin.