“Okay,” Christiana said. “I deserved that. But I already said I was sorry. What more do you want?”

Galfreya shook her head. “I don’t want anything. I’m just wary of the darkness you carry inside you—the shadow of a shadow that has no love for my people.”

“Fine,” Christiana said. “Make up a new bogeyman for yourself, if it makes you feel any better. But for the record, I don’t care about fairies one way or the other, except in relation to Geordie. Cut him loose from whatever enchantment you’ve put on him, and you’ll never have to hear from me again.”

And with that, she was gone. Stepped between and disappeared, taking with her all opportunity for further conversation.

Galfreya stared at the place from which the shadow had vanished.

She hadn’t handled that well.

Christiana’s cocky manner had put her off, as had the shadow’s insights into Galfreya’s relationship with Geordie. There was an enchantment on the fiddler, a small calling-on glamour that kept him returning to play at their revels and of which he was unaware. Galfreya was loath to remove it, for his safety—that much hadn’t been a lie—but also because she liked having him in her company. There was no spell that made him pay attention to her. Unlike other fairy women, she always insisted on her consorts having freedom of choice. That made it all the sweeter when they were drawn to her.

And Geordie’s affection was sweeter still, for he could say no as well as yes, as he had this morning. So when he did stay, it was because he wanted to. Because he wanted her.

She sighed.

She’d known it wouldn’t last. If it hadn’t been this, it would have been something else, because dealing with humans was always a chancy proposition. They were unpredictable and willful—much like the shadows they could cast from themselves. Enspelling Geordie had always been only a stopgap measure, not a permanent solution. And really, she knew better than any, that a foretelling would always play out. If not sooner, then later.

The fates of men and fairies weren’t inexorably etched in stone. If there were weavers, making a pattern on their looms of how lives were lived, they could only nudge and hint, not force fate to unfold on some strict schedule. And a seer’s vision saw only probabilities, not truth. The only truth was now. The past was clouded by memory; the future, in the end, forever a mystery. Even to a seer.