None of them was particularly appealing, so after awhile he let himself doze. There was no cozy hedgerow at hand, nor a warm tree to wrap him in its deep roots, but he was still able to forget this cool, foggy beach on which he’d set up camp to wait for either Lizzie or Geordie to return—at least he could forget it enough to drift off. He didn’t fall into a deep sleep like the one in which the fish man had caught him unaware, back in the Aisling’s Wood. It was more a light dreaming, a half-awake wander through a dreamscape where the sun shone cheerfully bright, gleaming on the white caps, and the rhythm of the waves on the shore was comforting rather than sullen. Gulls wheeled and dipped above, and there was only one cloud in that otherwise clear blue sky.

He studied it, vaguely considering its shape. Was it like a turtle—if you ignored that big bit on the left—or more like syrup pooling on a stack of pancakes in some goodwife’s kitchen?

Hunger woke a faint rumble in his stomach, and he considered convincing some of the seaweed draped upon the sand into becoming something more to his liking. Scones, perhaps. Or a fat slice of ham. Perhaps both, with plenty of syrup and a side dish of—

His eyes snapped open and he jumped to his feet, a knife held ready in each hand, before he realized what had brought him out of his half-sleep to stand here, awake and alert upon the sand.

Lizzie.

She’d escaped that locked world. In fact . . .

Yes, the world was open now, but that didn’t matter because Lizzie was free of it.

He let his mind range wide, focusing on where she was, but before he could step away to join her, he realized he was no longer alone on this shore.

He turned slowly around, trying to pierce the fog. Though he didn’t sense danger, he held the knives by their blades, locked between thumbs and fingers, ready to be thrown.

“Who’s there?” he asked after a moment.

He got no response, but he sensed confusion in whoever was hiding from him.

“I know where you are,” he lied. “If you don’t step out where I can see you, you’ll be trying to tug one of these blades out of your throat, see if you won’t.”

Though there was still no response, he didn’t throw the knives. There was no point. Because now he realized that floating out there in the fog was a spirit. Bodiless. Voiceless. The spirit of what, he had no idea. All he could sense from it was the confusion and a sadness. No malevolence.

And it was beginning to drift away from him, losing itself in the fog.