Lizzie started to decline, but then she thought about how tobacco was a part of many Native American traditions, used in everything from calling up spirits to signifying peace between strangers. And seeing how he was a Native spirit, maybe this meant more to him than the automatic politeness of offering a smoke. Since he’d already established that he wasn’t exactly a shining example of politeness, this might be his way of making peace.

She accepted the cigarette and had a puff. After returning it to him, she had to cough into her hand. There was a reason she’d given them up.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice scratchy.

He nodded and took another drag on the cigarette himself.

“So how do you know Walker?” he asked.

“I don’t, not really. Before I left the crossroads, I buried the remains of his daughter under that elm where we fought those weird little men—”

“The bogans.”

“The bogans, right.” She shivered, thinking of the horrible little creatures. “But just burying the remains still didn’t seem like enough, so I played a lament for her. And then he was just there.”

“One of your fairy tunes.”

“No, it was a Celtic one.”

“It’s the same difference, Elizabeth Mahone.”

She thought it was odd, his using her whole name the way he did. It was as though he was making a point. Then she remembered what Walker had told her.

Names are everything. If you know the full, true name of a thing, it is at your mercy.

So she supposed he was making a point. Except her name was just a name. Anybody could get it from the band’s Web site, or by picking up one of their CDs and looking at the line-up. She wasn’t sure names had the same impact in her world as they did in his, but it still made her uncomfortable that he’d used it. Maybe it was because when she was around him, she was already a half step into his world, where this kind of a thing did make a difference.

“Why don’t you like Celtic music?” she found herself asking.

He shrugged. “It’s too much like the fairies who first gave it to your people: busy and frivolous.”

“Well, I’d argue that,” she said, “but I’ve learned that there’s not much point in trying to change people’s minds when it comes to something as subjective as art. We like what we like, and words aren’t going to make a difference.” Especially not to someone as set in his ways as she figured he was. “But now I’m curious about what you do like.”

“That’s easy,” he said. “The music of my people.”

“What’s it like?” She smiled. “I’m guessing not busy or frivolous.”