After Lizzie helped her settle on a riser, Siobhan put a hand gingerly on her right arm and winced.

“Oh, god,” she said. “I think I broke my arm.”

“What happened?” Lizzie asked.

Siobhan glared up the stairs. “Someone pushed me.”

Lizzie followed her gaze, but the stairway was empty.

“There’s no one there,” she said.

“No one we can see, maybe. But I felt someone push me—some invisible piece of fairy shite. Ow. God, this hurts.”

“We have to get you to a hospital,” Lizzie said.

She gave another glance up the stairs, nervous now. Did she hear a fading echo of mean-spirited laughter?

“I don’t want to go to a hospital,” Siobhan said. “I want to pound in the face of the little shite who pushed me.”

But she let Lizzie help her to her feet and walk her into the bar.

They made no mention of invisible assailants when they told the others what had happened, leaving it at an unfortunate stumble on the stairs. Siobhan calmed down somewhat under the concerned attention she was getting, but her arm didn’t feel any better.

“I guess the nearest hospital’s in Tyson,” Andy said.

Liam nodded. “But I’ve got a friend who’s a doctor, and he lives here in town. He’ll have a look at her.”

“It’s almost two o’clock in the morning,” Lizzie said.

“It’s okay. Things are different in the country. We don’t follow rules and regs the same way you city folk do.”

“Oh, like you’re a country boy now,” his friend Neil said.

“Arm,” Siobhan said before Liam could respond. “Hurting a lot.”

“Have a whiskey,” Con told her, pushing the glass across the table to her.

Liam’s doctor friend didn’t seem particularly surprised to see the group of them show up on his front porch at such a late hour, though he did blink at them for a long moment. Standing barefoot in the doorway, in jeans with a T-shirt untucked, he didn’t look much like a doctor. However, once they explained the situation, he woke up and became all business. Forty-five minutes later, they were all back at the bar, sitting around the table with another round of whiskeys—this round on the house, the bar man assured them before going back to closing up for the night.

“What are we going to do?” Siobhan said.

She had her right arm in a sling and wore a miserable expression.

“Do about what?” Andy asked.

“Me. Not playing. The band. Keep up here, Andy.”

“We’ll make do till you get better,” Lizzie assured her.

“Yeah, you can work the merch table,” Con said.

That actually teased a faint smile from Siobhan.

“You’re willing to make that sacrifice?” she asked. Then she looked at the others. “The two fiddles is a big part of our sound—you know it’s what gets us the better gigs.”