There were old things in the Light Isles. The Folk had dwelt here many generations, but there were others, beings of earth and of ocean, embodiments of light and water, presences of bone and darkness, whose claim was ancient and undeniable. These creatures must be respected if one were to share the land in relative peace. The Folk had always known that. At six years old, Nessa knew it, even as she’d known that to look into their secret places, like the chamber she had discovered under the earth, was to court trouble. So, before she left, she placed a pattern in small stones atop the covering slab, a sign of acknowledgment. She hoped they would understand, whoever they were. The four stones at the corners were for the four quarters; in the middle, pebbles made a wavy line, that was the sea, and above it, round sun, crescent moon. Thus she told them she knew what sort of place it was, and held it in respect. If there was anything the Folk understood, it was the importance of signs.

Nessa rose to her feet and turned, and there was the old woman, not three paces away, staring at her with eyes like gray pebbles. Nessa’s heart pounded in shock, but she could not run away, for it felt as if her feet had grown sudden roots, holding her there to the earth.

“Come closer, child,” the old woman said. “My sight is not what it was.”

Now the ground released its grip and she could move. She stepped toward the ragged figure. The woman’s gray plait hung down to her waist; her features were seamed and creviced like old stone. And Nessa knew who she was, because Nessa had always loved stories.

“Rona,” she whispered. “The wise woman. I told Kinart you were real, but he wouldn’t believe me.”

The old woman gave a grunt of amusement. “What is real?” she asked. “Is music real? Is shadow real? Your cousin is a boy; he knows only what he can see, what he can touch. For you and me, it is different.”

“You and me?” Nessa was staring. She was not afraid anymore. Rona the priestess, keeper of the mysteries, was another tale like the Seal Tribe and the Hidden Tribe, as much part of the islands as the tides and the wind, the rocks and the heather. It seemed entirely unsurprising that she had appeared here, by the secret chamber in the earth.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Rona said.

“Waiting?”

“Waiting for you to be ready.” The old woman glanced at the sign Nessa had made on the slab of stone. “I see that you are ready now.”

It came to Nessa then that she did not need to ask, Ready for what? She knew the answer without being told.

“Every day,” Rona said. “There’s a great deal for you to learn. Every day at low tide. You can go home in between.”