Like hell was not nearly enough to describe how badly my leg hurt. Every step sent blazing agony through my thigh, which somehow also speared its way into my hip and side. The muddied ground sucked at my boots, forcing me to wrench my feet with extra, painful force as I walked. I gritted my teeth, leaning heavily against the branch Aeden had fetched for me. It was all I could do to avoid cussing—I had questions to ask before uncaging my tongue.

"This friend of yours," I began, quickening my pace to stay beside Aeden. Ronan lingered somewhere behind us, no doubt overanalyzing my every movement. If I faltered, I had no doubt he'd offer to carry me himself or something equally silly. "Morrigan. If she lives by her lonesome in the mountains, how could she possibly know anything useful?"

"Ah, that." Aeden's voice came garbled: he had busied himself eating the food Mam had given him with alarming speed, as if he'd been starved. Perhaps, if he'd been running about avoiding Niamh and that husband of hers, he had. I felt a pang of guilt for protesting Mam's decision to give away the food. It faded within the instant as he continued to speak with his mouth full. "Morri is old."

I stared at him. "That doesn't help us."

"It means she's sensitive." He'd already finished downing all of the dried meat he'd been given. He picked up a piece of bread, regarding it with a grin.

The picture of an elderly woman sobbing on the floor flashed through my mind. "That doesn't help us, either."

"That's where you're wrong," he said. "You see, she's very good at reading currents of energy. Power, emotion, all that. I've no clue how it works, but she can figure out the strangest things just by closing her eyes."

"I have heard that the highborn's abilities and senses grow stronger with time," Ronan added. He lingered behind us, easily keeping pace. Damn his long legs. "How old is she, exactly?"

That gave Aeden pause. His eyes drifted upwards as he took another bite of bread—he'd almost finished it already. He counted the fingers on his free hand before starting over. "Mm... she should've passed her first century by now. Not all that ancient, really, but most older sídhe I've met aren't the type to entertain visitors. Or offer help."

"Why not?" That eager look had taken over Ronan's expression—the one he wore when trying to learn something new. "Do they live in Natír? Have you been there? How many of the aes sídhe are there?"

I groaned. It was rare for another of my kind to visit Tirlagh, especially any who were open to conversation. The merrows on the coast were more interested in stealing men, while the squat man who came to ruin festivals—I still had no idea what exactly he was—was too drunk or busy speaking in riddles to talk. Even if he did, I doubted he'd have said anything true. And I'd been in Tirlagh my entire life: it wasn't as if I knew much, either. Of course Ronan would have questions.

Aeden shifted the cloth Mam had wrapped the food in, fishing out a carrot. "My, that's a lot to answer. I've been to the otherworld, but not often. I'm not powerful enough yet to open a gate on my own. And I don't know how many live there. It's difficult to navigate, even for me.

"As for the first question... how to put this... we're not mortal, because we don't age. But we're not immortal. We can still be killed." He held up two fingers. "That usually happens one of two ways. First, one sídhe kills another. Second, a sídhe is hunted by humans. I've seen the latter happen a few times, though I doubt it often succeeds. Do you know what that means?"

"You're a wanted man across half of Ríenne, probably," I muttered.

"The fair folk that live the longest are the ones who isolate themselves," Ronan said.

Aeden nodded, which I took to mean that we were both right. "Aye. The longer we spend with each other and humans, the greater the chance of being killed. Wars, feuds, all that. You can only spend so many years before something catches up to you."

Ronan cupped his chin in one hand. "You don't seem to agree."

"Best to live a short life enjoying yourself than a long one hiding from the world." A slight frown crossed Aeden's lips. "It sounds incredibly boring."

A short life? "How old are you?" I interrupted.

"I never counted." His frown shifted abruptly into a grin. "How old do you think I am?"

"You act like you're twelve, so it's hard to tell." A stab of pain struck my leg, and I hissed under my breath. I shouldn't have bothered asking; he seemed to enjoy being evasive.

"Maeve, you can't open a path to Natír either, right?" Ronan asked.

"Dunno. I never tried." I hadn't even thought about the possibility: aside from now, I'd never had cause to leave Tirlagh, much less Ríenne itself.

"Hmm. I believe Flann can, and there's been tell of him in Tirlagh for the last thirty years, so—"

"Who?"

"The luchorpán you chase out of our festivals after he gets drunk. He summons mist and vanishes. You told me that he'd probably gone to Natír since you couldn't sense him anymore..." He trailed off to stare at me. "Don't you remember?"

"No." I sniffed. "I try to forget he exists."

Ronan sighed and turned to Aeden. "Well. If I had to guess, I'd say you're not much older than Maeve and I."

"Aye, that sounds about right." He leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head.

A brief silence fell, in which time we arrived in Tirlagh. Several folks waved at Ronan, cast me the usual nervous glances, and gave Aeden curious looks. I certainly couldn't blame them for the latter—the man wasn't wearing shoes, and walked with an excruciatingly bright smile. There was a casual sort of balance in each step he took, graceful yet strong. He stuck out.

Looking closer, though, I realised that his demeanour wasn't as relaxed as before. His gaze scraped across every home and the wet grass between them, as if he expected something to leap out of their shadows and attack us. He was fiddling even more than before, folding his arms, swinging them back to his sides, lifting them again to pick at his nails. It reminded me of how he'd acted when he was inside our house: tense, uneasy, trapped in constant movement.

"What's wrong?" I finally asked, exasperated. I didn't sense any intruders like Niamh, but his attitude was unnerving.

"Nothing. Why?" Aeden cast me a deceptively confused glance.

"You're acting as if Tirlagh is full of monsters."

"Ha. No." He chuckled. "I don't do well in towns, that's all. They're too crowded."

"Right." I had the feeling that wasn't the whole truth, but decided to let the subject rest. As long as there wasn't someone about to leap out and attack us, I could manage. I turned my eyes to the street, trying not to hobble too much. We were near the place where we'd fought Niamh, now—as Mam had guessed, her body was nowhere in sight. Of course, that didn't stop Ronan from giving the area a guilty look—as if he'd been the one to do it.

"I have a question of my own," Aeden said, breaking my train of thought. His eyes darted between the people around us, and briefly to Ronan. "How did you end up here? Were you a changeling?"

"Of course not," I snapped, grimacing at the road in front of me. There happened to be a young lad walking along said road, who caught my eye and let out some sort of squeak. I sighed as he rushed away. "No mother would accept losing a child only to get a changeling as replacement. Mam would've torn up Ríenne if it happened to her."

Aeden raised his hands in mock defeat. "What happened, then?"

"She found me wandering about Tirlagh alone," I said, keeping my tone brisk. It wasn't much of a story, and not one I felt bothered to dwell upon. "I was young enough to not remember anything except a man leaving me in a field. Mam raised me after that." My best guess was that my parents—assuming that hazy memory was of my father—hadn't wanted to bother with offspring.

He whistled. "A human with a sídhe child... what an odd situation."

"It worked out well enough," Ronan interrupted from my side. He moved to nudge me, thought better of it, and flashed a warm smile instead. "She only nearly burned the house down once."

"Oh, shut up." I raised a hand to my neck; beneath the wool of my shawl, I could feel the necklace Conor had slipped over my head before we left. The cord was rough against my skin, and if I pressed down I could feel the rounded shape of the pendant. He'd carved a tree onto it—a common symbol of nature's strength. To me, it was more like a symbol of his... well, his love, I supposed. I winced; those thoughts sounded entirely too sentimental.

Aeden hummed, his strange, green-gold eyes shifting back to the path ahead of us. He lifted a brow. "We have a wee stalker."

"Eh?" I followed his gaze to a cramped house to our left. Its windows were still boarded, and the garden was no less sad and dead than it had been yesterday. Crouched beside the door was the small, too-thin figure of a boy, swamped in a massive brown coat. His eyes went wide as he realised he'd been spotted; instead of fleeing back inside, however, he stood, scurried towards Roran, and tackled his leg; unsurprising, considering my brother's popularity with the folk in Tirlagh.

"Where are you going?" Orin asked, dark eyes flickering from me to Aeden. "Who's he?"

"A stray we picked up. Ignore him," I said, bending down to look at the child. He tightened his grip around Ronan's knee, but didn't flinch. He looked healthier than before, but his skin was pale and the sunken set to his eyes had yet to fade. I frowned. "Why are you nosing around outside? Go back to your mam."

"Don't worry. She sounds mean, but she's just worried," Ronan interrupted, reaching down to tousle the boy's hair. He gave him a gentle smile. "We're going to go help this man with something."

"But... what if I get sick again?"

I folded my arms. "Who do you think I am? I burned the illness away, lad. You'll be fine." He did have a point, though. I hated to leave Tirlagh and all of its people unprotected, whether that be against sídhe or sickness. But the town had existed long before myself, and it could manage for a few weeks. All I had to do was make sure that, whatever was causing sídhe like Niamh to cast aside our unspoken rules, I destroyed the root of the problem.

Orin stared at me for a moment. Then he jumped, lips parting in a silent oh, and began to fumble about his coat pockets. He withdrew a folded mess of cord, fingers clumsily untangling it to reveal a bracelet. It was woven intricately—no doubt that his mother had a hand in its creation—and decorated with carved beads. The child thrust it at me. "This is for you," he said with all the glowing pride of an accomplished artisan. "I made it."

"Ah." I hesitated before taking it, running a finger over the beads. They were painted various shades of dark red and orange. Grooves ran through the wood—when I examined them closer, I saw that they wove and bent in the imitation of flame. Aeden edged over, leaning a bit too close to inspect the bracelet with me. I elbowed his side to knock him away. "It's... pretty. Thank you."

Orin smiled in that way children do, big and bright. One would think I'd given him a sweet rather than a compliment. He scurried back towards his house, sliding and tripping over his coat, presumably to tell his parents that I'd accepted the gift.

"Sheila must have done most of the braiding," Ronan commented, glancing over my shoulder. "It's not even been a day—she worked fast. Maybe she had her husband help." He traced one finger along a bead. "This looks like his work."

I grunted, and, after a moment, looped the bracelet around my left wrist. What else was there to do? I'd never been given such a thing as thanks before; I wasn't quite sure what I was supposed to do except wear it. "Do you think they'll be upset if I accidentally burn it?"

Ronan lifted a brow. "Accidentally?"

"Yes, accidentally," I said, narrowing my eyes at him.

He chuckled and waved at Orin's house; it was only then I noticed that Sheila was peeking around the door, Orin hovering beside her feet. She waved back, albeit not as enthusiastically as her son. "It's been a while since you got angry enough to burn your own things, but if you did... it's a gift, Maeve. You choose what to do with it."

"There's no such thing as a gift," Aeden said. He began to walk in a tight circle, glancing impatiently at the sky. "Shall we go? We won't make any progress before nightfall at this rate. I'll carry you."

"Right, right." I dug my walking stick into the wet earth and turned back to the path, sparing a wave of my own to the family. "And no. Let's keep walking. I want to get out of Tirlagh before we give them another scare."

"You think I'm scary?" Aeden laughed.

"As a puppy," I muttered, starting forward. Ronan returned to hovering over my shoulder as if it was his natural state of being; Aeden skipped ahead before turning to look at us, now walking backwards. I resisted the urge to whack both of them about the heads. "But I doubt the folk here would think the same, and—would you stop smirking? It's not funny!"

Aeden schooled his expression into a somewhat less blatant grin. "Of course not, Mae."

"So," Ronan interrupted. He cleared his throat. "I've only been as far as the Rene river. I suppose we'll head north until we reach it?"

Aeden pointed. "That way. Then towards the mountains."

"That's north," Ronan said politely. "The mountains are west."

"Right, that way and that way," Aeden replied cheerily, swivelling his outstretched arm. "Don't worry. I know where to go—just follow me."

I groaned and ran a hand over my face, questioning why I'd decided that this was a good idea. Still, I followed Aeden as he turned and kept walking out of Tirlagh, his tight smile now hidden from view, his shoulders ever so slightly tense, his pace a little too fast. I frowned at his back, but stayed silent. He hadn't lied: he didn't do well in towns.