Emery spent Friday night in the hospital. Doctors could find nothing wrong with her, but they kept her just in case, just to watch. Emery slept the whole time she was there, even though she knew her family arrived at some point. When she woke Saturday morning, they made her eat breakfast before they'd let her go home, so she stomached a bowl of cereal for the sake of the nurses hovering over her, and then she left with her parents and Deirdre. Once home, Emery sequestered herself in her room and lay in bed while the rest of the world went about its business. She came out only to use the bathroom and shower. Her parents were worried, and at first there was no end to their questions, but Emery had assured them she'd just had a dizzy spell, and when the doctors hadn't found anything alarming, her mother and father had eased up a little and were entirely in agreement that she rest as long as she needed. Deirdre was more inquisitive than they were, and even her older sister Neve had called just to check in.

The attention from her family was tolerable enough; it was to be expected and was, for the most part, easy to deflect. What Emery really couldn't handle for the time being were the messages from Tess and Charlie. She hadn't even been able to look at her phone for fear of what she'd read there. After several messages from both of them--which Emery didn't read--she'd finally just turned her phone off. But as Sunday waned, she knew she'd have to face them at some point; her parents didn't seem inclined to let her skip school, and besides, if she told them she needed to stay home longer, they'd grow concerned about her health, and her attempts to convince them she was fine would have been for nothing.

All the hours spent in her room had begun to make Emery feel crazy, anyway; she'd need to get out.

What concerned her the most, what her mind couldn't comprehend, was the claim that Cullen had made--that he was her husband . . . that they'd had a wedding night. It was all too outrageous, too mortifying. There was no possible scenario in which he could be right; she was sure of that part. Memory or no memory, Emery was one hundred percent certain that someone would've known if she'd married that man. Even if she'd somehow forgotten it, wouldn't her parents, her sisters, her friends have known it? In what world could she have become someone's wife without anyone knowing it? No, it couldn't have been true. So the only other possibility that made sense to her was that it was Cullen whose memory had been cursed, not her own. He must have been tricked into thinking she was his wife and was running around telling himself that he had some relationship with her . . . the whole thing was absolutely embarrassing, and Emery didn't know whether she should feel more sorry for him or for herself. Her only consolation was that if she'd heard correctly, when she'd been about to pass out, Cathbad and Cullen's conversation had made it sound as if he were going to go do something that might take a while . . . what had Cathbad said? Months? Maybe a year?

And yet even as she was mostly relieved at that, she couldn't help but feel an undercurrent of dread, deep beneath all her more shifting and confusing feelings.

It was true that something strange had happened, after he'd told her those preposterous things. Perhaps it had been a panic attack; she'd had some before, when she was little, and she'd seen a therapist for them. This might have been a sort of recurrence, where her vision had tunneled so rapidly. But that didn't explain the words she'd spoken. For the life of her, Emery couldn't figure out why she'd said what she'd said--what any of it had meant about some spear of mortal pain . . . Ugh.

She knew that Cathbad could probably answer her questions about it, but seeing him would mean confirming what had happened had actually happened. And he'd try to tell her things she didn't want to hear. Did she even really want to know about that spear? Did she want to know where Cullen went? Her sanity might depend on leaving those questions unanswered. In fact, she wished she'd left all her questions over the last weeks unanswered; it seemed the more she learned, the more complex her confusion became.

Toward eight o'clock, Emery at last figured she should look at her phone. She was supposed to go back to school tomorrow, and it would be rude to ignore people any longer.

The first thing she saw when the phone blinked awake were the multiple messages from Tess and Charlie. Tess's would be first—she'd have to gather courage for Charlie's.

Predictably, Tess had been concerned, had offered to be a listening ear, and then had ultimately given up and said she'd be there when Emery was ready. Tess was always so caring and selfless. Charlie's messages were more upsetting. They apologized for what had happened, though he had no idea what actually had happened, and then there were several that mentioned he'd talked to his sister and was worried about her, that he couldn't stop thinking of her, and that he, too, would be there when she was ready to talk. Between the two of them, Emery had about twenty messages. There were lots of other random messages in her group chats, some of which expressed concern for her, but nothing compelled Emery to respond.

Only to Tess did she reply: I'm fine. See you tomorrow.

She didn't know what to say to Charlie.

Emery experienced a sudden need to get out of her room, her house. Tara, her newly-named dog, had spent most of the time in her room with her, and she'd appreciated his company. Her sister had walked him the past few days, but Emery knew the little guy liked her best. In fact, even now, as she sat in her window seat looking out onto the street below, he'd hopped up and sat atop her feet. He'd placed his head on his front paws and stared at her with his golden eyes, imploring her for some attention. "You're right," she told him. "Let's get out of here for a few minutes."

She threw on some shoes and a jacket and headed downstairs, Tara trotting along happily behind her. He allowed her to put him on a lead, and then, with a quick comment to her parents, Emery left through the front door. The fresh evening air was so welcome; the girl hadn't realized just how stuffy her room had been until she'd left it. Not many people were out, as it was sometime between eight-thirty and nine on a Sunday night, and she felt alone and free. The evenings were cooling a little, though Emery was comfortable in shorts. Her hair was up in a messy bun, to keep it out of her face, and she found herself wondering fleetingly whether she should try to braid it back along the sides, but she shook the notion (and image it brought up) away and focused on her own footsteps. Her legs were long, and for much of her life, Emery had been self-conscious of them, thinking she resembled a potato on toothpicks. She hadn't worn shorts all through middle school, but with high school had come confidence, and she'd begun to accept her figure even if she didn't always love it. Any time she walked with her other family members, Emery took one stride for their one-and-a-half strides. Thinking about her height, she realized that for as tall as she felt, Cullen was a good six or more inches taller than she was.

She cursed aloud. Why did everything seem to circle back to him? Even lying in her room for two days hadn't cleared him from her mind. Emery just needed to get involved with some hobbies or school events. She needed something to keep her busy, so she could turn her thoughts toward some productive end. Maybe if she tried to ignore the fact that anything weird had happened, it'd all just go away.

The streets Emery walked were beautiful. Her neighborhood was one of the nicest in the county. The houses were close enough together to make the place feel friendly, but they still had yards big enough for privacy. Street lights kept everything well lit, and there was never any reason to feel unsafe. Or, at least, there hadn't been until Adam disappeared. But Emery knew the truth of his absence--it'd been due to Cathbad and Cullen, not some nefarious criminal, so she wasn't worried about walking around alone at night.

In fact, she realized that her walk had taken her to Adam's house. Tara had paused to urinate against the stone wall around the yard, and Emery's eyes took in the brick walkway leading to a porch where she'd sat laughing with Adam on many occasions after they'd gotten off of work. His house had several lights on inside, including in what she was fairly sure was Adam's bedroom . . . for some reason, that unsettled her. Why would his light be on? Emery tried to rationalize it. Maybe his parents missed him so much that they wanted to act as if he were there. Or maybe it was on as a sort of beacon, for when he came home.

As she stood there pondering, not realizing Tara had finished and was patiently waiting for her to continue their walk, a familiar voice called out.

"Deirdre?"

Emery was pulled from her stupor by a woman walking her way, crossing the Lirs' yard. It was Adam's mother. She had a trash bag in one hand and must've been in the process of taking it out when she'd seen Emery.

"No. It's Emery. I'm sorry, I was just walking my dog, and--"

"Emery? But you're Deirdre's sister, aren't you?"

Slightly confused, Emery scrunched her face a bit. "Well, yes. Deirdre's friends with Ethan. But I know Adam."

Mrs. Lir cocked her head to one side, studied Emery, who felt rather confused herself. "Adam?"

"Adam--your, your son."

With a short laugh the woman waved a hand as if understanding something. "Oh, dear, you have him confused. My son's name is Ethan. He and Deirdre are in the same class; I've seen her here a few times. You two look quite alike! Both just lovely girls. You tell your mother I said hello."

"Mrs. Lir--wait--"

"It's pronounced Lair, hon!"

The woman was already heading back toward her house, no longer paying attention to Emery. Entirely baffled, the girl watched her until she was out of sight, presumably going to get rid of her garbage, and then she heard a side door open and shut somewhere in the darkness. She couldn't understand what had just happened. Had Mrs. Lir gone mad? Was she in total denial about losing Adam?

Tara rubbed at Emery's leg, and she remembered that she was walking him. Giving one more discomfited look toward the Lirs' house, Emery started moving again, though a little slower than before, as she fumbled with her phone to send a message to Tess about Adam's mom acting weird.

The rest of the walk was perfunctory; Emery didn't really notice the other houses or dog-walkers or anything else about her surroundings. She just meandered homeward, the route ingrained in her enough that she followed it without having to pay much attention. She wasn't sure what to feel about her interaction with Adam's mother. Her initial confusion had turned into anger for a moment--how could his own mother pretend he hadn't existed? Even if she were doing it to grieve in some strange way, that woman couldn't possibly be going about it in a healthy manner. Adam was one hundred percent unforgettable. But Emery's anger had itself turned to sadness when she realized that Mrs. Lir must've really gone out of her mind. She hoped she was getting help for her delusions.

When Emery reached her own house, Tara suddenly jerked forward, and she dropped his lead. The dog ran to the backyard, and Emery, pulled from her uncomfortable thoughts, jogged after him. The yard was gated, but somehow Tara had scrambled through or over the bars. Emery had to unlock the gate to get through, and by the time she reached the back, the dog was barking at her from the middle of the yard. About to ascend the stairs to the deck, the girl did a double-take when she caught a dim light emanating from the she-shed window; she knew what it meant.

"Cat!" she insisted, shoving open the door and startling the sleeping druid so badly that he fell off the small sofa, legs and arms flailing like those of an overgrown spider and rattling an end table littered with his odds and ends. "Have you been here since Friday?"

Regaining his breath, Cathbad crawled back up onto his seat, rearranging the pillows as he did so. "Since you caused so much trouble? Yes. Yes I have."

Emery felt guilty, but only for a moment. "None of that was my fault, and you know it!"

He sighed, and his whole body seemed to sigh with him. Clearly, the man was exhausted. His attire was haphazard, and his hair was stuck up and out at all sorts of odd angles. "I apologize, Emery. I'm tired, and I'm worried, and, quite honestly, I'm despondent. I no longer know what to do about anything at all." He grabbed a ruffled pink pillow and squeezed it to his chest. His mouth drooped to the ends of his chin. "I'm quite wretched, really--not much of a druid, am I?"

Emery was afraid he was going to cry. She slipped to Cathbad's side, sat next to him, and put an arm around his shoulders. "Everything will be fine, Cat. I know I've never met another druid, but I think you're great. I mean, you have that ball thing that lights up, and your staff was pretty cool. And look!" She waved a hand over the items he'd collected on the table. "You have all these interesting things, whatever they are. No, but seriously, listen to me." She bent a little to look into his downcast face and met his sad gray eyes. "You care so much about everything--that's what makes you amazing. I know how hard you're trying to work with two very difficult people. Even if I don't understand any of this, I can see how much you want to put things right."

Cathbad rubbed his face with his long, narrow hands. "You are correct in one thing," he sniffed. "You and Cuchulain are equally obstinate. It'll be miraculous if we come through this."

Putting her hands in her lap and staring down at them, Emery said, "I can't wrap my mind around any of this, Cat, and you haven't been very forthcoming with the information. Can you just be straight with me? Can't you just tell me what's going on?"

"I fear to, lest I deepen the curse--"

"Can it really go deeper than it already has?"

Groaning, the druid conceded, "I doubt that it can. For all I know, Cuchulain will never return."

"What do you mean?" In spite of herself, Emery felt a twinge of remorse. "You have to believe me--I don't know where all that came from. What even is a spear of mortal pain? I don't know anything about any of it."

He placed a comforting hand on one of hers and smiled sadly. "I do believe it. In your current state, you couldn't possibly understand." He rubbed away what might have been a tear. "You've sent him off to Scáthach."

"Ok . . . you'll have to give me more than that."

"Her name alone is fearsome; I tremble to say more."

"Well tremble, then. Don't I deserve to know what I've just done, if it's so serious?"

"The most terrifying woman. She purports to train warriors in the art of combat. Her stronghold itself is uncommonly elusive, perhaps even hidden by the Gods themselves. Supposing my lord does find her, no man alive has ever completed her training. Every one of them dies in effort to fulfill her challenges, and when they do, she merely declares them weak and undeserving of her instruction. If by some chance Cuchulain survives her initiation, I see no reason for her to willingly part with her most prized weapon, the spear Gáe Bulg, forged from the bones of Curraid as he died in battle with Coinchenn."

"Who?"

"Primordial monsters of the sea, both."

"What about that mortal pain part?" Emery almost hesitated to ask.

Cathbad sighed. "According to the legends, once the spear enters flesh, it expands into a multitude of barbs which may be removed only by cutting away the body around them. Scáthach wouldn't give so precious a weapon away--it'd be more like she'd use it on him if he tried to abscond with it." His eyes glazed, and then he snapped out of it and looked directly at Emery, no small amount of grief in his expression: "So you see, lady, the quest on which you've sent my lord Cuchulain is certain death."