A chilled breeze came off the water and she wrapped her arms in her warm, woolen shawl, thinking now of power and coin... the invisible wings of bankers and kings.

In Bawn Guelph's hidden room of letters, Babda hovered, a damselfly in the drape as the fingers of Leannán's left hand drummed a slow heartbeat on the writing desk. He could feel the points of his bones bearing into the flesh of his fingertips. His recent decisions, intended to move his world forward, now seemed snagged like a coattail on the things he had left behind.

Babda, a faery sod-mother sent in prisoned Brighid's stead, fluttered rafter-high over his head and came to perch on a book of illuminated gospels. Through her spiny legs she could tune the opulent frequency of gold leaf burnished into the text and she shuddered with a joy that spasm'd her wings. The entire room was visible through her forty-faceted eyes. She watched Aoibhneas bustle in, a multitude of angles moving her in slightly different directions. Finally, her kaleidoscope of faces and shoulders and clasped hands stood before the arrow slit that faced east.

Aoibhneas looked briefly at her guest, then turned down her eyes. “A hundred pardons, Lord Leannán. Maybe he wasn't expecting you so promptly.” She hurried back out again, stranding the man with his thoughts.

Babda watched his fingers articulate angst like the legs of a crab. She needed him receptive at this meeting of the men. She needed this war. Perhaps, if she pollinated him: a quick graze of his collar with the legs of a wasp to inspire his warrior ways.

Leannán didn’t notice. He walked to the arrow slit to take in the earlier view of Aoibhneas. Below him, the road to the castle was empty and the horizon offered no news. He turned back and was startled by a woman standing silently in the doorway.

Until she spoke. “Hello, Leannán.”

“Beo?”

Leannán walked toward her, studying her face. He brushed her cheek. It was the same, in texture, in curve, in energy. Beochaoineadh reached for his hand and held it to her chest. An odd lightness was painted on her hair, maybe from the window. A new strength empowered her arm.

He stepped back. “Why are you here?”

“Aoibhneas told me you were coming.” She held his gaze. “How is your new wife?”

“The new wife is a clan strategy, Beochaoineadh. Nothing more.”

“I can't stay here long, Leannán. But I wanted to see you before the Autumn ended. I need to warn you about this woman.”

“She's harmless, Beo, a rough lass. And she seems fond of one of her retinue.”

“No. Not her, Leannán.” Her eyes checked the door and she stepped closer, leaning toward his ear. “Your seneschal.”

“My sen--” he stammered. “Why?”

“After our annulment, I stayed at Bawn Guelph and she administered here the household. And I saw her.”

“Saw her what?”

“She tunnels.”

Her former husband stood lacking in reaction and reply.

“She turns earth. It's damaging--check your foundations.”

Leannán shook his head in confusion. “What?”

“I think she's consorting.”

“Consorting?”

“I need to go!”

“Well, I'll keep--” He looked toward the arrow slit while forming a cogent response, but when he looked back, Beo was gone. Aoibhneas walked in with a tray of boxty and some kippers. Behind her tromped a giant knight in echoing boots.

“Echternach,” the giant nodded, walking in.

Aoibhneas was humming to herself. “Boxty on the griddle, boxty on the pan--”

The giant joined in. “If you can't bake the boxty, you'll never get a man!”

Aoibhneas laughed herself from the room while Leannán's face rested, unroused. “Mealladh of the ugly mouth, what news?”

He grunted through massive lips. “The page has seen the horses from the parapet. He rides up presently.” Mealladh picked up a dead wasp and poked the stinger between his teeth. “I have some questions for Uachtarán regarding that swift over-calling of your gallowglass. And what's more--” he underlined his emphasis by pointing the wasp at the window. “I'm a bit suspicious of that preponderance of frogs.”