The land itself was bountiful, the trees lush with fruit and flowers blooming on every side. Rosamunde thought she saw fruit of gold and silver, and flowers wrought of precious jewels, but Darg did not delay their passage so she could look more closely. Birds sang from every tree, their song blending so beautifully with the ladies’ tunes that Rosamunde felt they made music together.

Just passing through the beauty of this realm, even at Darg’s killing pace, lightened Rosamunde’s heart. It healed her wounds and made her believe that she might live on, even without love. It made her think of the future with an optimism that she had believed lost.

It made her wonder where Padraig was.

It made her wonder how she might get from here to there.

«Where are we?» she shouted to Darg, who hastened ahead of her, muttering all the while.

«A foolish mortal you must be, to not know the land of Faerie.»

Faerie. Rosamunde was a pragmatic woman, one who had never believed in matters unseen or places to which she could not navigate. Was she dreaming?

A butterfly lit on her shoulder, its wings fairly dripping with colour, its beauty far beyond that of any earthly insect.

Rosamunde realized with a start that it was a tiny winged woman. The fairy laughed at her surprise, a sound like tinkling bells, then darted away, disappearing into the blue of the sky with a glimmer.

«And why do we not linger in this magical realm?» Rosamunde asked Darg.

«Late we are, late we must not be! Finvarra waits impatiently.» The spriggan tugged again at the red cord knotted around its waist. It spat in the grass with displeasure, then snatched at Rosamunde. «Hasten, hasten, by the moon’s rise, we must be safely at his side.»

«Who is Finvarra? And why do we go to him?»

«Questions, questions, instead of haste! Your queries do the daylight waste! We have far to go without rest: Finvarra will accept no less.»

They crossed a bridge; the river running beneath looked to be made of mead. Rosamunde caught a whiff of its honeyed sweetness and saw a cluster of bees hovering at the shore. A beautifully dressed suitor offered a golden chalice of the liquid to his lady, who flushed, fluttered both wings and lashes, then accepted his tribute.

«But why do we go to this Finvarra? Who is he and what hold has he over you?»

The spriggan spun round abruptly, facing Rosamunde with fury in its eyes. «A match I lost, the price my life. His demand was you as his new wife. High King of Faerie is his task, a man whose patience does not last.» Darg wrestled with the red cord, then released it with disgust. «This bond he knots, it burns me true; ’til you are his, this pain my due.»

«You traded me to the Faerie King?» Rosamunde demanded, bracing her hands upon her hips. «What if I have no desire to be his toy? Or that of any other man, for that matter? I will not go complacent to his court, no matter what you have promised.»

«I pledged my word, I swore my life; Finvarra will have you as his wife!»

«I think not.» Rosamunde turned her back on her vile captor, having no inclination to make such a submission easier. She surveyed the beautiful countryside and spied a man tending a pair of horses that were drinking mead on the bank. He was handsome, and his gaze was bright upon her.

His hair was as dark as midnight, and if she narrowed her eyes, he could have been mistaken for Padraig.

Save that Padraig had neither wings nor pointed ears.

Perhaps he could aid her in finding Padraig.

When the Faerie knight smiled, Rosamunde found herself smiling in return. «I will take my heart’s ease here instead,» she said to Darg and turned her back upon the creature.

«No!» the spriggan screamed, as once it had screamed before in Rosamunde’s presence. She glanced back warily, then ran when she saw that the spriggan had become a large and menacing black cloud. When enraged it could change shape with frightening speed — the last such eruption had led to Tynan’s death after it had shattered the caverns.

«I saved your life, it’s mine to give,» Darg shouted. «I trade it now so I shall live!»

Rosamunde ran as quickly as she could, feeling the other faeries watching her with bemusement. She could not outrun Darg’s fury, however. Her heart sank as the dark cloud enveloped her, surrounding her with fog as black as night.

Then she was snatched from the ground, as helpless as a butterfly caught in a tempest, and carried away. She thought she heard someone cry out, but Darg did not slow down.

Finvarra’s wife. King or not, Rosamunde had no interest in his attentions. The very fact that he would trade a faerie’s life for a woman, with no consideration of any desire beyond his own, was no good endorsement. She struggled and fought, knowing it was futile, and she wished again for a loyal friend to fight at her back.

Padraig. How could she have been so blind?

Padraig fondled the strange stone in his pocket as he returned to the tavern that night. It was falling dark, the sun blazing orange just before it slipped beneath the horizon.

He could not dispel his dream of kissing Rosamunde and, in truth, he did not want to do so. The dream had lifted the shadow from his heart, made him feel that there might be some purpose to his life even without his partner by his side.

«You are fair pleased with yourself tonight,» his sister said as she set an ale before him. She smiled and propped her hands on her hips to regard him. «A conquest was it then?»

Padraig laughed for the first time in a long time. «Naught but a dream, but ’twas a fine one.»

«I wager it must have been,» she said, her smile teasing. «You dreamed then of a lady?»

«None other than the Faerie Queen,» Padraig agreed amiably. «And she gave to me a token.»

His sister sobered. «Did she then?» Her wariness reminded Padraig of their mother.

«A ring with the power to make a man invisible to others.» Padraig chuckled at the whimsy of it all, then reached into his pocket to show her the stone. He thought she would be amused by the evidence of his drunken dream, but when he pulled the gift from his pocket, it had become a golden ring again.

Padraig stared at it on his palm and blinked in wonder. «But a moment ago, it was a stone,» he whispered.

His sister caught her breath and took a step back. «A Faerie gem.» She crossed herself quickly. «Mind your step, Padraig. A man does not easily elude the favour of the Faerie Queen.»

Padraig barely heard her warning. He knew all the tales of the fey, courtesy of his mother. He simply could not believe that the ring had changed twice.

But then, if it was fey, the charm upon it would hold for the night and not the day. He stood and, leaving his ale, looked out of the door of the tavern. Sure enough, the sun had set completely and twilight, that time so potent for the fey, had fallen.

He gazed at the circle of gold. What if his dream had been true? What if this ring truly did have the power Una had stated? What if he could reclaim Rosamunde from the realm of the fey?

What if his dream of that kiss had answered his question — what was Rosamunde’s honest desire? Did she wish for him as well as for freedom?

But before he dared to enter the Faerie mound, before he dared to abduct a women destined for the High King of Faerie’s bed, Padraig would be sure of the ring’s powers.

He left a coin for the ale, having no taste for it any longer. He strode out into the streets of Galway, slipped down an alleyway, then donned the ring.

To his astonishment, when he stepped back into the crowded thoroughfare, a man walked right into him, frowning at the obstacle he could feel but not see.

Padraig spent an hour testing the ring’s abilities, but it was clear that no human eye could discern his presence.

Next he would check it among the fey. He borrowed a horse and rode like a madman to the stone circle where he had heard Una sing the night before.

Thus Rosamunde’s lover true

Did meet the Faerie Queen.

Thus he gained the magical ring

That let him pass unseen.

And so it was that he did choose

To witness his lady’s plight.

He held his breath and donned the ring

At the Faerie sid that night.

He saw his lady Rosamunde

All garbed in white and gold.

Her hair was braided thick with jewels,

A star was on her brow.

Her girdle was of finest silk,

Her shoes of purple leather.

So radiant was her countenance

He’d never seen her measure.

Rosamunde was displeased.

To be sure, the court was fine enough, and the hospitality was generous. She had been assigned some two-dozen ladies in waiting who cared more for the careful plaiting of her hair than she ever could have done. She liked the splendid fabrics, the jewels and the evident wealth.

She did not like that she had been unable to escape Darg, much less the creature’s hoot of triumph when Finvarra had removed the red cord. The spriggan had disappeared so quickly that it might not have ever been.

She did not miss the vile creature.

Finvarra was a handsome man, confident in his appeal. His eyes were strange, or at least they did not seem to match his countenance. He looked to have seen no more than thirty summers, his body young and strong, his face unlined and handsome. But his eyes. his eyes were filled with the shadows of experience. There was the memory of sadness there, of joy, of triumph and defeat. Had it been her choice to meet him, had she met him when both were unencumbered, Rosamunde might have been intrigued by the Faerie King.