He did not care about his fate as much as he once had.

And he had no taste for human company on this night.

He walked as the moon rose ever higher in the sky. He walked as the church bells sounded far behind him. He walked as the stars glinted overhead.

He heard the rustle of small animals in the underbrush and the tinkle of running water. He felt the ale loosen its hold upon his body and grief well in his heart.

He paused in the middle of the road, hours after his departure, and cast a glance back towards the sleeping town. His feet ached and he knew he should turn back.

Padraig just made to do so when he heard a woman singing, singing more beautifully than ever he had heard anyone singing. It could have been an angel he heard, and he was drawn to the sound.

He could not hear the words, and hastened closer.

«Una was the Faerie Queen

Fairest woman ever seen

Wed centuries to her King

Love meant more to her than his ring.»

The ground rose ahead of Padraig in a mound, a low hill covered with grass. A circle of large stones surrounded the crest of the hill, like a crown upon it, and a hawthorn tree grew outside the circle of stones.

The hair prickled on the back of his neck for he had learned at his mother’s knee to be cautious in the presence of the fey. If nothing else, this was the kind of place they favoured.

He could barely discern the silhouette of a woman atop the hill. She was sitting on a stone in the midst of the circle, combing her long hair, and he knew she was the one who sang. Two women sat at her feet, one with a lyre the like of which Padraig had never seen, the other humming along with her lady. They were all lovely, ethereal in the moonlight.

Her voice had a lovely lilt and Padraig wished to hear more of her song. He walked closer, trying to move silently as he didn’t want to startle the women.

To his astonishment, as soon as he stepped within the circle of stones, the lady with the comb turned to confront him. She smiled, her hand falling to her lap as she sang directly to him.

With proximity, he could see more than her silhouette. Her hair was golden, as bright as sunlight, her eyes as blue as a southern sea. Padraig walked closer, awed by her loveliness.

«But Finvarra had an appetite,

For mortal women, both dark and light.

He vowed he’d have the pirate queen,

Held captive by the spriggan’s greed.

One glimpse of the fair Rosamunde

Had left him filled with lust and love.

And so his wife did come to dread

Her spouse taking Rosamunde to his bed.»

Padraig blinked. Surely she could not be singing of his Rosamunde?

The woman stood up, revealing that she was tall and slender. She wore a dress that was fitted to her curves and swept to her ankles; it was as blue as her eyes, rich with golden embroidery and gems encrusting the hem and cuffs. It seemed to Padraig that her slippers were made of silk the colour of moonlight.

Or perhaps she was wrought of moonlight. She seemed insubstantial as she walked towards him, both of this world and not. Was he dreaming? The hem of her skirt seemed to dance with a will of its own, and lights glinted around the perimeter of the stone circle. He remembered will-o’-the-wisp from his childhood and knew that he had strayed into the realm of the fey.

Only when the woman was directly before him did he see the numerous small courtiers holding the hem. They could not have stood as high as his knee, not a one of them, and were dressed in green livery. Their faces were sharp, their eyes narrow, and their hair caught with twigs.

Padraig remembered her own words and knew who he encountered.

The Faerie Queen, Una.

«Greetings, Padraig, sailor of the many seas,» she said, her voice as melodious in speech as in song.

«Greetings, beauteous queen.» Padraig bowed deeply, knowing well the price of insulting one of the fey.

«Perhaps you have guessed that I have summoned you here. I heard your song and knew that our goals could be as one.»

«Heard my song?» Padraig glanced over his shoulder, unable to glimpse the lights of the town. «But that was miles away. You could not possibly have heard.»

Una laid a fingertip across his lips to silence him. Her touch was as cold as ice, as smooth as silken velvet.

She smiled. «She is not dead, your Rosamunde.» Her lips tightened and she averted her gaze. «And now my husband, casting his glance over all of Faerie, with the aid of his treacherous mirror, has glimpsed the slumbering Rosamunde. He means to make her his own on Beltane.»

«I mean no offence, my lady, but Rosamunde is dead.» Padraig spoke with care. He knew of the fey inclination to trick mortals. «I saw the fallen rock, I tried to retrieve her from the destroyed caverns. She cannot have survived in any way.»

Una smiled. «The spriggan Darg took her captive when she might have died.»

«Darg!» Padraig exclaimed. He recalled the deceitful spriggan well, and its determination to have vengeance upon Rosamunde.

Una watched him carefully. «You know this creature.»

«Indeed, I do, my lady, although I believed the spriggan to be yet at Ravensmuir.»

Una’s smile faded. «No. It came in your ship.»

Padraig frowned. There had been items disappear on their last voyage, including the ale that he knew the spriggan liked so well. It was possible that Una spoke the truth.

«It trespassed in our sid. It has wagered with my husband and lost, so it will bring Rosamunde to him tomorrow. You must steal her from him.»

«My lady! A man who steals from the Faerie king will not live to tell the tale of it!»

Una smiled. «With my aid, you will not be detected.» She pressed a golden ring into his hand. «Wear this and you shall pass unseen in any company.»

The ring was cold, as cold as the tomb. Even having it in his hand filled Padraig with dread. He was not afraid to risk his life for Rosamunde, not even of inciting the wrath of the fey king, but there was one more thing he needed to know.

«With respect, my lady, I would be certain of the desire of Rosamunde. It seems to me that it would be most fine to live at the Faerie court. She might not wish to leave.»

Una laughed but not because of his compliment. «You must have heard the old riddle, the one with truth at its heart.»

«Which is that, my lady?»

Her eyes glinted with humour. «What gift is it that a woman wishes most from a man?»

Padraig shrugged, not knowing the answer. Riches? Comfort?

Love? There were so many possible answers that he could not choose. He suspected the answer depended upon the woman.

Una leaned closer. «To have her own way.» Her eyes shone with brilliant light as her courtiers giggled around her hem. «I suspect you are a worthy lover, Padraig Deane, and in tribute to your love, I give you a gift.»

«You have already been too kind.»

Before Padraig could finish, the Faerie Queen framed his face in her hands. She leaned closer, her cold breath caressing his skin, then she kissed him full on the lips. He tasted death and loss, a chill that shook him to his marrow.

And Padraig swooned.

Rosamunde dreamed of another day from her past.

The sky was pink, a sure sign of trouble in the morning, and the dark clouds racing overhead made no better forecast. All the same, Rosamunde’s heart leaped at the familiar cliffs that rose before her, the cliffs surmounted by the keep she knew as well as the lines of her own hand.

Ravensmuir.

Governed by Tynan, stern but fair, the man who had taken her to his bed, the man who had vowed subsequently never to wed her. The man who had chosen this pile of stones over her.

Twice.

In her dream, she was certain she would relive that last encounter, that final fatal rejection. But she did not. She dreamed again of Padraig.

Rosamunde stood on the deck of her ship, staring up as the land rose closer, her heart pounding with trepidation that Tynan would see her approach, that he would meet her in the caverns below the keep. She was in the moment of approach, felt her own hope and anticipation, yet at the same time, knew what had happened subsequently in those caverns. She felt the twinge of dread that she had felt that morning and knew it had been a warning. Although Tynan had apologised to her, he had once again chosen his holding over her.

And he had died.

Had she not died, as well?

Padraig came to stand beside her on the deck, but this time when Rosamunde turned to her most trusted friend, she saw him with clear eyes. He was tall and hale, was Padraig, experience tempering his expression and his choices. His dark hair was touched with silver at the temples, she noted, and there were lines from laughter etched around his eyes. His tan made his eyes look more vividly blue, and she was struck by his vitality.

By his masculinity.

With the clarity of hindsight, she saw what she had missed day after day in his company. Padraig was of an age with her, and they had shared a thousand adventures. He was unafraid of her truth, much less of her temper. He was quick to laughter; he was clever; he dared to challenge her when he believed her to be wrong. He was deeply loyal and she had always been able to rely upon him.

Her heart began to pound at the magnitude of her error, at her own blind folly.

«I will go into the caverns alone,» she said, feeling the words she had once uttered as they crossed her tongue in this dream. Her quest had been the retrieval of a silver ring, once given to her by Tynan, demanded by the spriggan Darg as the price of its assistance, but returned by her to Tynan after his rejection. It had not been hers to take, but on this day she had returned to steal it to ensure the future of her niece.