Thanks for reading and reviewing, it's been fun.

AN: This chapter was rewritten June 2018. Thanks to Sara K M, hiddenhibernian and Lavada Lenore for the detailed reviews, your input was invaluable. And thanks to lolli-bolli for the motivation. Happy reading!

Epilogue: Sacrifices

Niall had booked me a flight out of Dallas. I had a window seat, but I hadn't gotten much pleasure from it because we took off after sunset. A leap in the dark, like this whole damn trip. Still, I intended to enjoy what I could of it, it being my first time overseas and all. Eight hours into the nine hour flight the growing chink of light at my elbow was a temptation I wasn't about to pass up. Lifting the blind a little, I peeked through the oval of thick glass.

Below us clouds billowed like mountain tops, tinted red by the rising sun. It was a beautiful sight.

The guy across the aisle snorted in his sleep, his mind surfacing briefly, and I let the blind go with regret. The cabin was dark, most of the passengers asleep, and I was in no hurry to wake them. Sleepy thoughts were far easier for me to bear than wakeful ones. Thank the Lord Niall had stumped up for business class; it wasn't as crowded. The seat beside me was empty too — no neighbour to brush against, no accidental blasts of thought.

Mr Snores-a-lot snorted again and turned over, his blanket slipping, trailing on the floor. Anna, our flight attendant, was coming down the aisle — the cabin crew were very attentive in business, I'd discovered — and she had him snug as a bug again in a jiffy. Our eyes met as she straightened up. I pulled a sympathetic face. Mr Snores-a-lot had been a real demanding jerk earlier.

And I'd heard him thinking that I didn't belong in business, that I must've batted my eyes and gotten some poor schmuck to pay for my ticket, so I was disinclined to be charitable to him. Anna, though, was calm, efficient and professional. Even in the face of rudeness. Her, I liked. Having dealt with 'ornery customers a time or two myself, I felt a certain solidarity with her.

"Still can't sleep?" she asked me softly. She was wishing all her passengers were as polite as I was. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you," I whispered back and she moved on.

I'd been too wired to do more than catnap, although the seats were real comfortable and I had tried. My body, still on Louisiana time, refused to believe it was much past midnight. Guess the other passengers were old hands at crossing time-zones. Fortunately, I had my own tiny TV right beside my seat and I'd watched three movies to keep from dwelling on what lay ahead. Thinking about that made the knot of worry in my stomach tighten unbearably.

The cabin lights came on. The crew woke passengers, handed out plastic-wrapped food, poured drinks. Ignoring the bustle around me, I lifted the blind and gawked to my heart's content. The clouds thinned, tiny fields and towns appeared, and soon we were landing. I gathered my belongings and made sure to thank Anna as I left. Getting through the sprawling airport was a challenge, but I made it through passport control without a hitch, found the baggage carousel, grabbed my bag. Customs was a breeze. A cute guy in uniform asked me a few simple questions. Strung out by lack of sleep I gushed over his British accent, but he didn't seem to mind.

At arrivals, a big guy held up a handwritten sign that said: Stackhouse.

He had very little hair, deep-set brown eyes and a kind, weathered face. I figured he was some kind of supe because his thoughts were quiet, murky somehow, but I could tell he was relaxed, friendly even. Smiling, he introduced himself as Dave and took my bag in his meaty hand. We stopped at the restroom so I could freshen up, then he steered me efficiently through the airport and out into the daylight. The air was cold enough to make me shiver. A vintage Rolls Royce waited curbside, all gleaming black paint and shining chrome.

"Oh gracious," I gasped. "Is this yours? What a neat car!"

"Gertrude's quite the looker, ain't she?" he said, grinning like a proud papa. "Runs like a dream too. Let me put your bag in the boot and we can be off."

Boot. He called it a boot. I really was in England.

"Back seat's best for a kip," he said a moment later, holding out a pillow and a blanket. He added apologetically, "It's a long drive. Four, maybe five hours."

I waved away his concern, but he was right, another long spell of sitting wasn't real appealing. Once we got going, I kicked off my shoes and stretched out on the leather, working the kinks out of my muscles, but I was too off-kilter to sleep. That knot was back, but I was also thrilled to be overseas and I didn't want to miss a thing.

Sadly I didn't see much of London, but as we travelled west along the interstate — wait, excuse me, the motorway — the countryside was just how I'd pictured England to be, even under a grey sky on a cold winter's day. There were towns at first, rows of neat red brick houses so unlike the clapperboard ones back home; then stretches of forest, the trees bare and dark-limbed against the clouds. An hour later, it was all rolling green hills, patchwork fields dotted with trees and villages clustered around church spires.

I couldn't get over how different everything looked. The land, the buildings, the trees. Even the road signs.

Dave was a man of few words, but our silences were comfortable and he didn't seem to mind my sporadic questions about the scenery, or my off-key singing when a tune on the radio caught my ear. We hit heavy traffic around Bristol and were nose-to-tail for a while, which made me real glad I didn't have to drive on the wrong side of an unfamiliar road system. Once the traffic cleared, we turned south into a flatter region, passing through fields edged with rippling grass and spindly, wind-whipped trees. I glimpsed the sea to the west a time or two, grey and grizzled, before we turned inland again.

As we left the coast behind, Dave announced we should stop for a bite to eat at the next 'service station'. We pulled into the small parking lot about one in the afternoon, but it felt like breakfast time to me. (I'd skipped breakfast on the plane. Except for the coffee. I could drink coffee any time, day or night.) There were some disappointingly familiar fast-food chains, but I opted for something local instead: a pasty, meat and vegetables wrapped in a fold of pastry. Dave assured me his mum made better, but he said the store-bought ones were alright in a pinch. The filling was lightly spiced, peppery, the pastry rich and crumbling. It made for a strange but satisfying breakfast, and the coffee was good.

We hit the road again, a long featureless stretch of highway that lulled me into a light doze. When the motion of the car changed, I woke to a narrow country road with high leafless hedges on either side. I stretched, yawning. A bare hillside flashed by. The clouds had thickened while I slept, and the land was different. Bleaker somehow, wilder. It made me think of Heathcliff, of brooding moors and terrible tragedy. Before I could slip into some brooding of my own, we came to a fork by a gas station and there, just after the road split, was a bright red phone box.

It was so unexpected, so incongruous, so quintessentially English that it made me laugh. Dave grinned at me in the mirror and my heart lightened. Wishing I'd packed a camera, I asked if Wuthering Heights was set nearby.

Dave laughed too. "No, that's up north," he said kindly. "What you're seeing is Exmoor. Lorna Doone country."

And see it I did, drinking in the stark landscape until trees closed around us, thick and tall and dark. The road climbed steadily as it wound through a wooded valley, only a low stone wall separating us from a steep slope. A pale ribbon of water glinted between the trees. I sent up a prayer that we wouldn't end up down there, in the river. Dave had developed a lead foot all of a sudden, but he was anticipating the bends so I figured he knew the road well and he confirmed it, saying cheerful, "Almost there. Not far now."

The road twisted and turned some more before it burst out of the trees and into the open. We swept around a wide bend, a stone wall to the left corralling us, keeping us from a heart-stopping drop, the sea beyond it and below. Down we went too, the road snaking, swinging back on itself as it plunged into the valley. Steep wooded hills rose all around and I saw houses ahead, strung out along a river. A town, hidden in a deep cleft carved in the land.

Slowing now, bottoming out, we crossed a wide bridge, swung back towards the sea and took a sharp left onto a narrow street. The river ran beside us to the right, shallow and strewn with rocks, a line of houses to the left. It was quiet, no-one on foot and not a car on the road.

"Place is dead in the winter," Dave said, echoing my thoughts. "Makes it easier to park."

Ahead, the hills drew back their skirts, the view opened out and the river cut through a broad shingle bank to meet the sea. We pulled over by the seawall and I got out to gawk. The sun had dipped almost to the horizon and the sea glistened, wave-tops gilded by the dying light. It was like looking at an oil painting. A shifting, breathing oil painting that smelt of salt and seaweed and rivermud. I breathed deep, the air clean and sharp on my tongue, in my lungs. The wind ran cold fingers through my hair as the waves sang against the shingle, their voices deep and pebbled.

I looked back the way we'd come. The town was as pretty as the sea. Boats sat below us in the shelter of a little harbour, resting on a bed of mud. Small, neat, white boats, their sails furled. Houses stood shoulder-to-shoulder along the thin strip of flat ground between the river and the hill that rose sharp and dark behind them, bristling with trees. Beautiful old houses, painted white, or cream, or pale peach.

We'd parked opposite a hotel, I saw. A hotel that was really four or five houses, side-by-side, stepping up a rising driveway, all with neatly painted black window-frames and clean white-washed plaster that seemed to glow in the fading light. It had an honest-to-God thatched roof at one end. It was gorgeous.

Dave saw me looking and said proudly, "That's us. Not too shabby, eh?"

"It's beautiful." A little reminder of home too: lettering above the door read The Rising Sun.

We went inside. The receptionist was chatty and didn't seem to care that I was so tired I was only taking in every third word she said. The place was fourteenth century. Six hundred years old. Had Eric ever stayed somewhere like this? I pictured him cracking his head on the low lintel and began to giggle. The receptionist stared at me in alarm.

Shoot. I was so over-tired I was a kissing cousin away from all-out hysteria.

Forcing my face straight and my tired mind back to the tedious business of checking-in, I answered yes, no, and signed where I was told. At last we were done. The receptionist led me up some stairs, through a maze of corridors, up more steps and to my room. Itching to explore, I mumbled a distracted 'yes, please' to her offer of a light supper. As she left to arrange that, Dave arrived with my bags.

I tried to tip him, but apparently that wasn't done except for wait staff. And, he told me sternly, I wasn't to let anybody fleece me just because I was blonde and pretty. I thanked him warmly instead, startling him with a hug that had him blushing and clearing his throat.

Oops. Guess jet-lag made me over-familiar too.

Once I was alone, I ooh-ed and aah-ed over the lovely décor, admiring the old-fashioned sash windows and the enormous half-poster bed with its lace canopy. (I may have bounced on it a little too.) I even got a thrill out of the chunky plugs and strange-looking outlets. The bathroom was gorgeous too. It was right under the eaves so it had a low, slanted ceiling, but it had been modernised without ruining its charm. It had a wooden floor and a claw-foot tub I was real eager to get acquainted with.

A quiet knock announced my supper: home-made soup and warm rolls. Delicious and just what I needed, my stomach still out of sync with the time change. I'd just gotten the last of my things put away when Dave came to take the tray. He told me Niall would arrive in the morning and I should stay up as late as possible to reset my body-clock, but my eyelids were already drooping. I took a quick bath with my hair tied up so I wouldn't have to dry it and then fell into bed, exhausted.

…

It was dark when I woke up, but the clock-radio told me it was just after seven. Good Lord, I'd slept for twelve hours straight. I felt better for it though; I'd been sleeping so badly lately. I got up, washed and blow-dried my hair, put on jeans and a warm sweater. The sky was lightening. I threw the drapes open and listened to the lonely cries of the gulls as the sea changed with the light, charcoal to dove grey to slate blue.

I felt at peace. Ready, come what may.

The smell of bacon led me to the dining room. It was low-ceilinged, dark beams overhead and dark panels on the walls except for where the bare stone was exposed. The tables and chairs were dark too, but pristine white tablecloths lightened what would otherwise have been a gloomy room. A collection of pretty painted plates added a splash of colour to the walls and a welcoming fire crackled in the fireplace. The tables were mostly empty, just a few senior couples and two middle-aged businessmen talking quietly over their breakfasts.

I wasn't astonished to see Niall sitting at a corner table, dressed casually for him in slacks and a sweater. He was reading a newspaper at arm's length. The Times, I saw as I approached. Folding it, he rose and kissed my cheek.

"You rested well?" he asked, pulling out a chair for me.

"Yes, I think so." I was still floating, adrift from the rhythm of the day, but I didn't feel as wrung-out and jittery as I had the previous evening.

A waitress appeared. Niall ordered for us both: two English breakfasts, a pot of tea. I didn't object. I'd skipped a meal or two travelling and I was ravenous. My plate arrived, piled high with bacon, sausages, fried tomatoes, mushrooms and eggs. The waitress brought a stack of toast, some ketchup and a brown sauce which turned out not to be the barbecue I expected, but something else entirely. Not as sweet, sharper, spicier. It went well with the sausages.

Niall seemed to realise I wasn't in the mood for small talk. He sampled a little of everything with neat, cautious bites, but mostly he watched me eat, which I did with gusto, clearing my plate and washing it all down with strong, fragrant tea. A sense of finality had settled over me. If this was my last meal, I was damn well going to enjoy it.

When I poured myself another tea, Niall produce a hip-flask and, before I could protest, added a generous amount to my cup. It wasn't liquor, I discovered when I took a tiny sip.

"Something to help with the time change, my dear," he said mildly.

I noticed he didn't specify which time change, but I'd trusted him this far so I saw no reason to refuse whatever the concoction was. Besides, I reckoned I needed all the advantages I could get.

Fairy-spiked tea consumed, I went to my room for the 'shoes suitable for a long hike' Niall had told me to bring. I came back downstairs in my sturdiest sneakers, carrying my thickest coat. And gloves, a scarf and a hat. I was a warm weather gal and it sure looked cold out.

I put the coat on in the lobby. Niall was already wearing his. Camel hair, I thought, long and elegant. He held the door open and I gave the warm dining room a last wistful glance as I stepped outside. There was frost on the sidewalk and, to quote a saying of Pam's that used to annoy the heck out of Amelia, it was as cold as a witch's tit.

But Niall had a car, another compact hybrid, and it was warm. We drove out of town and inland, following another wooded valley. We didn't speak until Niall pulled over, parking on a rough patch of dirt beside the road. His hand on the door, he asked solemnly, "Are you certain you want to do this, great-granddaughter?"

"Yes. I have to. I owe it to Sam."

"And you enter into this willingly?"

I was sure there was more to that question than I knew, but I had no alternative. "Yes, willingly," I said, infusing the words with confidence I didn't truly feel.

It was enough for Niall. We got out, and he waited while I bundled up.

The woods were open under the tall, bare trees and we headed away from the road until we picked up a wide footpath. The path was frozen hard and our breath misted the air, but Niall set a brisk pace that kept the chill at bay. A smaller path split off to the left. We took it. It led to a wall. A dry stone wall, its grey stones uncut and unshaped, no mortar between them. Only the skill of the builder held it together, Dave told me yesterday when I asked.

Two enormous rough-hewn stones had been planted in the ground where the wall crossed our little path. Standing as high as my shoulder, the stones leaned apart to create a narrow v-shaped gap in the wall. A thin plank had been set between them, at right angles. It took me a moment to realise it was a step. You were meant to stand on it and squeeze through the gap. This was a stile, something I'd read about in my period romances.

No ordinary stile, though. Symbols were carved into the stones, strange spiralling symbols that curled like living vines. I looked at Niall. He gave me a small smile and a nod. "Here is where we must part, great-granddaughter. Do you have your offering?"

"Yep, sure do." I patted my hip, reassuring myself that the silk-wrapped bundle was still safely buried in my pocket. I ignored the sudden quickening of my heart.

"Do you remember what I told you?"

"Don't stray from the path. Don't eat or drink anything. A guide will meet me." My hands were hot inside my gloves, slick with anxious sweat. This was it.

"Good. Do not forget," he said seriously, and he leant to kiss my forehead. For once, I welcomed the warmth of his magic, grateful for the boost it gave my confidence.

Niall turned to the stile, pulling off his gloves. He traced the carvings on the stones with long elegant fingers as he spoke melodious but incomprehensible words. The air in the gap shimmered. He stepped back and announced: "The way is open."

"Here goes nothing," I muttered.

He grasped my elbow, steadying me as I stepped up, and over, and through the gap before I could second guess myself. I landed heavily on the other side, jarring my ankle. A strange tingle ran up my leg. Once I was sure of my footing, I turned to smile at Niall, meaning to reassure us both. The smile wouldn't come. I could still see him, but he wavered at the edges and when he raised a hand the motion was jerky and flickering. I swallowed.

"Piece of cake," I said, not knowing if he could still hear me. "See you soon."

I must have glanced back half a dozen times. Niall was there every time, watching, like he had my back. I was mighty grateful for that. Then I turned a corner, and I couldn't see him or the wall. Feeling utterly alone, I blew out a long breath and tried let go of my fears with it.

Too late to turn back now.

…

The woods seemed no different at first, but the air slowly took on the scent of autumn. Soon leaves littered the path, dry and crisp and curling. Yellow leaves, brown leaves. I kicked at them, delighting in the rustle and crunch, but that soon got old. I wished I had some music for company.

Niall had insisted I leave my phone and all other technology behind. He'd even worried that the metal in my belt buckle might upset the creature I was going to see. Apparently, she was temperamental.

I tried not to worry exactly how temperamental, especially as I was alone. It was one of the rules and Niall had said, in a firm tone, that even if he could tag along it wouldn't be wise to visit her again so soon. He'd been to see her once already, to arrange this. She'd been reluctant to grant me an audience, and it had taken Niall trading in a favour to get me one. Favour notwithstanding, I still had to make an offering before she would hear my request.

There was no guarantee that she would grant it.

So here I was, about to beg assistance from a creature who was temperamental, a stickler for rules I didn't fully understand and powerful enough that Niall treated her with caution. Consequently, I was nervous as a whore in church and kicking leaves wasn't enough to stop me imagining how many ways this could go horribly wrong.

As if there weren't enough things about this trip that rang alarm bells.

I'd almost choked on my tongue when Niall told me I had to travel 'outside my own realm', as he ominously put it. Not to Fairy, oh no. Despite the peace and the new council, I still wasn't welcome there, in my own kin's homeland. I had to go somewhere else. A place of power, Niall called it. Only accessible at certain times, from certain places. Crossing points, where the membrane between realms was thin. I guess that was the stile.

Then Niall had dropped a second bombshell: time moved differently in this place of power. Hours spent there accomplishing my task would be longer for folks back home, much longer. Months, he couldn't say how many. He'd been vague about what else I should expect, as usual, and the uncertainty of it all just added to my heap of worries. I just—

A rustle broke the thread of my thoughts. Startled, I looked up. White flashed between the trees. Something large and tan leapt gracefully away. A deer? I stepped forward to look, stopping myself just in time.

"Stay on the path," I muttered, planting my feet firmly back in the middle of it. Keeping my eyes down, I lengthened my stride and concentrated on making progress towards my unknown destination. The deer could go hang. I was on a mission.

I heard the stream before I came to it. The path broadened as it ran on top of the flat, earthy bank and it was almost pleasant, picking my way over stones and tree roots, the shallow water gurgling beside me. I was sorry when the path turned away, narrowing again. Soon, the wood began to thin. There was light ahead, open sky. I came out into a dead-end valley, a horseshoe of hills rising around me, steep-sided and swathed in tufted grass.

The path snaked upwards, switching back and forth. Guess I had a climb to make.

I stopped halfway up to ease a stitch in my side. Warm from the exertion, I stuffed my gloves, scarf and hat into my coat. I was sweating when I reached the top. The air was close and I opened my coat, my calves aching as I took in the landscape spread before me like an open book.

Flat, brooding hilltops sulked in every direction, featureless and bleak, blanketed with coarse grass and loose stones. Dark shrubs, barely a foot high, grew in patches like spongy mould and the land seemed to hunch against the sky, pressed up against the weight of the heavens like a man shouldering a heavy burden. The sky itself was bruised, ripe with a mass of purple-black clouds, but the horizon was strangely luminous, almost golden, and the air around me gleamed, swimming with that clear yellow light you get sometimes right before a storm.

A cry came from the sky, lonely and sharp.

A hawk? I tilted my head back and strained to spot it against the clouds, but I couldn't make it out.

Well, no point dawdling. I set off. The path was sketchy in places, barely more than a faint track worn in the grass. I came to a place where the shrubs grew close, hanging over the dirt — sprays of purple flowers that I recognised as heather mixed with a plant I didn't know, a stunted bush with glossy oval leaves and tiny blue-black berries. They looked edible, but remembering Niall's warning I left them untouched.

Pressing on, I relaxed into a rhythm and began to appreciate the wildness around me. The landscape was harsh, but it held life. I saw signs of livestock: a hoof print or two preserved in dried mud, poop scattered by the path. Occasionally a spider or a shiny beetle skittered away from my feet; once a pretty red moth fluttered past. I don't know how long I walked under that oppressive sky — the light didn't change and the sun remained hidden — but I crossed two long rolling hilltops, diligently putting one foot in front of the other, praying I hadn't lost my way. Cresting a third hill, my eyes on my feet so I didn't turn an ankle on a loose stone, I registered the silence and looked up.

Here, on top of the moor, pressed against the sky, nothing moved.

The landscape had been destroyed as far as the eye could see, ravaged by fire. The grass, what was left of it, was grey and ashy. The shrubs were charcoal skeletons. Stiff black branches pointed accusingly at the sky, the path just a whisper of a line between them.

Every sense alert, I walked into the destruction. Branches flaked and crumbled as my calves brushed them, the whisper of sound lost in the dead silence. It was quiet, too quiet. There was an eerie, unnerving stillness to the ruined landscape. I hummed a stupid pop song under my breath for comfort. I was halfway through the third chorus when I saw it.

Movement, up ahead.

Just there, by that loose pile of rocks. Not a natural pile of rocks — a cairn, a way-marker. I'd read about them in my hotel room, a million miles from here. The path petered out beyond it.

I approached cautiously.

A figure rose gracefully from where it had been hunkered down behind the cairn. A woman, compact and athletic, dark haired, deeply tanned. Human I thought, but I couldn't read her. Her mind was there, just obscured, as if it were behind frosted glass. I couldn't guess at her age. Her face was weathered and white clay streaked her cheeks, like that sunblock skiers use. She wore leather hides sewn together with coarse stitches and soft footwear akin to moccasins. Her hair was woven haphazardly with feathers and clay beads. More beads and teeth were strung on a cord around her neck. I didn't miss the dagger hanging at her side, or that her sharp eyes followed my movements constantly.

"Soo-kie." Her voice was rough. As she stumbled over my name I saw she was missing a front tooth. Its companions were stained and crooked.

"That's me," I said, nodding real slow, careful to keep my hands in plain sight.

She grunted, turned, and strode across the burnt grass, straight as an arrow. Her gait was fluid, almost feline. It reminded me painfully of Bernie. I followed.

…

My guide was as silent as the desolation that stretched around us and she set a fast pace. I had a hard time keeping up, my legs already aching, my throat dry. Just when I thought for sure I'd have to stop to catch my breath, we all but stumbled upon a little hollow. It was hidden until we were on top of it and barely big enough to hold its contents: a single stunted tree and a small pool.

The pool was surrounded by reeds and long grass, a vivid splash of green after all that grey ash. My companion loped straight down to the water. Figuring we'd reached our destination at last, I sent up a silent hallelujah and followed slowly, wary now. The ground around the pool was soft and spongy under its carpet of vegetation, and I hung back, keeping my feet on firmer, drier land.

The pool was still, a perfect mirror for the menacing sky, framed with mud so rich and dark it was almost black. Across the water, the tree was wind-swept and crooked, bent like an old man's back after a lifetime of toil. It was some sort of thorn with mean tattered leaves, its branches all tangled and twisted. Small dark red berries clung here and there, dull and shrivelled, and there were things tied to the branches that overhung the pool.

Ribbons so old they'd faded and frayed. String. Bits of cord and rope. A braid of hair. A bundle of black feathers, something white peeking out of them.

Oh. Bone, that was bone. Feathers and bone and dried sinew, the desiccated remains of a long-dead bird. A crow perhaps, that had been tightly trussed and hung upside down. I shivered and looked away.

The woman grunted. She waited for me to look at her and then mimed a throw aimed at the pool. "Est-or-hild," she said slowly, followed by guttural sounds I couldn't decipher. She mimed the throw again and repeated more forcefully, "Est-or-hild."

Nodding that I understood, I set my coat down on the grass away from the water and wriggled the offering out of my pocket. The blue silk scarf was soft against my fingers. Unwinding it, I lifted the gold and green object out of the fabric. It was smooth, cool and heavy in my hand, but with none of the jangling power it used to possess.

The Cluviel Dor was just a pretty shell now, but it was the last gift Gran gave me and for that reason alone it was precious. It seemed fitting to sacrifice it to heal the damage it had done.

Lost in memories of the trouble it had caused, the greed it had inspired, I startled when a grubby brown hand tugged the scarf gently from mine. I looked up into honey-coloured eyes. Feather girl motioned the silk at the tree, and when I dipped my head and smiled tentatively at her, she smiled back, her face suddenly warm, like a flower opening to the sun.

She took the scarf, jogged around the pool and swung nimbly under the hanging branches. Deft fingers tied the silk in place, leaving a long end dangling over the water. She came back and gestured at the pool, nodding encouragingly.

Okay, Stackhouse, you're up.

Avoiding the mud, I stepped as close as I could to the water and ran through Niall's advice one final time: keep the request simple, clear, and above all respectful. I cleared my throat self-consciously. My fingers traced the patterning on the Cluviel Dor one last time, then my fist tightened around it.

"Eastorhild," I called to the clouds, "I give this offering to you of my own free will. In return, I ask that you break the join it created and free my husband, Sam Merlotte," and I threw the Cluviel Dor into the centre of the pool.

The water swallowed it silently. Lazy ripples spread outwards, lapping against the mud as I waited.

And waited.

Nothing happened — except the ache in my calves grew, and the nagging throb from the knee I'd injured in Dallas became insistent. I was hungry, tired and sore. I'd been so focused on getting here, driving myself on, that I'd blocked everything else out. Now that it looked like my journey had been a huge waste of time, all my discomforts and pain came rushing back in, multiplied by frustration and anger.

What the hell was I supposed to do now? I'd come halfway round the world, crossed into another damn realm for goodness sake — we sure weren't in Kansas now, Toto — and all to throw a hunk of stone and metal into a pond. Geez, I could have stayed home and done that!

But I'd be damned if I was going to give up that easily. Okay. I'd given respectful a shot, time to try demanding. Why the hell not? I had nothing to lose.

"Eastorhild!" I yelled, the shout ripping through the still air.

Nothing. Three times the charm, right? It worked in Beetlejuice. I yelled again. And again, her name bouncing around the hollow. As the echoes faded, I began to despair.

There. In the centre of the pool.

A flicker, a tiny blip in the still surface.

It came again. And over there, by the tree. The disturbance spread, the mirror-smooth water roughening as if ruffled by a breeze I couldn't feel, a breeze beyond my senses. The reflection of the sky distorted, blurred, then vanished like a popped bubble. Just as abruptly, the surface snapped flat again.

But now it wasn't silvered, a mirror to the glowering clouds; it was transparent, a window to what lay below.

The pool beneath was deep and dark. Weeds swayed in and out of the gloom, underwater fields, grassy strands drifting on invisible currents. Objects caught in the delicate fronds glittered and shone in the murk. Offerings made by long-ago pilgrims to this peculiar shrine: gemstones, sword hilts, gold chains, chalices.

The weeds parted. I gasped.

A woman was rising to the surface. Eastorhild, it had to be. She lay on a bed of weeds, a vision of the past in an elaborate blue gown that was surely embroidered by hands long turned to dust. Her face was relaxed, as if she slept, her eyes closed. She was achingly beautiful — cheek-bones worthy of a Greek goddess; a perfectly straight nose; arching, delicate eyebrows. Long blonde hair floated around her in gentle clouds, woven through with water lilies.

The thought came to me unbidden: Snow White in a glass coffin, beauty preserved forever at terrible cost.

The weeds stirred, tilting her upright. Her eyes snapped open and bored into mine. Blue eyes, something alien coiled in their depths, beneath that icy stare.

She rose from the water like Venus from the sea but not half so sweet, a transformation sweeping over her as she broke the surface: her hair bedraggling, slimy with weeds; her skin dulling, waxy and grey; her dress rotting, unravelling. A drowned corpse stood on the centre of the pool.

Water poured off her. Stiff and silent, she glided slowly towards me.

She stopped at the edge of the water, close enough that the stench of week-old fish and decay wafted over me. It stung my nose, caught in my throat. I stood stock still, torn between horrified pity and a violent desire to throw up, my eyes open too wide, aching for moisture.

Hers were dead, glazed a milky white. Her face was mottled and bloated. The tip of her tongue, thick and swollen and liver-coloured, poked from between ravaged lips in a grotesque parody of playfulness. She leaned towards me.

Petrified, I didn't move a muscle, mental or physical. I felt the weight of her in my mind, a cloying, suffocating presence that rolled over me, around me, pushing, pulling, seeking a way in. My knees weakened, the back of my neck went cold and hot all at once, black spots flashed in my eyes. Then it was over, and I staggered as that terrible weight lifted.

She said, in a gentle, teasing voice: "A fae child, one of the sky."

I found a crumb of strength to contradicted her. "I'm human. Mostly."

A soft, breathy laugh. "How good you are at hiding from yourself."

Her lips weren't moving. I fought the urge to look away. Lord, that was extremely unsettling, hearing a voice from that ruined face, set in the unmoving mask of death. Putting as much force of will into my words as I could muster I asked, "Will you help me?"

"You have courage. If I do what you ask, what will you give me in return? Your life? Another's?"

I hesitated.

That soft laugh again. She raised a stiff arm, water trickling from her bedraggled sleeve as she reached for me. I couldn't quite stop myself flinching when her palm pressed against my chest, over my heart, but I stood my ground, sure that showing weakness now would be a mistake. Maybe a fatal one.

Water seeped into my thin sweater. Heat leached from my skin where her hand rested. I repressed a shudder. A frosty chill burrowed into my chest and ice filled my belly.

"A wall so thick," she whispered, "the one you've built. So much fear."

Oh yes, I was very afraid. Afraid she might steal my life right there and then, freeze it clean out of me.

Mercifully, she broke contact, her arm falling slowly back to her side. "Fear me not, child. I am past the need for life."

"Yes ma'am, I reckon you are." And taking my life wouldn't make her any less … a rotting corpse. But there was no polite way to say that, so I kept my mouth firmly shut and my thoughts to myself.

She'd scared the sass right out of me.

A breathy sigh. "Do not pity me, child. You see only the surface. I have drunk deep of life and love, and had my fill."

I didn't know what to say to that.

"But you, you have suffered. And for little reward." Another sigh. "Wet your lips, took a sip, never downed love's draft. Never gave him a chance."

Startled, the question fell from my mouth before I could catch it: "You mean Sam, my husband?"

"That well has always been dry. You do this for him?"

I nodded.

"What you ask will free him."

"I know." That I might lose him completely was left unsaid to hang in the air like a bad smell.

"There will be a price. Do you pay it willingly?"

I screwed up all my courage to say with conviction, like a happy bride in church: "I do."

"Very well. You must bathe in these waters."

A surge of disgust and fear choked me. I looked from her swollen face to the unnaturally still pool behind her in disbelief. She'd lain in it, soaked in it. What would that water do to me?

"It is the only way," she whispered.

Oh, hell no. No, no, no. A desire to run, to never let a drop of that unholy water touch my skin almost overwhelmed me, but I locked my muscles down and rooted myself to the spot. Terror warred with the solemn promise I'd made to do whatever it took to do right by Sam, whatever it took to free us both. I had to do this. I had to. My legs shook, tense with the effort of going nowhere.

Any woman worth her salt does what she has to do. Gran's words, Stackhouse words, and I was a Stackhouse through and through.

You have a strength all your own. Eric's words.

I could do this. I would do this. I sucked in a big, slow gulp of air, and another, and another. The terror eased, the knot of panic in my chest loosened.

Turning away from the vision of decay standing statue-like before me, away from the water that gave me such a strong sense of doom, I sat down on the grass, tugged off my sneakers and set them neatly besides my coat. I pulled off my sweater, my tank, folding them mechanically. Undid my jeans, shucked them, and my socks. Folded them too. The neat pile I'd made was such an ordinary, mundane sight, yet so utterly surreal in this bizarre place.

I was real glad I'd put on matching underwear. Pale blue, with little white bows. Maybe they wouldn't stain too bad. Not that it would mattered if—

I bit my cheek hard, swallowed hysteria with the blood. Standing, I faced the pool. Eyes the colour of honey met mine. Feather girl touched her chest solemnly, then her forehead. I hoped it was a gesture of respect meant to wish me luck, not a blessing for those about to die. Or worse.

Eastorhild had moved back from the edge and waited further out, her tattered dress trailing in the water. The grass was rough against the soles of my feet as I walked, my eyes fixed on the blue silk scarf hanging from the tree. I stepped gingerly onto the mud. It oozed between my toes, slimy and disgusting. The blue silk floated lazily on a breath of wind, curling enticingly, beckoning me onwards. A second step and water lapped my toes, cold and unwelcome. The mud grew wetter, softer. There were rocks beneath it. Sharp, slippery rocks. My toes curled round them, gripping tight.

Another step, another. The water swallowed me in bites. My ankles. My knees. My hips. Then my foot met soft fronds where I expected hard rock, and I was swallowed whole.

Icy water squeezed my chest as I plummeted, a stone dropped into a dark well, the pale glimmer of the surface fading fast. Cold, numbing water pressed in at my mouth, my nose, my ears. I denied it, stifling the impulse to breathe.

Don't look down, I thought fiercely. Tilting my face up, I thought of the sun, its warmth on my skin, its light filtered through green leaves, dappling the yard, and the Louisiana sky, a clear blue summer sky, scattered with white clouds to fit its mood, soft and playful. I didn't struggle. I didn't breathe. I waited for my descent to slow, to reverse.

A burning started in my ribs. Ringing filled my ears. One of my imaginary clouds turned from white to grey. Then another, and another. They multiplied, rolling across my clear blue sky, darkening it. The world darkened too, the dappled light under the trees dimming. The sun was imprisoned behind a wall of stormy grey. It couldn't reach me here, couldn't penetrate the depths.

Fronds brushed against my legs. An ache blossomed in my chest, a heaviness settled in my belly. Sluggish now, lethargic, I breathed in. Out. In again. Cold trickled into my lungs. Fronds wrapped my arms and legs, insistent silky bonds that dragged me down slowly, relentlessly.

So cold. So dark and silent. So ... peaceful.

Hands grasped at my shoulders, pinching, tugging. I kicked and struggled, fought to escape, fought to sink back into that gentle velvet darkness. Something soft brushed my cheek.

Enough, child. It is done.

Bony fingers gripped like a vice, nails digging into my flesh, and I was yanked upwards. The world grew brighter, breathing easier. I broke free of the water and soared into the air, flung skyward like a slingshot. Time seemed to stop as I hung above the pool.

Then gravity's iron grip took a-hold of me and I plunged back to earth. I landed with a wet slap, face-down on the mud. Stunned at first, then choking on dirt, gasping for breath and thrashing like a landed fish. Somehow I got to my hands and knees. There I stayed, coughing and retching. Brackish water gushed out of me in spurts, splattering the mud.

When the fit passed, I dragged myself onto the grass and collapsed on my belly. My cheek pressed tight to the ground, I felt rather than heard footsteps. A heavy covering was laid over me. Too exhausted to speak, I went right ahead and passed out.

…

Reality, or whatever the heck passed for it in that crazy place, washed back over me like the sea reclaiming driftwood. My head was on my arm. My skin smelt of rot and water-weeds. A thick musky scent clung to me too, like the smell of deer, or horses. Wrinkling my nose, I raised my head.

Feather girl squatted a few feet away. Watching me, always watching. Her hide cloak rubbed against my shoulder. That explained the animal smell.

No sign of Eastorhild. Can't say I was sorry about that.

Hugging the cloak to me, I sat up and carefully checked myself over. I was weak, chilled to the bone and smeared head-to-toe with mud, but still very much alive and warm-blooded. Tears of relief welled in my eyes. I lifted a hand to brushed them away and froze.

My rings were gone. My wedding rings.

The cold. In the cold, the rings got loose on my fingers. They must've fallen off. Shit. I patted frantically at the grass, until I remembered fronds slithering over my arms and somehow knew that the rings had been taken deliberately.

If rings were all this cost me, I supposed I should be grateful. I didn't feel it. Tears spilling in earnest, I stared at my empty finger, tried not to read significance into the sight, and failed. What else would I lose where Sam was concerned?

Feather girl watched the sky patiently while I threw myself a pity party. Once I'd pulled myself together, she grunted and gestured at my clothes. I got unsteadily to my feet. Dipping my head in thanks, I handed her her cloak. She threw it over her shoulders and I dressed quickly, ignoring shaking hands and gritty smears of mud. My jeans chaffed uncomfortably against the cold flesh of my thighs as we climbed out of the hollow. We set off across the burnt landscape, but it took all my strength to keep up with my once-again silent companion. My legs ached, and I searched the horizon ahead of us for the cairn in vain.

Where the hell were we going? We sure weren't retracing our steps.

We hit a patch of blackened rocks that shifted and clattered underfoot. I kept my eyes down as we crossed it. When I looked up, the cairn was right in front of me. It had appeared out of nowhere. A few yards past it, rough grass replaced the burnt ash. Maybe half a mile distant, I could see treetops in a valley.

Oh. Had we taken a short-cut? I sure hoped so.

Feather girl stopped by the cairn. She made that strange gesture again, chest then head. I copied it awkwardly back at her and her eyes crinkled with pleasure. She was still at the cairn when I looked back the first time, then she was gone.

I wondered who she was, why she was tied to this lonely place. It was a distraction from the oppressive sky, my exhaustion, and the growing certainty that this wasn't the path I arrived on. If it didn't lead back to the stile, I was up shit creek. Shit creek in an alien realm, with no clue how to get home.

But Feather girl didn't seem the type to steer me wrong, so I kept on walking.

Patches of heather and those shrubs with the blue-black berries crowded the path again. Hunger gnawed at me, but I didn't stop. When I got to the valley it looked all wrong, but the path cut down towards the woods and I had no choice but to follow it. I winced as I started the descent, anticipating pain from my knee, but none came. I figured I was just too damn cold to feel it. I took care not to jar it all the same, knowing I'd pay for it later if I did.

A surprise waited in the woods. Gone was the blanket of autumn leaves, in its place a carpet of blue as far as I could see. Bluebells, a sweet, soft fragrance rising off them. They were so pretty I wanted to pick some, but that meant stepping off the path and I wasn't about to make a rookie mistake so close to the finish. By the time I came to the stream — which, thank the Lord, did look familiar — the chill in my bones had thawed completely and my coat was open. It definitely wasn't December.

I rounded the last corner and Niall was waiting at the stile. Desperate get back to a world that was familiar, I practically flew across those final yards and bounded onto the stile, reaching for Niall. He grasped my hand and pulled. The second my feet hit home-turf, a wave of intense fatigue rolled over me. I stumbled, but Niall caught me, his eyes scrutinising my face.

"Sookie. Welcome back."

"Boy, am I glad to see you," I said, my voice shaky. I tried to smile. He said something, the words indistinct, and pressed a hip-flask into my hand. I raised it, but the world set to spinning and my eyes rolled up into my head.

I came to sitting in the front of a car. Niall was crouched in the open door, brushing hair out of my face. "Rest," he said gently. When I mumbled a panicked question, he hushed me. "You will be well. You are only exhausted."

That wasn't what I wanted to hear. Shaking my head, I repeated weakly, "Did it work? Is it gone?"

"Yes, the join is gone." He smiled. "You did well, great-granddaughter. I am proud of you. Now sleep."

I gave a little prayer of thanks as he started the car. My eyes drifting shut, my thumb rubbed at my bare ring-finger, and my last conscious thought was of Sam.

I hoped he could forgive me, for everything.

...

Footnote:

Well, that was a wild chapter and something a little different for y'all.

The setting is North Devon, where I spent many happy summer holidays as a kid, and the atmosphere is inspired by Susan Cooper's books and other fantasies I read as a teenager, all rooted in Celtic mythology and the British countryside. Quite far away from SVM, but I think it fits with Niall's origins.

Eastorhild (or Estrildis) is a 'real' legendary character. I wanted someone who would be both frustrated with and sympathetic to Sookie. Someone linked to the region, and to water, to tie in with the Celtic belief that bodies of water were portals to the spirit world, sacred places to make offerings. I couldn't believe my luck when I read about Eastorhild and her daughter Habren. She was perfect. And after I'd written this, I read about Clootie Wells and wish trees and found I'd picked the right sort of tree with a hawthorn, so it all worked out nicely.