Skye was partly relaxed. He knew it to be mostly peaceful on this end of things. With no direct border between the red-haired bitch’s realm and this one, there was nothing to squabble over except the gate itself, and she had others. There should be no threat, though he still kept his eye out. The grass was soft and vivid green here, and the people they passed few. Here and there he spied them watching, some with interest, some sadness, still others with hope. Even one of the great stags stood at the edge of the path and fearlessly watched them pass.

   There were guards near the edge of the kingdom, and he could see them ahead. They were elves he did not know, but then, those like him, taken from the other world, were never given solitary border duty. The elves nodded to him as they approached. There were methods of communication among them that baffled him, so it did not surprise him that they seemed to know his errand. He paused before them. It was just as well that the girl is blind, he thought, from the looks of pity the elves gave her. If he read her character aright she would have found it unbearable.

   “Be well, Mistress, Commander,” the left one said. He was as fair and bright as any Tuatha Skye had ever met. “The way is clear.”

   The right one, dark as raven wings, with pale skin and vivid eyes, pointed down the path. “The way twists and winds a half league more, then falls straight as an arrow to the gate. If you remember nothing else in the next hour, remember to stay on the path.”

   Skye frowned, confused as to why he would say such a thing. Of course he would remember to stay on the path. Before he could respond, a distant horn rang out through the territory. Beside him, the woman tensed, turning her head every which way, trying to locate it. His hand over hers on his arm did not soothe her, especially not when the fair one touched his shoulder and said, “Tread swiftly.”

   “And swifter still,” the dark one added as a second blast sounded, nearer, coming from outside of the kingdom and headed for the path.

   Skye glanced down at the grass of the road, watched it turn a darker green verging on black.

   “’Tis the Wild Hunt,” the elf said. “The bitch couldn’t ride her own trod, she has to taint ours,” he spat, his dark hair falling in his pale face as he unsheathed his blade.

   “She’s thumbing her nose at the King,” the bright one said and pushed Skye down the path. “Run with your sword in hand and don’t stop. We’ll try and hold her off or divert her.”

   Skye needed no second urging. As a child, he had once heard the Wild Hunt tearing across the moors one Samhain, the hellish hounds baying as they sought and pursued whatever they came across. The fear of it had chilled him to the core and he propelled himself and the woman down the darkening trod towards the distant gate.

   The sound of the horn and the baying hounds frightened the governess more than the beast that had taken her eyes. She supposed it was that now she was the one in danger, not the children, but that was no comfort. She made herself run, fearing to stumble on something she could not see. Not that she had a choice. She supposed the Commander would have dragged her, or hauled her, undignified, over his shoulder. That thought alone made her try to keep up with him. She turned all her concentration on him, and focused on the slightest movement of his body to tell her if the next step was deeper than the last or higher, trying to read the road through him. It helped with the fear, if nothing else, and she still stumbled from time to time. She wondered why he had not drawn his sword as he had been warned, having not heard the song of metal leaving leather.

   Behind them, they could hear the sudden contact of the two elves with the enemy. They ran, the conflict already beyond bends in the road and unseen but vividly heard. Skye wondered how long she could maintain this pace, tried to keep her as steady as he could while not sacrificing speed. It felt like they had been running for twenty long minutes, but he knew better. ...And now he could hear the baying of hounds back along the road.

   He kept his ear to it, gauging their proximity. He had to get her to the gate, or at least to the straight-away. The hounds were getting closer. Then the two of them rounded the last corner and he could see it looming a few hundred yards distant at the end of a gentle, downward slope.

   Skye clenched his fist and the claymore melted into it. It flashed through his mind to wonder if it would still do that, come to his hand when he thought of it, after he stepped into the real world. He took her arm from his, holding her just above the elbow. “Run, straight as th’ arrow an’ dinnae stop ‘til th’ world feels ...less. I’m right ahind ye.” With that he gave her a little push in the right direction and turned to face the beasts as they skidded around the bend, hot on their heels.

   She staggered a moment, heard the sudden snarling and slavering and his Scottish battle cry, and ran. She tried her best to keep to a straight line but couldn’t be sure she had. She felt very uncertain suddenly, terrified, but kept running. The sounds behind her were terrible, the ones before her only the wind in the grass and too soft to be heard over the fight. She kept her hands out in front of her to keep from running into the gate itself, not knowing what it looked like or if it was a literal gate at all. Her hands met foliage: small bladed leaves, sharp, short twiggy branches, growing taller even as her hands touched them. Panic beat at her breast as it seemed they were endless, deep, her arms reaching through them and being drawn in. The commander had said nothing about a hedge.

   From the sound of things, one of the hounds had either slipped past her escort or killed and survived him. Something enormous was pounding the grass behind her, slavering, snarling, baying. She felt like screaming, but nothing would come out.

   Suddenly, hands closed on her wrists and pulled her violently through the hedge. Then warm arms wrapped around her, dragging her down into a crouch, and a hand covered her mouth. There was a snuffling on the other side of the bushes, an angry growling, the sound of haphazard digging. Then the war cry again and a yelp followed by the sound of more hounds, more demonic sounding than the last. The hands that held her drew her up, said something to her she did not understand, and drew her away from the wall of green and the spilling of blood.

   They did not run, they walked, and she knew why. Those were the hounds of the Immortal Hunt. She had run before because she had already been seen and targeted. But now there was another target for them, and it would not be wise to attract their attention.

   The unknown person took her through a twisting pathway and more hedges, a maze perhaps, walking for several minutes before the world just felt... different. It was warmer, for one, almost unbearably hot. The smell of flowers was everywhere and there was a different type of noise, many voices doing many things, laughter and music. She could hear a fire somewhere and a pipe, a harp... and the world just felt less... intense, less real. He drew her forward several paces, saying something else in that language she felt she should know but didn’t, and then let go of her.

   She wracked her brain, trying to remember what was off about things, what she was doing standing... wherever she was, surrounded by people she didn’t know and couldn’t understand. Her memory was spilling out of her like a punctured wineskin and there was nothing she could do to stop it. People came up to her, spoke their gibberish. Someone touched her, and she jerked back with a gasp and they did not try again.

   She could tell they were trying to be soothing, but she was momentarily incapable of reason. Something vital was draining from her and she felt bereft and lost and confused and ...too many things to put a label to. It was all just too much. “Where am I and who are you? Why am I here?” she asked in Gaelic.

   Several of the voices professed confusion; but someone stepped up, said a few scattered words in very poor Irish, “Midsummer’s eve. Celebration. Safety. You stop now, rest. Go take freshness?”

    She turned her head to the voice. It was feminine, young, from a tall source. She tipped her head up, trying to decipher what the child had meant.

   Others spoke around her, some of the voices sounding shocked, one or two knowing, as if whatever they were saying explained everything, and most of them withdrew. She decided whatever was going on, it was safer than what she had fled, and allowed the girl to take her hand and lead her down a path and up a few shallow steps to a quieter area to sit.

   She perched in the chair, prim and proper, ankles crossed, hands in her lap as she listened intently to what was going on around her. The girl pressed a glass into her hand and An sniffed it. It was cold, but smelled vaguely of tea. She sipped at it, found it far too sweet and held it back out, “I thank ye, but... I’m fine.”

   “You name? I Kellain O’Leary,” the girl said.

   She tried to remember. There had been a name. A long time ago. She hadn’t liked it, but it had been hers. Then there was the name the others called her, though what those others were eluded her for the nonce. “They called me lady of the mists,” she answered softly.

   The girl’s Irish was poor indeed. What she took from the simple sentence was not what had been said. ‘Ban an Ceobrun’ became “Anne Kayoburn, nice.”

   She sighed, let it go. Anne was as good a name as any, and hearing it... warmed her somehow. She let the girl talk, rattling on in her imperfect Irish, understanding only the gist of her speech. She talked about the Queen of the Green and someone new and a coming fight between the Holly King and the Oak King. Typical Midsummer festival activities. She was beginning to tune the girl out when she heard sounds just beyond the wall she sensed behind her, loud male voices. One of them spoke the strange words, but with a lilt that was music to her ears and salted well with words she understood, embarrassing though one of those words was.

   “What the bloody hell has that Sasanach done this time? I’ll string him up by his magairlí if he interrupts ma daughter’s crownin’,” the voice growled in a fair Cork accent.

   She turned to face the direction the voices came from as the others with him said more unintelligible words. The voices started to fade deeper into the building, and she was suddenly desperate to meet the source of that voice. There was something familiar in its fluid warmth and the easy pronunciation of words her current minder would have stumbled over. Not that she held it against the child. Even in her day, many children grew up ignorant of their native tongue thanks to the ‘bloody Sassenach’, as the man had said. Desperate, she shouted the first thing that came to her mind, “Éirinn go Brách!”

   The voices stopped. She heard the sound of turning, but not really the sound of feet. A door was passed, and a man stood before her. There was an exchange between him and the girl, and all she understood was “Anne Kayoburn.”

   “Ahn,” she corrected firmly in Irish. “Tis pronounced ahn.” She then turned to the man and held out her hand. “I don’t know rightly what my name is. They called me the lady of the mists; at least most did, though that is all I can remember at the moment.” Her expression went dreamy and wistful at that, though she could not for the life of her understand the reason for the emotion.

   “I can see why,” came the voice, liquid gold.

   “An Ceobhrán is as good a name as any for now.”

   “She no say who she out of,” the girl injected.

   “Like as not, she doesna yet remember. But she need not. I know whence. I can smell Him on her.” His hand reached out and took hers. She felt the distinct shape of eagle’s talons against her palm, and something clicked between the sound and the smell of him. Something familiar and comforting that she could cling to. “I am Ian ‘the Gryphon’ O’Keefe. Patriarch of the O’Keefe clan and this ...motlied mess a’ refugees. ‘Tis glad I am to welcome another Irish expatriate to my home. Welcome to the Gryphon’s Rest. I’ve more than a few responsibilities this Midsummer’s eve, but I’ll make time enough for ye after.”

   “I thank ye. I’d not interrupt for the world. I’ll await yer pleasure, chieftain. Might I ask where I am afore ye be going?”

   “Florida, in the Americas. A long way from home. ’Tis the twenty-first century, the first day of May in the year of our Lord two thousand an’ ten.”

   He started to walk away, then paused. “Might I ask... why’d ye cry out ‘Ireland forever’?”

   She smiled shyly, blushed slightly. “Well, ye were the first clearly Irish voice I’ve heard. I speak not a word o’ the Sassenach tongue... or I don’t remember it, and there was a touch o’ the familiar about ye. Ye were walkin’ away. I knew no true son o’ Ireland would let that call go unanswered.”

   He laughed, warm and leonine.

   “D’ye by chance remember a monarch or a battle..., some marker t’ tell me how long ye been gone?”

   She thought a brief moment, knowing his time was precious and could tell by the anxiously shifting feet behind him that his aide needed him badly. “I believe I’m from County Clare, and I’ve only seen the monarch on coin, and ...I’ve no love for the English. I am sorry.”

   He set a comforting hand on her shoulder. “No matter, lass. We’ll sort ye out soon enough. Kelly, go find young Bet’any to escort her around. Her Irish is better and she’ll need a fairer translator. Chances are she’ll remember more that way. ...All right, Reggie, I’ll go and deal with that pansy-waisted cenobite.”

   As he walked away, An turned to Kellain as she rose. “He has an issue with an English monk?” she asked.

   “Monk?” the girl asked, confused.

   “The ‘cenobite’? It means a celibate, usually a cloistered one.”

   “Is what means? Chatham not monk but live one. Stay. I get Bethany.”

   An remained where she was, listening to the sounds around her. There were games being played, wrestling in some places, music in others. There were a lot of people here, so it did not surprise her that it took a while before Kellain returned, breathless, with another girl in tow. The new girl strode right up to An without preamble and picked up her hand, pressing it into her own in introduction. “I’m Bethany O’Keefe. I’ll be yer tour guide t’night.”

   An breathed a sigh of relief as she clasped the hand. The girl’s Irish was good, though a little... off somehow. An suspected it was more modern, but far more understandable than Kellain’s. “An Ceobhrán.”

   She felt the girl’s head tip sideways, having not yet released her hand. “Yer name is Of? Or am I mistranslatin’ somethin’?”

   Behind her, Kellain muttered a farewell and ran off to join some boys calling her name.

   An blushed a little. “All I can remember being called was ‘Lady of the Mist’. And it seems inappropriate to call me Lady.”

   Bethany let go of her hand and sank into the chair next to her. “We could just call ye Ceobhrán. Mist in English, by the by. Or Misty?”

   An frowned at the English word. “I don’t like the sound of Misty. Too hissy, sounds... too much like a pet name for a spoiled noble.”

   Bethany laughed, open and free. “Aye, that it do. Well, I suppose those who don’t speak a proper tongue will simply take it for a twisted pronouncing of Anne. If you’re all right with it?” An nodded. “I’ll take you around if you like, let you get a feel of the place. Things’re a bit bedlam tonight, but it’s not always.”

   “It’s Midsummer’s eve,” she smiled. “I expect nothing less than shenanigans.”

   “You talk like a schoolteacher.”

   An could not tell from her voice if that was a compliment or not. “I was. Governess, actually. For.... I can’t remember and I want to.”

   “Well, there will be plenty of time for that later. Now, I’ve a blind friend at school, so I’ve some idea what I’m doing. You shouldn’t have too much trouble.”

   “Good,” An injected. “You can teach me what I need to know.”

   The girl, on her way to standing, paused. “You... haven’t been blind long?”

   An’s fingers drifted up to her eyes, touched the empty sockets and felt the faint, damp swirl of fog within them. “This is... new, aye.”

   “I... I am so sorry. With the name... I thought that was why.... I feel like an ass.”

   “Don’t,” she smiled indulgently. “There is no way of knowin’, and,” she said, standing, “I’ve not been to a proper Midsummer in forever. The Gentry, I don’t think, celebrate quite the same.”

   The smile on the girl’s face was easily heard in her voice as she took An’s hand and hooked it around her own elbow. “Then let’s get to it, shall we? Now watch the porch steps, all right?”

   She found herself brought expertly around the rather large estate, from group to group and introduced, with everything described to her with care and detail. Some things, Bethany found, had to be explained further than mere appearances, mostly the modern things. At one point, she led An to the carriage house to let her run her hands along the cars before she explained them.

   “They ride awfully low. Where do ye hitch the horses? And aren’t they heavy for yer standard team?”

   Bethany laughed. “The horses are under the hood.”

   An turned, “Magic? But ye said these were a mundane thing.”

   “’Tis a machine. Yer familiar with machines, aye?”

   She thought a moment, an image pressing into her mind from her only visit to Dublin. “They’re trains?”

   “Like. No tracks, though. A lot cheaper, too. Not a steam engine, though a similar principle.”

   “If there are books on them, I’d like to read them... only,” her face fell as she remembered. “Ah, I think that is the part I am going to hate most.”

   Bethany brightened as she led An out of the carriage house and back toward the festivities. “Well, you have two options there. One, I could read to you.”

   “I’d hate to impose. I used to read a lot.”

   Beth laughed. “Or, you can learn Braille.”

   “Braille?”

   “They have this way of writing the letters in raised bumps. Ingenious, actually. You read with your fingers. I’m sure Uncle Ian can hook you up with a primer or a teacher.”

   She perked up at that. “If that will not put him out, I would like that very much. So... he is your father’s brother?”

   Bethany laughed. “Nah. The relation’s a little more distant than that. He’s the chief, everyone calls him ‘uncle’. Beats the hell out of ‘godfather’.” She laughed at her own joke, one An did not understand, but politely said nothing. “Only people who don’t call him uncle are his daughter and non-O’Keefe’s.”

   An smiled shyly, “There are a lot of you.”

   “Just as many not. Though a good chunk of us do live out here at the Rest. And he adopts. But he’ll explain the reason for that later.” She began to draw her off in a different direction. “Ooo, the Bard’s here!”

   “You have a Bard?” An gasped, her skin tingling. She had rarely been in the presence of an actual Bard. They had been rare in her day.... She paused at that thought, but the explanation refused to come. And after... after was a blank.

   Bethany drew her to the back of a sizeable crowd where she could quietly translate the English words of the storyteller without disturbing the others around them.

   An heard every word Bethany poured in her ear, her agile mind pairing the English words with the Gaelic like puzzle pieces snapping into place. But she was locked on the voice of the Bard. It was a beautiful voice telling the story of Midsummer, why it was celebrated, and how. Warning of the Northern Gentry Lady, the Unseelie Queen, who chose this night to ride with her hounds through the mortal realms and the precautions they took every year, the hedge they made to grow on the far side of the gate to keep her in. As his silk-on-snow voice flowed through a tale of the Wild Hunt, she found herself trembling without understanding why.

   It was a pleasant shock when she realised the voice had fallen silent, and the crowd had lessened. Cool fingers drifted across her brow to catch stray locks of her hair that had fallen in front of her face and tucked them tenderly behind her ear. “Now why would such a fresh Irish rose be all a-tremble on a night like this?” His voice still held the smooth quality of his storytelling, soft but clear, almost scintillating; its coolness welcome in the warm air, the accent so light and lilting. She suppressed a shiver at his touch. No one had touched her like that since her mother, so very long ago. Certainly no man. She was melting and it just wouldn’t do.

   “I... am not rightly certain why your tale disturbed me. I remember... something, but nothing clear. I’ve...” she struggled with the memory, almost able to see through the veil.

   His tone changed as he settled himself on something near, a tense understanding, a sad kinship. “...been chased. By the Hunt itself unless I miss my guess.”

   Inexplicably, she nodded, not really knowing why she did. But he was right. “Something else...,” she replied, fighting for the memory, her fingers drifting up to her cheek to her foggy sockets. “My eyes... Why can’t I remember?!” she exclaimed softly in frustration. It was not like her to forget anything.

   His hand caressed her cheek as he murmured, and she felt a chill followed by a dangerous heat blaze through her body. She clamped down on her reaction immediately.

   “’Tis not unusual, not fresh out. Something happens between there and here, especially when we’ve put up the hedge. It’s made t’ confuse the Gentry. Human minds hold no chance. It takes time. If yer lucky. Or not,” she could hear the rueful smile in his voice. “Manners, however, are not one of those things. I am Jonny Sorrow.”

   “An... Ceobhrán,” she responded, felt embarrassed of the name for the first time after a hundred introductions. “Over there... they called me lady of the mist. I don’t remember anything else.”

   “Ceobhránach,” he said, the word falling from his lips like a deathbed sigh. She could not suppress the shiver.

   She did not know how she knew he had lifted his head, looking off and away from where they sat by the smaller fire, but she knew he had. The subtle change in his voice confirmed it, as he began to speak while still looking, but turned back to her mid-sentence. “As delightful as this conversation might become, I believe they are about to crown the Queen of the Greenwood, and I do not think it something ye should miss. We haven’t had a new queen in... at least a decade. Maybe two.”

   He rose, stood in front of her a moment before she realised he was holding his hand out to her. As she tentatively reached up for it, she understood how she had known it was there. She found it in the air by its chill. He was a source of delicious cool in the hot night. His fingers were long and smooth, more callused at the tips, less at the palms, and strong. He was a harpist, then.

   Nervous and painfully shy, she allowed the Bard to draw her to her feet and across the lawn between the two main bonfires where everyone seemed to be gathering. Bethany fell into step behind them, saying little. He made certain they were comfortably seated, out of the way but with an apparently good view from Bethany’s exclamation of delight. He sat the two women together and stood behind them.