Ariel sat on the barley field, collecting soil and seed samples.

“I did as ye said last season,” Billy said, crossing his arms over his voluptuous belly. “Nothin’s workin’.”

It was a foggy morning. What did she expect, a sunny day in Scotland? That would be shy of absurd. “Weather’s unpredictable,” Ariel said, “and the soil’s chemistry changes over time. It’s alive, you know, so each season is bound to have a few surprises.”

Billy glanced at his old tractor, rust collecting around the frame. “Thought I’d save a penny, that’s all. Lamby there needs a few repairs.”

Ariel regarded Lamby. Repairing that jalopy would cost him at least a few thousand quid; it was only a matter of time until it flopped belly up and died. Billy needed a new tractor, and a good one was as expensive as her Aston. Ariel was not in the business of ruining farmers’ lives unless, of course, they proved to be a boggin dobber like Mickey McDougal, in which case she would gladly watch his crops die. But not Billy. She liked Billy. He was honest and humble and polite—her kind of person.

“So what do ye reckon? The wee bastards all dyin’. It’s this global warmin’ nonsense, I tell ye. It’s too hot, too humid, too wet, too dry, there’s never balance.”

Ariel stowed her samples in a plastic bag and got up, buttoning her yellow tweed jacket. “Let me get this to lab, and I’ll get back to ye tomorrow. And Billy,” she said in the most comforting voice she could muster. “It’ll be alright. Have I ever let ye down?”

“S’pose not,” Billy said, suppressing a pout.

“Tell ye what, fix Lamby up, and I’ll subtract the amount from my fee.”

Billy’s eyes glittered like a cat’s after smelling a freshly opened food can. “Yae’d do that?”

“Of course. Honestly, Billy, Lamby’s a fine lass, but it’s time for her to retire.” Ariel’s bank accounts had enough money to live comfortably, and Billy was only one of her customers. In the end, she would still make more than enough. Agricultural consultants, the greedy bastards, charge astronomical amounts of money to poor farmers. Ariel didn’t like that, but she couldn’t afford to harm her credibility by being cheaper. God no. Despite none of the other consultants ever coming close to her results. And that was something Billy Prentice, like all her other clients, was well aware of. “If ye decide to buy a new tractor, I’ll even consider waiving my share this season. With one condition,” Ariel lifted a finger before Billy could protest, “I expect Maggie to bake me one of her butter tarts.”

Billy wobbled, unsure whether to jump or crouch, and stayed somewhere in between. “A tart? She’ll bake ye a dozen tarts. Hundreds. Tarts for life, I say.”

They walked back to Lamby and drove back to the farmhouse, where Ariel had parked her car, but Billy told her to wait before she could bid him farewell. He rushed inside the house and popped back out, holding a bottle. Ariel knew what it was—the sensual contour of the green glass, the humble white label. Ariel could taste the smokiness already; there was always room for one more bottle in her collection.

“I know yae’re fond of them peaty,” he said as he presented her with a bottle of Laphroaig 18.

“I try not to hide it just for such occasions.” Ariel accepted the box. “This is very generous. Thank you, Billy.”

“Nah. Had that bottle there for months collectin’ dust. It’s like lickin’ an ashtray if ye ask me. I’m more of a Dalwhinnie man.”

Hmm, Dalwhinnie, Ariel thought as she considered the bottle. “Well, then. Lucky me.”

“When you return, yae’ll have Maggie’s butter tart waitin’ for ye.”

“Send her my regards, will ye? I have to run now.”

Ariel got into her Aston Martin DB9, nestled in the white-leather seat and turned on the seat warmer. She had bought it second-hand to add seriousness to her profile as a prosperous agricultural consultant. Although that was one part of her appearance she didn’t mind maintaining. Didn’t mind at all. She drove straight home, stopping only a mile or two away to dump her collected samples in a trash bin. There was enough garbage at her place as it was.

Her house wasn’t fancy by any terms, but most would call it idyllic: a stone house perched at the edge of a lake, like the cottages she used to ransack back when she was a runaway. The only thing she wanted from a house was seclusion and enough comfort for her and her cat, Bubbles. And seclusion is something one can find in abundance in rural Scotland.

Bubbles strutted to her as she opened the door and brushed up against her legs.

“Stop that! Ye know how much trouble I have removing fur from my pants every day?”

Ariel had never wanted a house pet; too much trouble. But she found a stray cat at her doorstep one morning, fur flaking away like a dilapidated house, skinny legs, and snot bubbling out its nose. What a poor excuse for a creature. Ariel had no choice but to take the thing to the vet and give it a name. And to be fair, Bubbles wasn’t so bad—long golden fur, yellow eyes like hers and a tendency for nibbling her fingers when she stroked its chin. Stupid cat.

Ariel checked her schedule. She would have to devise some cockamamie excuse to fix Billy’s crops. Would sprinkling sawdust over the soil be too absurd? Maybe. She could sleep on it; besides, tomorrow’s first order of business would be visiting the McLennan’s farm. Nothing should grow at the McLennan’s, but they supplied a friend’s distillery with some of the best barley in the land for an above-market price, thanks to her. For some reason that perhaps a true agricultural engineer could explain, if the crops survived the highly rocky and acidic soil of the McLennans’ farm, the yielded barley would come out plump and sweet. Perfect for whisky-making.

The only problem was that Colin McLennan didn’t like her very much. He had been suspicious of her from the moment they met years before when Ariel told him she was twenty-seven. In reality, she was only a couple of months shy of turning twenty. Still, you can’t have a degree in agricultural engineering and field experience at the age most teenagers are out getting heavily drunk and smashing their parents’ cars or spreading STDs. Or both. Not that she wasn’t much different from said teenagers, but at least she wasn’t as stupid. Or so she liked to believe. Now she was twenty-six, which meant the McLennans thought her to be thirty-five. In time, Colin had tamed his incredulity and reached the profitable conclusion he didn’t mind being lied to. After all, Ariel had turned unfarmable land into a prosperous one. And at the end of each year, he raised Ariel’s bonus afraid she’d wander off to greener pastures.

Ariel opened a can of food for Bubbles and tossed a ready-made meal in the microwave. “Rats,” she muttered as she noticed her house plants. “Why are ye always like this?” she rebuked the potted daisies and Japanese lilies. “Dandelions flourish in concrete pavements, but if I forget to water ye for a few days, ye pull this tantrum.”

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Ariel dropped a glass of water on each vase, then placed her hands over the plants and poured light over them. The sagging leaves absorbed the warm glow, and a moment later, the plants returned to full vitality. “That’s better, innit? Now, let’s drop the drama, shall we? Look at Bubbles. If I forget to feed him for a day or two, he goes out to hunt mice or pillage a dumpster or something.”

Bubbles purred as he munched his heavily processed food when the microwave beeped. Ariel opened the door, and the scent of chicken tikka masala filled the room. She put the food and cutlery on a tray and took a beer from the fridge.

Ariel brought the tray to her bed. She had no use for the bedroom and had never bothered to buy a couch. What for? She didn’t have many friends, and the ones she maintained weren’t the visiting kind. If now and then a love affair came through the door, he would have to love her for who she was, wouldn’t he? A king-sized bed in front of the largest flat screen she could find—now that was the dream.

Ariel wasn’t fond of public television broadcasts and would rather watch small independent videos on YouTube—today’s choice: Second World War’s Operation Fortitude, narrated by an overly sarcastic bird. Ariel enjoyed war documentaries, often fantasizing that had she been alive during the war, she would have hopped to Germany and laser-waxed Hitler’s mustache off. Hide under her light weaving and shave that silly thing off. That would have certainly ruined his morale and brought the war to a rushed end. Imagine the Fuhrer explaining to his generals that someone had entered his chambers and shaved off his mustache. The war would have been over on the same day.

But whenever she questioned herself about getting involved in today’s political belligerence, she always found some excuse not to. More often than not the reason was that there simply wasn’t one all-evil person to blame it all on, and when there was, creating a power vacuum could prove more harmful than beneficial. So what would she do about it? Cut down entire armies of people who believed in what they were fighting for? No. Also, she wouldn’t have the guts for it. At least, that was her reasoning.

She ate her food while watching dummy versions of Sherman tanks, landing crafts, aircraft, entire airfields, and regiments being inflated or built. Remarkably ingenious, she thought when she noticed a slight rattle from the kitchenette.

Bubbles growled, hissed, spat, and dashed under the bed. The temperature dropped, and the lights dimmed as if being sucked by an invisible source. Something was terribly wrong.

“Leohirin.”

Ariel jerked on her bed while making herself as invisible as she could. Someone was in the room with her. She could match her clothes, hair, and skin color to her surroundings, but it required much attention and focus. Try to recreate a photo-realistic painting, and you’d see how hard it can be. No, the best she could do was to make herself darker and hide in the gloom. She sucked all the light from the telly and the windows, but it proved pointless in the end as the room brightened up suddenly as if a portable sun had replaced the ceiling lamp.

A robed figure stood by the kitchenette, although stood might be the wrong word, since his feet weren’t touching the floor. The figure pulled back his hood with pale hands, unveiling his face or whatever was left of it.

Ariel suppressed a gasp. His face was as pale as a cave-dwelling creature. Why was there only half of it? Where there should be flesh and bone was only a vague, shadowy outline and dust particles floating like a swarm of tiny flies.

Ariel tried to hide again, but her power proved worthless. Could it be? He had to, right? A leoht like me. Another leoht. Here, in my house. Ariel took stock of her situation. This person was immensely more skilled at light weaving than she ever was. The living room window was only a couple of meters away. She could daze him with a bright flash and jump through it. Would the glass cut her? In the movies, that never happened, but she had the feeling the movies were lying.

“You can call me Alfred.”

Ariel balled her fists to stop her hands from shaking. Alfred floated closer to her, robes flapping as if blown by an empty wind. His eye was sad, while the other belonged to a different dimension. This man wasn’t alive, not in the word’s true meaning. Ariel clutched the fork in her hand. “What do ye want from me?”

“You’ll want this for yourself.”

Ariel jumped off her bed and got into a defensive position, a fork as her only weapon. Light wouldn’t work against another leoht. The best she could hope for was to slow him down. Her thoughts raced. He had at least a dozen opportunities to strike, but if he wishes me no harm, why does he have to look so evil? “For myself? You must be missing more than half your head.” Yes, Ariel, please offend the demonic apparition. What harm could come of it?

“You know who I am. You’ve seen me in her memories.”

Ariel reached for the pendant around her neck, fingers rubbing the seed it carried. “How do ye know about her?”

For a brief moment, Alfred’s face came to life—whole, colorful, two eyes, a wide smile, and happy. Not handsome, he had a chubby face, puffy cheeks, and his brown hairline had begun the usual man-in-his-thirties migration. She had indeed seen him. But what of it? Those were not her memories, and like all her foreign memories, they lacked context. Knowing her friend had known this man did not soften his menacing figure. But she did learn that they had a nickname for him. They called him Half. Well, that was a little too on the nose. “Why didn’t ye help her?”

“I did. I hid her.”

That sparked fury in her. “Yeah, look at how well that turned out.”

“Miranda,” he said.

A shiver ran down Ariel’s spine at the mention of the name. She knew that name well, yet it was the first time she heard it with her own ears. “What about her?”

“She’s back.”

The words filled the room with all the joy of an abandoned graveyard or a deep-sea shipwreck—the words and that man’s poor wardrobe choice. Ariel had to do something about that. She flicked her wrist and willed Half’s robes to turn pink. Bright pink, like the one you might find on a Barbie set.

Half didn’t object nor even react in the slightest to the tempering of his garments. “Does that help?”

“A little.” Ariel pursed her lips and, with a wave of the hand, added bright yellow circles to the pink robes. Again, if this outfit adjustment made him upset, he made no protest. “How do ye know?”

Half stared at her.

It was a dumb question, and Ariel knew it. From her memories, she knew he and Miranda shared a deep connection. So she continued, “Where is she?”

“At the Worldroot.”

“What? She can’t move about willy-nilly. Didn’t ye turn her into a book or something?”

Half flinched as if the recollection hurt him. “She has made an acquaintance, and he’s helping her find her other parts.”

“Could ye be a little vaguer? It’d be tragic if ye made sense.”

“An American boy found her and is helping her.”

That wasn’t much better. “Why would this boy help her?”

“What do all men want?”

“Alright…answer me this, will ye? Why come to me? Can’t ye stop her yaerself?”

“No.”

Ariel waited for him to elaborate, and when he failed to do so, she pressed on. “And ye seem to think I can?”

“You are a leoht. You can travel the roots, and you’ve seen Scae in your memories. Stealing a book from a boy should be easy for someone of your skill and ability.”

“Oh, give me a break. Having a tree share her memories with me when I was a child hardly makes me an expert in the tales of desperate house witches. Why won’t ye stop her?”

Half sighed a long sorrowful wheeze. Ariel hoped he never did that again.

“A long time ago, I helped to stop her, and this is what’s left of me. I loved her with all my soul and betrayed her so all of you could live. Every day is agony. Every day forever, unwhole. You haven’t the faintest idea of what that’s like.”

“Oh, boohoo! So let me get this,” Alfred disappeared, “straight... Rats!” she muttered as Bubbles exited his hiding place. “Do ye believe this? If what he says is true, I—”

Ariel wandered around the kitchenette, hands fumbled for a glass from the cupboard, opened the bottle of whisky, and poured a healthy amount, her meal forgotten over the bed. She wasn’t hungry anymore. “Rats! Rats! Rats!” She drank her whisky, the peatiness soothing her temper.

Bubbles rummaged around the room, still clearly startled.

“He’s gone, stupid.” Ariel let out a deep breath, mouth overcome by the lingering notes of floral accents and oak nuttiness and took another long drag of her whisky. “Rats!”

She pulled the seed from under her blouse and regarded it. “I’m guessing ye want me to do this. I’m pretty sure yer mother would. Typical. Maybe Halfred is right. I mean, it should be easy. I just need to steal a book from a kid, and we’ll be back in no time. What do ye think?” The seed seemed to stare back at her. “Helpful, as usual.”

Bubbles searched around a corner and hissed at a shadow.

Ariel observed him. “Guess I’ll have to find someone to care for ye while I’m gone. Probably Maggie. The Prentices have kind hearts; they’ll take good care of ye, though I doubt they’ll let ye sleep on their bed.”