Friday dawned bright and clear, the storms having passed and left a rare period of sunshine. It streamed through the window, and there had been so little of it lately that for a split second, Ainsel couldn’t tell what it was.

She rolled onto her other side, squeezing her eyes shut tighter to block it out; her attempt to ignore the sunlight paved the way for other minor annoyances to eat into her concentration. A hair fluttered against her forehead, tickling like a spider. The sheets lay uneven at her feet, one side bunched and the other smooth. And it was quiet -- strangely so.

Blinking away sleep, she sat up in bed. The alarm clock on the nightstand told her that it was almost nine thirty, and by now, she should have heard the sounds of Liam starting his day. Either he wasn’t awake, or he’d left.

One at a time, she slid her legs out of bed, and there came no pain from her ankle as she stood. She peeked around the door frame and into the hallway; after a glance left and right, she was met with nothing.

“Liam?” she called. Silence was her answer. There had been no point in calling anyways, as she could not sense any hint of his presence; the air hadn’t the same energy that he did.

This was at least another chance to search for clues -- but her stomach ached an empty ache. She tied her hair into a low-effort bun and made for the kitchen. Something on the island caught her attention: a note, folded in half and upright, in the shape of an inverted v. When she flipped it open, her hunger vanished.

I’m not mad at you, it said.

He had indeed left, and from the rushed scrawl in which the note was written, he’d been in a hurry. Of course he had reassured her instead of being angry -- even after catching her rooting through his things. He was probably just protecting himself: why antagonize the faerie in his house?

And there was no sense in forgoing breakfast because Liam had done something odd. Toast would do, as long as she managed not to burn it.

She checked each cabinet in turn, noting the absence of junk food and the strict organization of what he did have. There were Mason jars filled with grains, bags of trail mix, granola bars, teff cookies -- whatever teff was. Ready to give up on her endeavor, she opened the refrigerator. The majority of its contents were fresh-scented and green; on the upper shelves, fruits sat in rows from ripe to unripe. At last, she spotted a wrapped loaf behind a spray of celery leaves.

She tugged it free and took another jar labeled avocado pulp. It looked enough like butter, and was a safer bet than the clarified ghee or butter flavored coconut oil. Pleasant as it was to have options that weren’t artificial, she wasn’t keen on unfamiliar yellow goo.

As she dropped a slice into the toaster, tires crunched over gravel outside. She parted the window curtains, watching a small silver car enter the driveway. Liam stepped out, backpack bulging and a rolled blanket tucked under his arm; the car then pulled away and vanished around the corner.

Ainsel wasn’t sure whether to dread or anticipate his approach. She wasn’t even sure if she should speak to him, lest either of them say something to make the other feel awkward. Mere decades ago, things would have been different; she could have killed him for daring to help her. But thirty years had passed since that had changed. Now, here she was fretting about embarrassment and making toast.

At once, it sprang up with a clang and the door swung open.

She jumped and almost knocked over the jar.

“You’re -- you’re back.” Her own words made her inwardly wince. He’d been inside for ten seconds and already she’d made the atmosphere awkward.

“Yes... How are you? Did you sleep alright?”

“Fine. Yes. You?”

There was a long pause, which she filled by spreading a layer of pulp onto her toast. When Liam still did not respond, Ainsel stole a glance at him; she could not help but notice how dark the spaces beneath his eyes were, and how slow his movements were as he eased his backpack to the ground.

“Liam?”

“Sorry?”

“Did you sleep alright?”

Surprise flickered across his face, and he stopped, half-kneeling, half-standing with his hands on the straps. The look appeared and disappeared in an instant.

“I did. Glad to see that you’re doing well.”

Liam accompanied his lie with a polite smile. Ainsel stared down at him, her heart thumping and her instincts blaring a warning. There was no way that he was telling the truth. Direct questioning would never work -- but lies of her own would. They had little room for honesty anyways, so what was a bit more deceit?

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“You know,” she began, and waited as he took a seat at the table. “My wounds hurt quite a lot if I overdo it. I understand that it’s best for me to stay here and rest.”

“You’re sure?”

“Completely.” She spoke around a bite of toast and feigned watching the clouds as an excuse to stay turned away from him. “You have no idea what really happened out there. What I survived. And you’re not going to ask, are you?”

“Not if you don’t want me to. Which is what I’m assuming.”

“Of course I don’t want you to.”

“Right.” He stood, stretched, and took something from the fridge. There came a cracking noise, then fizzing. “So... I didn’t expect to see you using the toaster.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re...” Liam fell quiet, taking a sip of seltzer. “When were you born?”

“I’m twenty-six. Plenty young enough to know what a toaster is.”

They both lapsed into silence. Ainsel soon set the butter knife she’d used in the sink.

“Sorry,” he said.

She wasn’t certain why he was apologizing, and as such, only replied, “Whatever.”

In an apparent attempt to change the mood, he asked, “Do you know any good television programs?”

“I don’t watch television.”

“We could. If you’d like.”

“What, now?” She’d spoken too quickly. Irritation had slipped into her voice. If Liam had indeed meant right then, that was a lost chance to look farther than the house for information on him and his motives.

“We don’t have to. I was just... offering.”

Ainsel rested her elbows on the counter, letting her temper cool and logic take control. He would know if she were trying to urge him outside. It would clue him in to her hiding something. And if he suspected that, she may not have a chance at all.

“Fine. I have nothing else to do.”

“Nor do I. It’s Saturday.”

“Do you even have a television?”

“I do, but...”

She followed his gaze to the door with the string of beads and poisonous plants.

“I’m not going in there.”

“I’ll bring my laptop out. Like I’d planned.”

“Fine,” she said again, and she left for the sofa before he could say a thing in return.

The plush cushion puffed and then settled as he sat beside her. Being so close to him lit the air aflame with that invisible charge, like she was standing in the rain, but instead of rain, it was electricity, showering down in sparkling drops. She drew her arms closer and her legs tighter, not wanting her limbs to touch his. In case of what, she wasn’t positive.

Liam held the computer open on his lap. It was protected in a plain black shell, on the corner of which were two stickers: a triskele and twin snakes winding around a winged staff. The former was not in the least unexpected, but as for the latter -- her memory stuttered and clicked into place.

A caduceus signified a medical profession. Was healing the fae his job? Who employed him, then? Or did he work alone?

Liam typed a string of letters, seemed to briefly deliberate, and clicked something. She stared into the screen as an eerie theme song played, echoing with whistles and the occasional flourish of piano music. Strange images danced: eyeballs, ghosts, twisting bodies. Ainsel only pretended to stay focused.

“I hope you like stuff from the nineties. It’s The X-Files.”

“Sure,” she said, and her attention was less elsewhere than right here, frozen on him. He acted as if this were normal, like he’d invited a friend to waste some time, not revived a dangerous faerie from the precipice of death.

“Ainsel -- I’m sorry. I mean it.”

Her gaze snapped to him. That had come out of nowhere.

“This is all... new,” he continued. “Your -- your kind tend to leave here as fast as they can. You get why I’m not used to this.”

“It’s obvious that you’re not used to it. I don’t blame you.”

He gave her just the beginning of a smile; another charged wave pulsed between them. She pulled her eyes away and, without realizing, gripped her hands together hard enough that her knuckles went white.

“I don’t know how long you’ll be here. And I don’t want anything major from you. That’s not why I did what I did.”

Then why? she wanted to say, but held her tongue.

“I guess, Ainsel, that I wanted to do what was right. Or... no. I had to, actually. Listen, anyway, I want answers, but not now. It’s too soon to ask that of you.”

She could have leaned into the wild, stupid, improbable irony and laughed -- it was like he was reading her mind.

“Liam...” She shook her head, pressing her lips together to keep from grinning. “There are things I wish I could tell you. I can’t. You’re smart enough to respect that.”

“I am.” His agreement was soft, and if he was curious or frustrated or anything else, he gave no hint of it. What he then said shattered that softness. “You’re hiding, aren’t you?”

She felt the writhe of Soiléireacht, her own energy, lashing more in startled fear than in anger. How did he know that?

“I can’t go back. I told you. England is safe.”

Liam, rubbing a lock of hair between his thumb and finger, said nothing.

Finally, he inquired, “Why? Because you did something bad?”

She couldn’t keep this up -- couldn’t stay and deflect question after question about what it was she’d done, not with someone as earnest as Liam. He might understand. And if he understood, then he would hate her with all the vigor and poison of lifelong nemeses.

“We are never talking about that. Ever.”

Ainsel did not give him a moment’s opportunity to answer. She stalked to the guest room, let Soiléireacht smack the door shut, and huddled into the desk chair.

Seething.

Shaking.