Ainsel had found herself somewhere inky black and so cold that it made her ache, with no ground, no sky, no sun or moon or any other features. She wasn’t blind, as she could see her own hands clearly, as if there was a sky, and there was a sun. Her feet seemed to be walking on something, even when she looked down to see if this place really didn’t have a surface.

She stilled and listened. When one listens to silence, their subconscious will weave into existence things to hear, and Ainsel heard them now.

The lingering breath after a whisper.

Leaves rustling where someone had passed them.

A pair of echoes following footsteps.

And, rooting her where she stood, barking -- hollow, deep, as if a cave had a sound.

The barks, and soon the howls, traveled nearer. Paws pounded against emptiness. She grasped the air, searching for Clarity, and was met with more cold. Clarity was gone. Her hands fumbled for a weapon. There was no need: the hounds, or at least the noises they made, had gone straight past her. In search of what, she was unaware.

Ainsel had to know.

She crept along, hoping that she wouldn’t trip over objects hidden beneath a veil of invisibility. Perhaps they couldn’t smell her, and if not, then she was safe. Their path took her deeper and deeper into the darkness; she realized, after what could have been minutes or hours, that she was warm. The air had changed. She saw nothing, but the hounds had quieted, and a new sound wove its way to her ears.

Perhaps near, perhaps far, a child was crying.

Ainsel froze. Nobody came to give comfort. They were long, lost wails, and each one was a spear that left no wound but the feeling of a rock in her gut.

Someone had to be blamed.

It was her fault. She was certain of it, based alone on the blade-sharp guilt that had come from nowhere but was suddenly everywhere.

There was no way. Ainsel hadn’t lured this child from his home and his family. She didn’t even know where she was.

But the guilt was in her heart now, too, like an actual, physical thing probing around, then finding its target, then squeezing. The rock grew heavier; she wanted to be sick.

What year is it? she asked her mind.

Two thousand and seven.

No!

A bell chimed thrice.

Her eyes snapped open as she jolted upright. A squeak came from the mattress springs, then a soft fabric thump. Minute by minute, her body stopped forcing her to gasp for oxygen. Groaning, she peeled her hair from her face to squint at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It was three in the morning.

And it’s two thousand twenty.

She needed proof, as foolish as she felt knowing that. Her head swam as she pulled herself out of bed and she grasped the corner post for support; she had to move slowly, or her vision would flicker in and out from sheer exhaustion. Ainsel didn’t dare to walk in case the floor creaked and woke Liam; she shuffled to the wall, where she leaned beside his flag and let this silence -- this safe, calm one -- wash over her.

And when her magic emerged the instant she called it, pooling white light across the carpet, the last of Ainsel’s fear dissipated. One strand trailed toward the desk and upturned a book that had rested there; another took the fallen pillow and placed it back on the bed. She picked up the book and flipped to the inside cover in search of the publication date. Anything past two thousand and seven would assure her that some time had passed. Breath baited, she waited, and the glow of Clarity brought relief in waves: 2018. At least eleven years had gone by.

Here, Ainsel’s mistake was separate from her geographically and chronologically and almost all other ways for which she ever could have hoped. It couldn’t hurt her anymore. So many people had tried to find her, and there wasn’t any more chance that they would succeed.

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What about him? insisted her torn, tired conscience.

At first, she was certain that meant Liam, but common sense told her the truth. Liam, whatever his reasons for healing the fae, and however was able to heal them at all, had no deeper link to her than his craft.

And she found the notion so ridiculous that she didn’t allow herself to entertain it for more than a second. She let it slip into the sludge of things to never, ever think about. The child’s sobs reached through cracks in her barrier between acceptable and unacceptable thoughts. Even the hounds would never find him.

The guilt from her dream crashed into the waking world.

Ainsel braced herself against it and forced through gritted teeth, “Don’t cry.”

Her two words fell into a nothingness that had jolted from calm to crushing. There was nobody here to stop her from sinking to the floor and wailing as the lost little boy had -- nobody but Ainsel herself. She wiped the beginnings of tears from her eyes.

Of everything to want in this moment, she craved chamomile tea, the very same that Liam had made for her on the night she’d returned. If she was lucky, it would calm her to the point of wanting to sleep again. Ainsel followed the route to the kitchen laid out for her; it still swerved to avoid places along the hallway that must be prone to creaking, too. Her skill in stealth served her well. With no worry of disturbing Liam, she made it to the cabinet, where by Clarity’s gentle light, she took the right tin and the electric kettle by the sink -- it should be quieter than the stove. Despite the various small sounds of making her tea, there came no stirrings from the occupied bedroom. With a tall mug clasped in her hands, Ainsel soon crept again to the hallway.

Just before she reached for her own door, she paused. Liam’s stood ajar, and if she wanted to, she could step right inside. When it was closed, the string of St. John’s wort formed a protective ward, but when open, the barrier was broken. Soiléireacht lashed and snaked toward it. The pull was one Ainsel could not have resisted even if she’d wanted to -- and it was one that turned her blood to ice. Only when something terrible was happening did her magic pull her with such intensity. But never once had it taken her toward the source of its distress.

Ainsel, her desire for tea forgotten, placed the cup beside the wall and raised her arm, fist clenched. Every thread of Clarity present -- there must have been dozens -- streaked toward her and coalesced. They wove over and under each other, through and around, until they formed a shield spanning her height and double the width of her waist. Her muscles strained under the effort and her breaths reverted to gasps; the shield was the furthest that her defensive abilities could go. Ainsel had once heard tell of a Soiléireacht user who’d deflected canonfire for hours on end to save an ally -- and had not even needed to rest. Already, her body ached the same pulsing ache it had when she’d first awoken after the hounds’ attack. Against what she was protecting herself, she didn’t know. She had to act quickly, or she would tire too much to turn her magic to offense.

Ainsel braced for a fight and entered his room shoulder first.

In the absence of threats, she stumbled. The shield flickered, then disintegrated. Caught between panic and anger, she grasped for even the smallest strand. She found none, and it was no surprise, given how much force she’d exerted.

Hands on her knees, Ainsel looked toward the bed. Her stomach dropped. Liam lay curled on his side; through night’s shadow veil, she could see the torment that nightmares inflicted. He was racked with shivers and had his face pressed against his pillow as if trying to stifle cries, grasping the sheets.

Ainsel’s own fear ceased. She did not let herself think, or hesitate, or hide behind any semblance of pride. This was not the time for that. On steps as soft as she could manage, she approached and laid over him blankets that he had kicked away. His shivering continued -- from whatever was gripping his mind, not from cold. What could she do? Nothing? She considered leaving and hoping that he would be fine.

Her guilt returned in waves, buffeting her, trying to crash her to the ground.

So, instead of letting him suffer alone, Ainsel began to wonder something.

She knelt and placed her palm on his, her touch tentative.

The explosion of sparkling energy that she’d expected never came. Nor did the air gain the sudden, light feeling that it did in stories. Instead, the one way she could describe this was right. This was simply how things should be, and only now did she realize it, as though some instinct had lain dormant for eons until a catalyst plucked it free and tucked it into place.

Longer and longer the time between his shivers grew. Ainsel readied to retreat when his fingers slid between hers. Electricity burst from them, raced through her, and faded. The sense of rightness remained, steady as ever.

She inhaled, paused, exhaled, letting the remnants of tension go.

“No more bad dreams,” she murmured, and draped the blankets gently over him.

Liam, like he could hear her, huddled deeper into their folds. If he were awake, then he wouldn’t have allowed her into his room. At the very least, she doubted it, and her doubt took the form of memories.

A wide-eyed look the day she’d returned from death’s doorstep.

Strings of questions as to why she was here, asked in equal suspicion and worry.

Here and there, smiles, fleeting as the end of summer.

So she stayed slumped against his bed with her head barely on the mattress. Just as the last hints of Liam’s nightmare dissipated, Ainsel gave in and let sleep claim her.