Ainsel awoke, some time after nine, to the rain she’d come to expect here. It tapped a pattering rhythm against the window and rooftop, weaving its way into that delicate space between being awake and being alert. She rolled onto her side, avoiding her injured ankle, which still pulsed pain if she moved it too sharply; over her head, she pulled a pillow, hoping to drown out the noises of water pouring from the heavens.

This worked for several seconds, after which it wasn’t so much the sound itself that dragged Ainsel out of her attempt to sleep; it was her awareness of the sound. She groaned, low in her throat, and slid her legs free of the covers. Her wound did not flare with the same sensitivity as days earlier; it had been wrapped in fresh gauze since last night, when she’d found a bundle of it, a package of wipes, and a vial of oil in Liam’s desk drawer. Had he put them there on purpose, anticipating her return? Could he have somehow known?

She ignored her own questions; they were worth too much trouble for the time being.

It would, at the very least, be a peaceful morning -- without Liam, for taped to the nightstand was a note. She plucked it free and rubbed the bleariness from her eyes. In neat, thin handwriting, it read:

I’m going to run some errands; back in a few hours. Please don’t break or steal anything. If anyone comes to the door, pretend you’re not there. You’re welcome to food and tea. - Liam

This was as good an opportunity as any to uncover more about him, if not specifically why he bothered to heal faeries. She eased her way off of the bed and stretched with a series of cracks from her joints. Running from the park to Liam’s house, on top of everything else leading up to it, had made them ache. Still, it was better to do something about their aching than to curl up and complain.

Ainsel stretched one limb at a time and ran a hand through sleep-ruffled hair, trying to smooth it to a more manageable position. Life at home did not often provide her a chance to style it, or adorn it, or wear anything other than what was practical. She worried the sleeve of Liam’s red sweater, glancing down to white-and-blue striped pajama shorts, which extended to the knee. How silly she would look if caught in this ensemble back... there. Back then.

The seriousness of the situation in which she’d landed herself reared its hideous head. Here she was, forced to flee home, stuck in a country at once familiar and more foreign than the ocean’s trenches. In less than two decades, London had transformed, brimming with new technologies and new customs, and without a human whom she barely knew, she’d be lost.

You won, she reminded herself. You survived the hounds of the Hunt.

And Liam had known of their existence. What he’d said to her still burned in her mind.

Did you know beforehand who I am? Did you seek me out?

First came one answer: No. Of course not.

Then came another, arguing with the first: Yes.

But how could she have known? It was common knowledge that healers existed in human lands -- be they shamans or psychics or green witches -- though their numbers had dropped to scarcity with the advent of the modern era. Ainsel didn’t doubt that London was full of people claiming connections to the supernatural, yet to happen upon the only genuine one was cause for more careful questioning. Unless, of course, Liam was not the only one.

She stretched her back now, hearing and feeling her vertebrae give satisfying pops, and crossed the threshold into the hallway.

The distance it spanned was not of significant length, but the color of its walls weaved the illusion that it receded to a greater depth. Ainsel paused to muse at it -- she herself would not have chosen muted teal for her home, and would have sought something darker, perhaps a sable black or umber brown. In the corner, which sat otherwise empty, a floor lamp poured out light. She noted the dish cabinet she’d passed, at the left where the hall and kitchen met, then packed-full bookcases beside each of the four doors. On the one adjacent the guest room hung a strand of what looked like beads and herbs.

She approached and ran her fingers along its length, cool and smooth as polished ice; the entire thing was stitched together with leather cord through the holes in the beads, some of which were not that at all, but stones -- flat, penny-sized, and glinting with something gold. She knelt closer; from every single stone, a painted triskele winked in the lamplight.

The longer she touched the object, though, the more her fingertips began to itch. Her attention inched away from the triskeles and settled upon the herbs tied among them: age-faded yellow petals with the shape of tear drops, all arranged around a middle point. Strings, half-dried, trailed from their centers. St. John’s wort.

She snatched her arm away and tried to rub the itch from her skin, wanting to kick herself and thanking the universe that the plant was essentially dead. Ainsel concluded that this could only be William’s room, for where else would he put St. John’s wort and triskeles together? And why else, other than to keep the fae out of his private space?

Cheeky, she thought. Let’s see what else he has lying around.

Instead of the doors, Ainsel headed for the cabinet, and there, she took a left, at which point her feet sank into carpet. Here, the walls were a much more pleasant slate shade, the carpet a warm cream to balance the receding effect that cool colors had on the eye. There was no television set, no game console, nothing electronic save for a laptop on the coffee table, which along with a plush sofa, overlooked windows that provided a skyline panorama. It was all a balance of humility and refinement: limited as the space was, she saw not a hint of kitsch.

Ainsel turned; over a long bench holding shoes -- all in a row and quite stylish, she noted -- was the kitchen. In daylight, when she wasn’t sneaking away or breaking down, the granite countertops look quite different. They occupied a place of light, one wall sky blue and the rest ivory; a beveled crystal orb hung in front of the window, reflecting a thousand sparkling swatches into the room. She stopped and stared at them; as she wandered near, they bounced along her arms and surely her face. What struck her as odd was that there were two refrigerators, one miniature and tucked beneath the counter. She pried it open to reveal rows of glinting bottles, all with labels in silver or metallic rose or other such expensive-looking hues. Ainsel closed it, careful not to jostle them.

William hadn’t seemed the posh type, but again, whatever the truth was about him, it remained a mystery for now.

And leading toward every mystery was a trail of clues.

In a house this small, it was harder to lose her bearings than to gain them. The only direction she hadn’t yet gone was to the four remaining doors that were not the guest room or Liam’s room. She chose one randomly, and much as she expected it to be locked, it swung inward at her push. What lay behind it flattened a sudden, bright burst of curiosity: a washer, a dryer, dirty clothing heaps, clean clothing stacks.

With a huff of disappointment, she checked the next, just across from where she’d just been. Emerald-green tiles covered the space around her, punctuated by sapphire ones; the floor was fashioned of milk-white marble, interlaced with streaks of grey. The vanity top matched the kitchen counter, and above it, Ainsel’s reflection gazed back at her.

All things considered, she did not look terrible: sleep-deprived circles had formed under her eyes, and her cheek was still scraped but healing. She didn’t spend long before the mirror, something black grabbing her attention from within the slightly ajar vanity cabinet.

As she knelt, she tugged free a bag of surprising weight and size. She eased it onto the rug and felt along it for the poke of sharp objects or the dizzy nausea of iron. None came; she slumped, releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She unzipped the top, and the sides peeled open like a mouth.

It was stuffed with medical supplies -- modern ones. She sifted through them, finding gauze and white boxes and bottles of pills that must held a few years’ supply collectively. There was nothing of interest here, either.

Until her fingers brushed some soft object. Her mind blanked. More gauze? No. It was almost like fur.

Ainsel lifted up a box with a smudge of deep red on its closures and, with great care, picked up what she had touched.

It was a rabbit’s pelt, minus the head. What was that doing in there?

She gathered the ordinary objects and dumped them in piles on the floor. A thrill raced through her, bright and fresh and alive.

Gravel crunched outside. There was a thud and the quieting of an engine. She was too absorbed in her discovery to notice.

The bottom of the bag was filled with things more suited to a mystic’s workshop than a one-level brick house on the west side of London. Animal furs, wrapped in leather. Pouches of feathers and tiny bones. Pouches of dirt. Herbs and dry moss in Tupperware tubs. And, to Ainsel’s bewildered excitement, jars of triskele runes as though they were pennies hoarded to exchange for bills. She cradled a jar in her palm, entranced.

Then -- the front door creaking. Plastic crinkling. Footsteps.

“Cac,” she muttered. Shit.

Ainsel shoved it all back, cringing at how much noise she was making, and managed to stow the duffel where she’d found it. The footsteps came closer and stopped just outside.

She knew she would have to say something, but crouched there, ablaze with shame.

Liam spoke first. “Ainsel?”

Again, she faltered. “It’s... it’s me.”

The doorknob shifted, almost imperceptibly, but did not turn.

“Are you alright?”

Her embarrassment at Liam catching her snooping burned hotter. Now, it intermingled with a thread of guilt -- how very like him to ask about her well-being, not what she was doing with his belongings.

“I’m fine. I was just looking for a comb.” As if she needed to, she added, “For my hair.”

“Oh, there’s an extra in the middle drawer. You can have it.” The pleasantness of his tone made abundantly clear that he was placating her.

Her excuse hadn’t worked in the slightest.

“Liam, it’s nothing. Forget it.”

He remained quiet, then said, the barest hint of hesitation in his voice, “Do you... want to talk?”

“No, I don’t.” Ainsel hadn’t meant to be harsh, and rushed to explain. “I really am fine. It’s best not to dwell on things.”

“You sound just like me when I’m trying to hide something.”

At that, she could not resist a comment, and meant this one. “You’ve gotten real smart with me since I arrived.”

“Yeah. I’ve realized you’re not going to kill me.”

She felt her lips twitch in the ghost of a smile. “I could do worse than killing you.”

Still, he persisted. “Again, if you wanted to hurt me, you’d have done it already.”

“You don’t know me, Liam.”

Her statement was met with silence. With heaviness.

I’m sorry, she wanted to tell him. Intead, she buried it in thicker, heavier silence.