Beneath a sky mottled in blue and overcast hues, Clarity spread its glow across the yard. It flickered against each blade of grass and swept, mistlike, in the wake of Ainsel’s guiding movements. Fully focused, she could see the tiniest refractions in the air, where sunlight bounced off of water droplets; she pulled it around them, so every strand remained unbroken, and first weaved it through space like a whip in slow motion. Then, she slashed downward; it became a sword and sliced into the ground. It left no wound. When it curled back between her fingers, she circled its threads around branches and peeled dead leaves into shreds. London may have lost its magic, yet Ainsel was at home in her own -- like meditation, except that it energized her instead of calming her. Practicing made her forget everything: the stress, the here-and-there ache in her ankle, the inexplicable want to protect Liam.

If she had paid attention, she’d have noticed the back door opening. The stairs creaked behind her. Ainsel’s focus broke; noise rushed hard for her ears, and she rubbed them, smarting from the interruption. The last thing Clarity had told her before vanishing was that Liam had seen it. At least she wouldn’t have to kill someone before they could snap a picture or tell the Internet what they’d witnessed.

Arms crossed, she trudged toward the stairs and scowled up at him. Steam furled from the mugs in his hands.

“What?” she asked.

“I just -- I was just wondering what...” As he floundered for an answer, he gestured vaguely in her direction, managing not to spill the tea.

Ainsel sighed as her momentary annoyance vanished; she climbed the steps and took one of the mugs. “Soiléireacht. Meaning --”

“Clarity,” Liam said with a calm sip of his tea.

In the following instant, Ainsel’s mind blanked. And in the next, she supposed that nothing should surprise her anymore, thus nodded her agreement.

“Right. It’s energy that, if you can manipulate it, you can condense into a sort of... tangible light. Does that make sense?”

Liam squinted at her hands, as if Clarity would burst forth then and there. “A little?”

“Well. The word ‘Clarity’ really refers to the state you have to be in to access the magic that most lands hold. In London... there isn’t so much of it. In wild places -- natural places -- there is a lot more. Anyways, you have to be... clearly seeing.”

“Like... how you can only astral project if you’re asleep?” he asked.

Ainsel shrugged, tasting her own tea: a sweet chai. “I don’t believe in astral projection.”

“But you’re a faerie.”

She almost wanted to laugh at him. “So you should believe in all psychic mumbo-jumbo ever thought up because you’re a human?”

He lowered his gaze, as if embarrassed by his own assumption. “I guess not. Why isn’t Clarity mentioned in any literature on the fae?”

She couldn’t help finding that a tad innocent -- his thinking that books held every answer he needed.

“The literature won’t tell you everything. It’s not a common skill. The more we modernized, the more it died out.” Ainsel leaned against the railing beside him, gazing down to bristling evergreen bushes. “I think there used to be Soiléireacht trainers...”

“You think? Why aren’t you sure? They’re your people.”

“I’m only twenty-six, remember? The democracy was implemented thirty years ago.”

As Liam stared, quiet, she could practically see the questions forming on his face.

“What democracy?”

Again, she took pause; here she was, using kitchen appliances and the Internet and

modern Irish terms, yet he still didn’t realize just how modern the fair folk had become.

“Liam, rebels overthrew the monarchy. The Seelie and Unseelie courts, the split rule, all of that -- it’s gone. There’s a Supreme Minister now.” She watched him work through that before adding, “He’s a massive arsehole.”

His lips twitched upward and he swallowed tea before letting slip a laugh. Perhaps he hadn’t expected faeries to have the very same problems as his kind.

“Can he use it?” Liam asked.

Only half-jokingly, Ainsel shuddered. “He can’t. For which I’m thankful.”

Liam took a longer, more relaxed drink. “So, if there are no more trainers, how did you learn to use it?”

“How did you learn to heal the fae?”

“I’m...” It seemed he was struggling to answer, and at last he said, “I’m self-taught. Gifted, but... not in some psychic way.”

“There you go. I taught myself, too.”

“I’d say you did well. Anyways, what exactly does Clarity do? How does it work?”

“All I know is that it lets me see in more detail than I can otherwise. If I am in danger, I think it senses that. And I’ll see what is happening behind me.” A single image flickered in her mind’s eye on repeat -- the cloaked hunter, dagger raised, poised to slit her throat. She forced it away. “I can use it like a flashlight, or to search for more magic that isn’t my own, or to make it into a weapon.”

There came a lull in the conversation; it was filled by the rushing of wind through branches, which clicked, and creaked, and groaned.

“All of that has to take a toll,” Liam guessed aloud, once he had finished thinking.

“It does. If I use too much, too fast, then it tires out and disappears.”

“And the trainers? They must have gotten around that, right? Did they find some way to use it as much as they wanted?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea. So, I don’t know...” Ainsel found herself trailing off as another memory floated into view -- a story she’d once heard. “There was this one time, though...”

Liam shifted closer until his sleeve touched hers. There were no sparks and no shivering feelings, their arms protected by cloth.

“What happened? Did someone... do something bad?”

“No... no, it wasn’t bad. See, there are levels of Soiléireacht users, and the highest is Grandmaster. I don’t know the rest.” She let her voice drop to softer, yet harder tones; it fed urgency and insistence and wonder into her words. “Now, this grandmaster, about two centuries ago, stole a ship from the British Navy. He had a friend in their ranks, a traitor. And as a whole fleet fired cannonballs at them, he used his magic as a shield. After that... they fled to the Realm and were never seen again.”

Ainsel could describe Liam’s expression only as baffled.

He blinked and went for another drink, only to find the mug empty.

“A shield against cannonfire?” he repeated. “The British Navy? Why?”

And once more, Ainsel had to marvel at at Liam’s ignorance -- had he ever been curious at all about the recent parts of faerie history?

“Because the British were still at war with our greatest ally.”

“The Irish,” he murmured, staring into his mug.

“Mhm. We were allies then, at least.”

“What do you mean?”

Ainsel shook her head and finished the last of her tea. “Humans can be just as fickle as us. One day, they loved us like gods. The next, they blamed us for all their misfortunes. Then they went back to blaming England, and we were fine again. Until they or the Realm picked another fight.”

Liam combed his fingers through loose hair, visibly processing. “Did our wars have something to do with Clarity dying out?”

That was another subject Ainsel didn’t quite understand -- whether the link really existed or was just a rumor. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Is it what’s been making the air feel weird between us? Clarity, I mean?”

She raised a brow, watching him sideways. “You’ve picked up on it, then. I should have expected that... you are in tune with our energies. Somehow.”

“Yeah... somehow.” He breathed a sigh, elbows resting on the rail, gaze wandering to the autumn-bare forest. “This Soiléireacht explains a lot, though.”

His pronunciation was perfection -- crisp and clean as though he spoke the language natively. Ainsel did not let herself dwell on that, lest her moment of admiration be obvious.

“What does it explain?”

“You. How you got here. How you’ve been getting into my stuff so quietly. How you understand me before I even understand myself. I mean, it’s magic.”

How you got here. One more piece of an overwhelming puzzle fell into place.

She slid Liam’s empty mug from his hand and picked up her own. He let her, seeming too entranced with his own thoughts to notice the strands of light holding the back door open. As she crossed the threshold, she looked over her shoulder, and the last words she said to Liam that afternoon were, “I guess it solves one more mystery about me.”

❦❦❦

The night was filled with rustling and an owl’s hollow cooing. Ainsel had returned to the deck, where scores more questions occupied her mind and her eyes were locked on the forest ahead. In the dark, the trees were a swath of varied brown and black and stone-grey; if she could see them, she supposed, her thoughts would look the same.

This couldn’t last. She couldn’t stay with Liam forever. He’d had his own life long before she’d appeared, and it would continue long after she was gone -- even if every warning tale and every legend told nothing of the fae but monstrosity. They were old tales anyway; Earth and humanity had moved on. There was no more room for latching onto people’s very souls and tearing them apart -- and if there were, she still couldn’t have hurt him. Each day brought another rationality-defying kindness, and it was this idea on which she focused.

But beneath it all, she began to realize, there lay some deeper sensation which, to her, had no name. It lacked the fire of terror, and the trembling of anxiety, but it lurked at the edge of perception, telling her that something was off. It wasn’t quite wrong, for of course it had to be difficult to place. She scanned the yard, and seeing nothing, stretched one arm at a time in hopes that movement would shake the feeling off. She must have listened to too many stories. Ainsel let herself drift back into more reasonable worrying.

Out of nowhere, something snapped her to attention. She peered into the whispering forest and again saw nothing. Goosebumps prickled across her skin. Was that just the owl flitting through the trees? Were those bushes supposed to move that way?

Instinct took over. Ainsel turned, ran, and locked the door behind her. She pulled the blinds shut and rushed to the kitchen, where Liam had left the light on. Not knowing why, she switched it off and stood in shadow-cloaked silence. The soft hum from the refrigerator grounded her in reality. Her own imagination had spooked her -- she could find no reason to doubt it. Gradually, she calmed, and when she was certain that she wouldn’t scare herself again, Ainsel retreated to her room.

There still came no adrenaline flare and no frantic pull from her magic, but sleep was out of reach. Much as she tried, she could not keep her eyes closed for more than seconds at a time; warnings of nightmares poked and prodded her dormant fear, trying to stir it into a frenzy. And among them rose another possibility: that something could happen to Liam.

She tossed off her blankets and, taking the usual route around creaking patches of floor, crept across the hall. The door, to Ainsel’s relief, was ajar; she pried it open just enough to peer inside. At first, she thought that the curtains were fluttering from wind. Her heartbeat spiked, then slowed. The window was closed -- it was only the ceiling fan. Liam had found peaceful sleep, huddled in bed beneath its breeze.

But, asleep, he wouldn’t be able to protect himself. While she couldn’t say exactly what might happen, she could not ignore the sinking sickness in her gut. It was the same feeling she’d had in the yard. If it had been quick as rain then, it now became a flood, rushing through gates that did nothing to contain it. Frantic, she scanned the room for some way, some tool, to keep threats -- just anxieties or not -- outside, where they belonged.

In three hurried strides, she was at his desk, and she pulled open its drawer. Pens and jars and trinkets rattled around inside. Liam remained asleep She rooted though its contents, her movements too jolting and her fingers too shaking to reach Clarity. Ainsel wasn’t even certain what she was really looking for -- until she felt something grainy, like sand. Heat lanced across her palm. She yanked her hand out and squinted at what she’d touched: salt spilled across the bottom drawer. The shaker rolled lightly back and forth. That was it. That was what she needed. Ainsel tugged her sleeve down to be a makeshift glove, grabbed the shaker, and emptied it in a glittering line along the windowsill.

For a moment, she stood there, winded, staring. Then, she snatched up his office scissors from atop a notepad. With no nail to hang them above his bed, she tossed them onto the nightstand. There were other things in his desk, too, stronger things than scissors and salt. But her skin was searing, the pain burning a back-and-forth pattern of pinpricks and scratches. She hadn’t the time to find gloves and a face mask to shield from heavy poisons.

Liam let out a sleeping mumble. She jumped and fled; the door slammed behind her as she rushed to the bathroom. When she flipped the light switch, her eyes stung, making her wince. Ainsel’s vision blurred, then cleared, as she leaned over the sink, inspecting her palm. Blisters had appeared in patches, some raised, some flat and white.

“Stupid!” she hissed. If she’d tried harder to use Clarity, this wouldn’t have happened. “Damn it; I’m stupid!”

Wanting to slap herself, she turned the faucet to cold. The wounds blazed before icy cool brushed across them; she sighed and let her elbows rest on the granite countertop. There was no cure for salt blisters. Instead, she would have to wait for her skin to heal nd that hadn’t even been the pure sort -- he’d probably purchased it for fifty pence at the corner store. Rubbing her eyes, she wondered how late it was.

There came a series of creaks from the hall, followed by a knock.

“Ainsel?” Liam’s voice rasped; his words slurred. “What’s going on?”

She shut off the faucet, then knelt, where she dug through the under-sink supply bag for gauze. Her knees ached in protest.

“Nothing, Liam. Go back to sleep.”

The floorboards creaked again, twice, as if he’d shifted from foot to foot.

“Now!” she snapped.

Ainsel heard him retreat, and only then did she relax. Had she not spilled the salt, she might have crafted an excuse to stay in his room that night. With another wince, she wrapped the gauze around her wrist and hand. She stole a glance through the bathroom window; a rectangle of light stretched across the yard and disappeared into darkness.

Whatever was out there, if anything, she suddenly didn’t feel like trekking to bed. In fact, she didn’t feel like sleeping at all. Ainsel sank down onto the rug and slouched against the wall, half-conscious from exhaustion. There, she watched but did not register the sky’s gentle phasing from indigo to slate to morning blue.