The boy crouched at the end of the passage, alone except for a tiny glow-spell to keep back the dark. He tried not to look too closely at the treasure piled in his lap, but he couldn’t help lifting a handful every now and then to wonder at its heaviness. Even in this dim light he could tell that there was more silver in the hoard than copper, and more gold than either—a hoard that any spriggan would envy.

Yet dazzling as all this wealth might be, it wasn’t even half of what the Grey Man owned; according to the boy’s mother, he had secret troves near every cave and fogou they’d ever visited. Swords in jeweled scabbards, crowns and circlets, even a golden drinking-cup that had once belonged to King Arthur himself. And it would all be his one day, if he proved himself brave and clever as a chief’s son ought to be…

His chin bumped his chest and he blinked awake, berating himself for dozing off. Yet dawn would come soon, and his mother had not returned. Perhaps he should go out and look for her, in case she’d lost her way.

But what to do with the treasure? He couldn’t leave it lying here for anyone to see. The boy hesitated, then pulled off his cloak and bundled the jewelry up in it, dropping the coin purse on top. He tied up the makeshift sack and pushed it to one side, then crept up the tunnel to the fogou’s exit.

He was squinting out at the darkened valley, wondering where his mother might have gone, when he heard footsteps behind him. Relieved, he turned to greet her—and a rough hand seized him by the throat.

“Fool of a boy,” came a harsh whisper, pitched low so that only the two of them could hear. “You think I don’t know the sound of my own treasure?”

It was the Grey Man.

The boy stood rigid, speechless with terror. He’d thought the spell of silence he’d cast over the tunnel would protect him, but it must have lapsed while he slept.

“Where was she going?” the chief demanded. “How long since she left you?”

“I…” stammered the boy. “I don’t…”

The Grey Man growled. Kindling a glow-spell just bright enough to see by, he dragged the cloak-bundle out of the shadows and dropped it at the boy’s feet. “Is that all of it?”

The boy nodded, eyes downcast. He couldn’t bear to look at those cold grey eyes and sharp-chiseled features, didn’t want to see his chief’s hand come down for the inevitable blow. But there was only silence, and finally the boy could bear it no longer and glanced up.

The Grey Man didn’t look furious anymore. He only looked tired, and a little sad. He lifted the bundle of treasure, gave it a jingling shake, and lowered it again. Then he gripped the boy’s arm and asked, “What did she say to you?”

There was no use explaining how bewitched he’d been by his mother’s luminous beauty and coaxing words, or that he’d never imagined it possible for a faery to break her promise. He knew better than to make excuses for his foolishness, or even beg forgiveness for it. So in halting words the boy told him the story, from the moment he’d wakened at the sound of his mother’s sobbing to the time she’d cast off her last bracelet and danced out of the fogou, light-footed as a girl.

When he had finished, the Grey Man was quiet for a long time. At last he said, “So. She told you that you are my son.”

The boy’s mouth went dry. Had she deceived him about this as well? He started to stammer an apology, but the chief stopped him. “No, lad. She may have tricked you, but she spoke the truth. Though it was not my wish that you should know it—but ill done or not, ’tis done now.”

The boy hung his head, cheeks hot with shame. It was bad enough that he’d failed his chief, but to have betrayed his father was even worse. He should never have left his bed tonight, even if all the women in the world were weeping; he should have hardened his heart and stopped his ears, as a man and a warrior ought to do. What good was it to have found a mother, if she only meant to use and abandon him? And what joy was there in forcing the Grey Man to acknowledge him against his will?

“Look at me, boy.”

It was a command, and disobedience was unthinkable. He looked up miserably into the Grey Man’s face.

“She may not be lost to us yet,” said his father. “Perhaps she meant to keep her word, but some mishap has kept her from returning. I will go out, and find her if I can. As for you…” He gave the boy a shake. “Say nothing of this to anyone. Now back to bed with you.”

So he wouldn’t be beaten, or cast out of the fogou—or at least, not yet. He seized the Grey Man’s hand and kissed it, then fled before his father could change his mind.

Ivy woke with a start, dazed by the vividness of her dream. When she’d returned from her visit to Molly last night, she’d been thinking so hard about what to say to Martin that she hadn’t expected to sleep at all. Yet she’d barely got her shoes off before exhaustion claimed her, and she’d tumbled into another vision.

Why it kept happening, Ivy wasn’t sure. But she was certain of one thing now: the boy in her dreams was Martin’s ancestor. She couldn’t see the boy’s face because there were no mirrors in the fogou, but the Grey Man’s narrow, hard-chiseled features and the faery woman’s pale, silky hair were Martin all over again. In fact, the resemblance was so striking that if Ivy hadn’t known better, she’d have thought the boy might be Martin himself.

But that was impossible. Not even the most powerful faeries could expect to live much longer than three hundred years; four was out of the question. And though the faces of adult faeries like Marigold and Gillian showed few signs of age, Martin’s features had yet to take on that same timeless quality. He couldn’t be much older than Mica.

So where were these dreams coming from? Could it be the bracelet Martin had given her? She’d seen the boy’s mother wearing the same bracelet in her dreams; perhaps the boy had put his memories of her into it somehow. In which case all Ivy needed was to take it off before she went to sleep, and the dreams would go away.

But if she did that, how would she find out the rest of the story?

Ivy groaned, furrowing her fingers through her hair. She’d fallen asleep in her new dress, and now the dark green linen was full of wrinkles. But it had been a waste of money anyway. It might be piskey custom to wear one’s best when visiting a grieving family, but it seemed humans—or at least Molly—didn’t expect anything of the kind.

Stiffly Ivy got up and made herself a cup of tea. She was taking it back to bed when the curtains rippled, and the ghostly shape of a barn owl appeared on the sill.

“Back already?” said Ivy, surprised. The owl bobbed inside, dropped to the carpet—and became Martin, staring at her with an extraordinary look on his face.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re…” He gave his head a shake, as though he couldn’t credit what he was seeing. “Why are you wearing that?”

Ivy glanced down at herself. The sleeveless, close-fitting dress was different from anything she’d owned before, but the woman in the shop had told her it was perfect.

“I went to see Molly,” she said defensively. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” said Martin. “You look very… grown-up, that’s all.” He studied her one last moment, then walked to the armchair and sat down. “How is Molly, then?”

“Well enough,” said Ivy, reaching for the paper Molly’s father had given her. “But she’d be a lot happier if we helped her with this.”

Martin took the page and unfolded it, frowning, as Ivy launched into her explanation. “If we rent the house,” she finished, “Molly’s father won’t have to sell it. And if we offer to take care of Dodger too—”

“Wait,” said Martin. “Who is the we in this plan? You and your piskey friends?”

“Don’t be a bufflehead,” said Ivy. “I mean you and me, of course. Wouldn’t it be better than sleeping in the open, or going from one hotel to another?” She sat down on the arm of the chair. “We have that much money, don’t we? Or we could get it, if we sold a bit more of the treasure.”

He tilted his head to look up at her, blond hair drifting across his brow. “A few hours ago you didn’t want anything to do with my money. Now all of a sudden it’s ours and you’re making grand plans with it?”

“It’s not the same,” Ivy said testily. “This isn’t for me, it’s for Molly. And considering she’s saved your life at least twice, don’t you think you owe her too?”

Martin folded the paper and laid it aside. “I’m not certain this is the best idea,” he began, but Ivy interrupted him.

“I’ll look after the house, if that’s what you’re worried about. But think, Martin. This isn’t just any human house, it’s Molly’s. It’s perfect, don’t you see?”

He did: she could tell. Gillian had laid charms around the house to keep unwanted magical folk at bay, and the only reason Martin had found it in the first place was because Molly had invited him in. Of all the places in Cornwall that a fugitive and an exile might seek refuge, the Menadues’ house was surely the safest.

“I’ll keep the barn clean as well,” Ivy added quickly, before Martin could raise another objection. “And look after Dodger—I know you’re not fond of horses. All you have to do is—”

“Convince Molly’s father that the two of us are responsible adults with enough money to pay the rent?” asked Martin. “I don’t think that’s going to work. I may be an actor, but I know my limitations. And elegant as that dress of yours may be, it doesn’t make you look that much older.”

He rose and paced to the window, twitching the curtain aside to peer at the brightening sky. “Besides, you don’t look like my sister, and you’re too young to be… well, anything else. It’s all very suspicious, from a human point of view.”

Ivy slid onto the seat of the armchair, her confidence deflating. “But surely, when he sees we have money…”

“Then he’s going to wonder where it came from,” said Martin. “Some humans might be willing to accept a large pile of banknotes from two mysterious young people with no family and no references, but I doubt Mr. Menadue is one of them.”

Ivy put her head in her hands. She’d been so positive that her idea would work, if only she could persuade Martin to help. Perhaps she could disguise herself and Martin with glamor, and make them appear older than they were? But she had never been skilled at crafting illusions, and there were too many things that could go wrong. Or she might ask Molly to put in a good word for them, but if Mr. Menadue asked how she knew Ivy and Martin so well, what could the human girl say?

No references, too young, no family…

Ivy sat up, her face clearing. “But I do,” she said aloud.

Martin gave her a quizzical look. “Do what?”

“Have family,” said Ivy. She sprang from the chair, snatching up her old jeans and sweater from the bureau, and disappeared into the washroom. This was going to be tricky, and she had no idea how it would turn out. But for Molly’s sake, she had to try.

Ivy knocked at the door of her mother’s flat, heart pounding in time with her knuckles. It was still early in the morning, perhaps too early, but…

The door creaked open, one wary brown eye peering through the gap. Then came a cry of “Ivy!” and her little sister dragged her inside.

“Where did you go?” she demanded, shoving Ivy onto the sofa and dropping down beside her. “I can’t believe you went off like that, without even—”

“Cicely,” said Marigold. “Let Ivy speak.” She crossed the bare floorboards with a dancer’s grace and sat down on the sofa where Cicely had been sleeping. “I can see that she has something important to tell us.”

Ivy glanced around the flat—the bedroom so small that only one person could sleep there, the modest square of the sitting room, the narrow strip of kitchen just visible around the corner. It had never been intended for a family, which was one of the reasons Ivy had been glad to leave it. She could only hope that after two weeks of living practically on top of one another, her mother and Cicely would feel the same.

“Molly is going away to school,” she said, “and with her mother gone, there’s no one to look after their house. Her father’s looking for someone to rent the place, and… I thought of you.”

Marigold looked startled. But she didn’t interrupt, and that gave Ivy courage. Quickly she explained the situation, emphasizing how much more comfortable Molly’s house would be for them to live in, and that she’d worked out an arrangement that would make it possible for them to afford the rent. By the time she finished Cicely’s face was shining, and she looked ready to pack up her things right away.

“Mum!” she exclaimed. “Molly has a horse. I’ve always wanted to ride one. Please, can we?”

“I don’t know, Cicely.” Marigold sounded troubled. “My work is here, and Molly’s house…”

“Isn’t that far,” interrupted Ivy. “You could leap there and back three times a day if you had to, and not feel any more tired than you do walking here.”

Marigold gave her a sharp look as if to say, How do you know about that? But she must not have wanted to talk about travel-magic in front of Cicely, because she let it pass.

“I’ve been to Molly’s house,” she said. “I know what a place like that must cost to rent, especially with all the furnishings. Even if we agreed to keep it tidy and look after Molly’s horse, I can’t imagine her father would let it for so little money. What kind of arrangement did you make?”

“I know someone who’s willing to share the house with us,” said Ivy. “He found some buried treasure and got a good price for it, so he can afford to pay most of the rent. It’s—”

“Mica!” squealed Cicely. “I knew it! He was only pretending to be on Aunt Betony’s side, he was planning this all along!”

She started eagerly toward the door, but Ivy stopped her. “It’s not Mica,” she said. “I’m sorry, Cicely, but I haven’t seen him since we left the Delve.” She turned to Marigold, hoping she didn’t look as nervous as she felt. “I left Martin waiting outside. Is it all right if I ask him to come in?”