Corrán always looked magical at night. The town's lights danced on the waves as they passed by three Norse longboats. The man who was steering the boat eyed them suspiciously and kept his distance.

  Aoife had been here before with Brigid on market days and a special request. The docks were loud with merchants, and the streets smelled like fresh bread and salted fish on those trips. She came by herself the other nights after that, and the town looked much the same as it did now. Quiet with windows shuttered. The only difference between then and now was that the manor on the cliff was fully lit.

  Her target would be the same as those other nights, but the lights would make tonight tricky.

  She'd made good time from Ballinacor. Declan had known a man with a faster boat, and that man had known not to ask questions when she'd paid him double. The name Fiachra had opened doors, too, or at least, the promise of information for Fiachra. Everyone in the Isles knew the captain of the Fianna.

  She hoped he remembered her. She'd been fifteen the last time she'd seen him. She first spotted him when Brigid had been called to Tighearnán Manor. She'd tried not to stare at the young knight with the serious eyes and the easy smile. She'd snuck off a handful of times at dusk to watch the knight settle in for the night. He hadn't noticed her on the rooftops then, but he'd notice her now. She had questions, and he had answers, and she wasn't leaving until she got them.

  The cliff road was steep in the dark. She kept to the shadows out of habit, moving the way that had gotten her glimpses of the dashing knight. The manor's torches flickered above her, and voices drifted down from the courtyard.

  She didn't use the road for the last part. She knew another way.

  The eastern wall had a drainage grate that emptied into the rocks below. The grate was rusted but loose, and beyond it, a channel ran up through the foundation to a cellar that no one used. It had taken her half a night to find it the first time, but after that, it was the best way to sneak into the manor.

  It was still loose and forgotten when her fingers found it. She pulled herself through and emerged into darkness that smelled like dust and old wine.

  The cellar connected to the servants' passages, and the servants' passages connected to everything. She climbed through the manor's bones, listening to the sounds of the house. She heard footsteps, voices, and the clatter of activity that seemed wrong for this hour. Something had happened. The place felt stirred up, like a hive after someone had kicked it.

  She raced up the servants' stairs and found the circular window that opened onto the roofs. She pushed it open and climbed out. The roof was steep, and she slid down a bit until she overlooked the courtyard. There was a parapet and she pressed her back against it. She lifted her eyes over the gap.

  Men were gathered below. Soldiers, by the look of them. The Fianna, in their green cloaks, standing in loose formation. Torchlight caught their faces, and she saw exhaustion there, confusion, the look of men who'd been woken for something they didn't understand.

  A wheelbarrow sat near the gate. Two servants were pushing it toward the back of the manor, toward the place where they buried the dead.

  The body in the wheelbarrow had a green cloak draped over it. The fabric had slipped, and she could see the face.

  Fiachra.

  Aoife's breath caught. His eyes were open, staring at nothing. His throat was a red ruin, the wound savage and deep. Whatever had killed him had done it fast and without mercy.

  She pressed her hand against the stone to steady herself. The man she had snuck out to watch through the windows. The one she had daydreamed about, him giving her a seashell necklace or a crown of flowers, a Drowned Isle betrothal tradition. Wheeled away like garbage.

  Like Brigid before him, Aoife didn't have time to grieve this death. Something cold settled in her chest anyway, something that felt like the world getting smaller.

  A voice cut across the courtyard.

  "Listen up."

  The soldiers straightened. A man stepped forward. He was older, hard-faced, and wearing the captain's insignia that should have been on Fiachra's chest. Aoife had known him as the vice-captain. He didn't seem happy about the promotion.

  "We have new orders. Direct from Lord Tighearnán." He paused, letting that settle. "There's a duine sí taken residence in the east tower. Some of you saw him earlier. For those who didn't… well, stay out of his way. He's not our enemy."

  Murmurs rippled through the men. The new captain raised a hand.

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  "The duine sí is currently dealing with the Norse problem. By morning, those longships won't be troubling us anymore." He let that land. More murmurs, but different now. The men somehow looked even more confused, but there were some hopeful smiles. "In exchange for this service, Lord Tighearnán has agreed to provide assistance with a search. We're looking for a boy. A fisherman's son. Name is Oisín. Lives in a village near Ballinacor."

  Aoife went still.

  "We don't know what the duine sí wants with him. We don't need to know. Our job is to find the boy and bring him back here. That's it."

  One of the soldiers raised a hand. "What if the boy doesn't want to be found?"

  "Then he shouldn't have been born interesting." The new captain's voice was flat. "Questions?"

  Silence.

  "First squad moves at dawn. Dismissed."

  The soldiers broke formation, drifting toward the barracks. Aoife stayed frozen against the wall, her mind racing.

  A duine sí in the east tower. A duine sí dealing with Norse longships. A duine sí who wanted a fishing boy named Oisín badly enough to bargain for soldiers to help find him.

  The Hound.

  It had to be. How many duine sí walked into human manors and made deals with lords? How many had the power to promise dead longships by morning?

  He was here. The creature who had burned the orphanage, who had killed Brigid. She had come looking for information on him, and here he was. Not just in the manor, but recruiting an army to find some fisher boy.

  Ballinacor again. Could that be a coincidence?

  Too many questions and not enough people willing to talk.

  Right now, the Hound was out killing Norsemen. The east tower was empty. Maybe if mouths didn't move, she'd find something he left that gave her answers instead.

  Aoife moved.

  She slid across the manor roof, away from where she used to peep on Fiachra. The east tower was a large structure that overlooked the harbor. It rose into the night sky, and behind it hung the two moons. She was thankful they weren't full tonight.

  She pushed a window near the tower and climbed in.

  The corridor was empty. No guards. Either Tighearnán trusted the duine sí completely, or he was afraid to put men near him. Probably both.

  She climbed the staircase and checked the rooms as she went. None looked like they had residents. When she reached the top, she pulled on the final handle. The tower door was unlocked. She eased it open and slipped inside.

  The room was sparse. A bed that hadn't been slept in. A table with a map spread across it. It was the coastline north of Ballinacor, she realized, with several villages circled. A chair by a window overlooking the harbor, where she could see the longships sitting dark on the water.

  On the table, next to the map, a satchel. The flap was open, and something inside caught the torchlight.

  She crossed to it and looked.

  The object was small enough to fit in her palm. A triangle of metal, its surface covered in intricate knots that seemed to shift when she looked at them directly. It pulsed with faint light, cold and steady, like a heartbeat.

  Orichalcum.

  Brigid had told her about it once. The rarest metal in the world, found only in places where the boundaries between realms grew thin. The Knot had been made from it, too. She remembered the way it had felt in her hands, cold and strange, loops folding into loops.

  This was the same. Different shape, different purpose, but the same material. The same impossible weight.

  She didn't know what it was. She didn't need to know. If the Hound valued it enough to keep it close, then taking it would hurt him. That was enough.

  She slipped the satchel over her shoulder and dropped the trinket into the waiting maw. She rolled up the map and shoved that in too, and left the way she came.

  She was halfway down the tower stairs when she heard the footsteps coming up.

  Too steady to be a servant. Too purposeful to be wandering. She pressed herself into an alcove and waited.

  A man rounded the corner. One of the soldiers she'd glimpsed in the courtyard earlier, maybe. Dark curly hair, mismatched armor, a short sword that had seen use. His eyes found her immediately.

  "You're not supposed to be here."

  Aoife didn't run. Running invited chasing. Instead, she stepped out of the alcove and faced him, keeping the satchel behind her lower back.

  "I got lost."

  "In the east tower. In the middle of the night. With a satchel that isn't yours." His eyes flicked to the strap on her shoulder. "Try again."

  She bolted.

  He was fast, faster than she expected, and he cut her off at the landing, blocking the stairs down. She spun toward the window, but he moved to intercept, hand reaching for the satchel.

  She twisted away, keeping her body between him and the bag. He grabbed again, and again she pivoted, and this time she saw it, the way he pulled back when his hand came too close to her arm. The way he reset rather than follow through.

  He wouldn't touch her.

  She tested it. Stepped into his reach, let him grab for the strap, then turned so his hand would have to cross her body to reach it. He stopped and tried from another angle.

  A code, she realized. He won't put his hands on a woman.

  "Just give me the bag," he said, frustration bleeding through. "Whatever you took, it's not worth dying for."

  "You're not going to kill me."

  "The athrachan might."

  "Then I'd better be gone before he gets back."

  She feinted left and went right, ducking under his arm as he reached for the satchel strap. His fingers brushed the leather but couldn't find purchase. Not without grabbing her shoulder, which he wouldn't do. She hit the window at a run, threw it open, and was on the roof before he could reposition.

  "Stop!"

  She didn't stop. She slid down the tiles, caught the gutter, and dropped into the darkness below. She heard him reach the window behind her, heard him curse, but he didn't follow. Couldn't follow, maybe, or had to report to whoever held his contract.

  She didn't wait to find out.

  The night air hit her face, salt and cold, and she breathed it in like freedom.

  She pulled at the satchel to feel the weight. Everything was there. She had whatever Cú Dubh had wanted, and now she had a name: Oisín. She had a place: near Ballinacor. She raced down the path back to the docks. The satchel bounced against her back with every movement.

  The fishing village where she'd met the old fisherman. It was near Ballinacor, or close enough. She'd start around there, ask questions, and try to find this boy before the Hound's soldiers did.

  Then she'd find out why a monster wanted him so badly and how she could use him to fight back.

  She kept to the shadows. Behind her, the manor stood firm on the cliff. Ahead, the road stretched into darkness.

  She just hoped it led to a boy.