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and wild and fierce. When she was angry she was as biting as the wind and as terrifying as a storm-filled sea.’
    Freya paused, resting the book in her lap for a moment, and looked down at Sam, who was half sitting, half lying under the bedcovers. It was night-time and they were leaning against each other on Sam’s bed, both propped up by pillows. The lamp gave off a warm yellow light and, through the open window, Freya could hear the soft sound of waves breaking upon the shore. It was her favourite part of the day – a time of late summer sunsets, wishes and possibilities. She raised the book and continued reading.
    â€˜Beira had lived for hundreds of years. But she never died of old age because, at the onset of every spring, she drank the magic waters of the Well of Youth on the Green Island of the West, a place where it was always summer and where the trees were always full of fruit. The island drifted on the Atlantic, and sometimes, it is said, appeared close to the Hebrides. Many sailors have searched the ocean looking for it in vain – for often it was just beyond their vision, hidden by mist or having sunk beneath the waves.’
    â€˜Is that true, Mum?’ Sam craned his head to look at her. He was wide-eyed, puzzled – his literal father’s literal son.
    â€˜Perhaps,’ said Freya, gazing back at him. ‘But more likely it’s just a myth.’
    â€˜What’s a myth?’
    â€˜A story, a legend. Something that might not be fact, that can’t be proved.’ She paused. ‘But it still might be something we choose to believe in.’
    â€˜So the Green Island might not actually exist?’
    â€˜No, perhaps not. But then again, perhaps it’s just that no one ever finds it.’
    â€˜Maybe you and Dad and I will find it when we’re out in the boat sometime.’
    â€˜Yes, maybe.’
    Sam was silent for a few moments, perhaps thinking of a voyage over the waves. ‘But Beira always knew how to find the Green Island, didn’t she?’
    â€˜Yes, she did.’ Freya smiled and kissed the top of his head. ‘And what happened when she got there and tasted the magic water of the Well of Youth?’
    â€˜She grew young again. Then she came back to Scotland, where she was a beautiful girl once more with long, flowing hair.’
    Freya nodded. ‘That’s right. But with each passing month, Beira aged fast. And by the time winter returned, she was an old woman again, beginning her reign as fierce Queen Beira.’
    Sam turned to Freya once more and pulled a face. ‘But that can’t be true, can it, Mum? That must be a myth.’
    â€˜Yes, I think perhaps it is.’
    â€˜Although certain things can undergo a metamorphosis. Like flies and other insects. Crustaceans and molluscs.’
    â€˜That’s right,’ said Freya, slightly taken aback. ‘Have you been talking to Granddad again?’
    â€˜Uh-huh. He called Dad the other day.’
    Freya nodded. ‘I see. Yes. But Beira’s was more of a magical transformation. Rather than the change of a caterpillar into a butterfly.’
    â€˜Do you believe in magic, Mum?’
    Freya looked at him. ‘Perhaps.’
    â€˜Well, I don’t believe it. Beira couldn’t grow old that quickly and then become young again. I think it’s really just a story about the seasons.’
    Freya suppressed a laugh and dropped the book onto the bed. ‘Yes, most likely, Sam. Your father would certainly agree.’ And
his
father would be shocked at the mere contemplation of anything out of the ordinary. She kissed Sam’s head again then stood, gazing at him for a few moments, before turning out the light.
    The dusk of summer cast a shadowy light through the windows. Freya heard Sam shift his head down into the pillows, getting comfortable in anticipation of sleep. ‘Sing that song, Mum.’
    She smiled. ‘The one about the