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stone floor.
    "Where are we going?" I was taken aback, and hastened after him, still in the guise of not-myself.
    "Dan heads back north in the morning. I've business for him to conduct on my behalf, and messages to be delivered. Stay as you are. Act as you seem. Maintain this until we return. Let me see your strength."
    "But—won't they notice that I am—different?"
    "They've not seen you for a year. Girls grow up quickly. No cause for concern."
    "But-"
    Father glanced back over his shoulder as we came out of the Honeycomb onto the cliff path. His expression was neutral. "Is there a problem?" he asked.
    "No, Father." There was no problem. Only Dan and Peg and the other men and women with their sharp looks and their ready comments. Only the girls with their giggling whispers and the boys with their jokes. Only the fact that I had not once gone right into the encampment without Darragh by my side, not in all the long years Dan Walker's folk had been spending their summers at the bay. Only that going among people still filled me with terror, even though I was a sorcerer's daughter, for my clever tricks scarcely outweighed my limping, awkward gait and crippling shyness.
     
    But then, I thought as I followed my father's striding, dark-cloaked figure along the path and down the hillside toward the cove, today I was not that girl; not that Fainne. Instead, I was whatever I pleased. I was the other Fainne, the Glamour wrapping me in a soft raiment of gracefulness, smoothing my curls into a glossy flow of silk, making my walk straight and even, drawing the eye to my long curling lashes and my demure, pretty smile. They would see me, Dan and Peg and the others, and they would admire me, and never notice that anything had changed.
     
    "Ready?" Father asked under his breath as we came along the path and caught sight of the cluster of folk preparing livestock and belongings for next morning's early departure. Dogs were racing around yapping, and children chased each other in and out between carts and ponies and the legs of men and women about their tasks. As we came closer and were seen, people drew back as was their habit, leaving a neat untenanted space around my father. He was unperturbed, striding on forward until he spotted Dan Walker making some fine adjustments to a piece of harness. A couple of lads were bringing their ponies up from the shore, and they glanced my way. I put a hand on one hip, casually, and looked back at them under my lashes as I had seen that girl do, the one with the teeth. One lad looked down, as if abashed, and moved on past. The other one gave an appreciative whistle.
     
    "And drop this off at St. Ronan's," my father was telling Dan Walker. "I'm grateful to you, as always."
     
    "It's nothing. Got to go that way regardless, this year. It's close enough to Sevenwaters. Can't pass those parts without calling in on the old auntie, I'd never be forgiven. She's getting long in the tooth, but she's a sharp one, always has been: Got any messages for the folk up there?" The question was thrown in as if quite by chance.
     
    Father's features tightened almost imperceptibly. "Not this time."
     
    I took a step forward, and then another, and I was aware that Peg and the other women were watching me from where they hung clothing on the bushes to dry, and I saw that now Dan's eyes, too, were fixed on me, appraising. I looked away, down toward the sea.
     
     
    "Girl's turned out a credit to you, Ciaran," Dan said. He had lowered his voice, but I heard him all the same. "Who'd have thought it? Right little beauty, she's turning into; takes after her mother. You'd best be finding a husband for her before too long."
    There was a pause.
    "No offense," Dan added without emphasis.
    "The suggestion was inappropriate," my father said. "My daughter is a child."
    Dan made no comment, but I could feel his eyes following me as I walked over to the line of ponies tied up loosely in the shade under the trees, cropping at the rough