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erupted in laughter behind us. The Tuatha Dé Danann, not so much—except the Morrigan. She chuckled and lowered Fragarach, but Brighid didn’t budge.
    “You may relax, Brighid,” the Morrigan said, her red eyes cooling down to their normal dark brown. “I am not here for battle. I am here to fulfill a promise. You see that I have the Druid’s sword. I’ve been holding it for a good while now.” The tone of her voice made clear to everyone that she was enjoying the double entendre. The Morrigan’s mouth twitched upward at the corners.
    “The Druid is quite the swordsman. I’m sure you can imagine. Of course, imagining is all you’ll ever be able to do.”
    I wanted to tell the Morrigan to shut up, but I didn’t dare. She was dangerously close to revealing that she knew Brighid had offered herself to me. I’d promised Brighid never to tell anyone about it, but the Morrigan had guessed the truth. Brighid would probably not careabout such distinctions if the Morrigan made it public now. She’d be humiliated in front of all Faerie and she’d want to char someone to a cinder as a result.
    Brighid didn’t move or say anything, and it was her best option. The Morrigan would hardly want to charge her when Brighid held the high ground; it didn’t matter that the Morrigan was Chooser of the Slain—it wouldn’t be fun. She’d be set on fire, for one thing. And taking a quick glance at the hill in the magical spectrum, I could see that said hill was warded extensively and prickling with defensive traps. You’d have to be insane to charge Brighid there, and the Morrigan wasn’t; she was malevolent and petty and damn scary on a regular basis, but not insane.
    She could see that Brighid was ignoring her gibes, so she resorted to outright mockery. “It’s odd that a goddess of poetry should be at such a loss for words. Does this mean no one in the mortal world can remember their dirty limericks right now?”
    “Return the sword as you promised and leave,” Brighid said.
    “There’s an effort!” the Morrigan crowed. “You managed a line of pentameter.” She rested the flat of the blade on top of her shoulder, holding it casually, the way a baseball player might while walking to the plate. With seeming indifference to Brighid, she strolled to her left toward Manannan Mac Lir. She knew Brighid wasn’t going to move off her hill; she’d effectively trapped her there. If Brighid left, she’d surrender all her advantages in battle—and you needed every advantage you could get if you were going to cross swords with the Morrigan.
    Manannan stood from his chair and waited, his hood up and his arms crossed underneath his cloak. The entire Court grew still and strained to hear whatever might be said, for Manannan did not speak often in public. The Morrigan paused in front of him and brought theblade down horizontally in her hands, holding it chest high in a clearly ritualistic way, reminiscent of the formal transfer of possession practiced in Japan.
    “Manannan Mac Lir, I am here to return Fragarach to you as I promised the Druid Siodhachan Ó Suileabháin I would. Its original scabbard was lost long ago. Will you accept it?”
    “I will,” he said, disappointing everyone who was hoping for some more drama. I thought the Morrigan would have had a few more shenanigans up her—well, not up her sleeve. She didn’t have a stitch on. But then I flicked my gaze over to Brighid and realized what the Morrigan was doing. Brighid still stood as if she expected the Morrigan to charge her at any second. The Morrigan’s sudden appearance with the sword had goaded her into a defensive position, but now that the Chooser of the Slain was behaving in a completely nonaggressive and even polite manner, Brighid looked as if she had overreacted at best and like a frightened coward at worst.
    The Morrigan placed Fragarach gently into Manannan’s outstretched hands and said, “It is done.” Then, without a farewell or even a