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James frowns. “That still disnae explain how ye learned any of this without the other half.”

“I was fortunate,” he says, flicking the strand that’s reaching toward Amelia, “that this one held strong. Faintly, but enough. And when I followed it, it led me straight to the Curran family residence.”

He turns to Amelia.

“To her line.”

Ellen looks from Mannie to Amelia. “What line?”

When Mannie speaks again, there’s an oracular weight that stills the room.

“Her bloodline,” he intones. “Amelia Curran descends from Ériu herself.”

Róisín stares wildly at him. “You can’t possibly know that.”

“I can,” Mannie says, temper flashing. “Have you forgotten so quickly who stands before you?”

Róisín’s expression changes at once. “That was poorly put.” She glances aside, then back at him. “Forgive me.”

Mannie inclines his head, letting the matter rest.

Amelia lowers the portfolio onto the table, though she keeps one hand on it, as if she’s uncertain whether she wants it opened.

“I’ve something here,” she says, her fingers tightening slightly on the worn leather. “I think it may help you all understand.”

She draws a breath. “I’ve always seen things differently than others. Seen things in sleep, and sometimes in the waking world.” Her eyes lower. “I paint them,” she says. “Sketch them in a rush. Since I was a girl. Places I’ve never been. Faces I can’t name.”

Her mouth tightens, though, whether with embarrassment or old frustration, I can’t tell. “My mother used to say I’d a mind too crowded for my own good.”

She loosens the strap and opens the portfolio with visible reluctance, as though she knows there’s no shutting this door once it’s opened.

Sheets of paper lie inside, charcoal and ink, a few washed through with watercolour. Amelia slides the first free and lays it flat.

It’s a dark, sharp coastline, with figures gathered in cloaks that belong to no age I know.

“There are dozens,” she murmurs. “I never know what they are. Only that if I don’t get them out of my head, I don’t sleep.”

She lays down a second sheet.

At first, I don’t understand what I was seeing, only that something in me recoils from it. Then the shapes resolve.

There, in strokes so violent they appear almost carved into the page, a single creature dominates my focus. Body twisted as though caught in motion, one foreleg lifted, its jaws thrown wide in a snarl too savage to belong to any earthly hound.

Around it are three human forms, rougher drawn, less distinct, but unmistakably placed in opposition. There’s no mistaking the shape of the thing between them. No mistaking the violence of the moment. A moment I’ll never forget, no matter how hard I try.

The Cú Sídhe attack.

My pulse begins a steady drumming in my ears.

“You drawing this,” I say at last, my voice sounding unlike my own, “that shouldn’t be possible.”

Amelia gives the smallest nod. “That’s my opinion as well.”

Mannie catches her attention with a look. “You’re doing well. Go on.”

Amelia touches the centre of the image. “When Mannie first came to me, I didn’t believe a word he said. Not about the tablet. Not about my family. Not about myself.” A humourless little smile touches her mouth. “I thought him half out of his mind.”

Alex lets out a breath through his nose. “Fair.”