"Is there a Diarmid Underhill waiting?"

"Underhill?" The man behind the glass looked exactly like Jeremy, enough so that Ismay wondered whether the train might have started up again as she'd cycled into town. She would have seen it go by, would she not?

"Or maybe someone waiting for a Miss Gebhardt?"

"Oh, aye. There was one man waiting."

She looked about the station, which was empty. "Where is he?"

"He left. He heard the last train would be delayed until morning."

A weight sank from her throat to her chest. "How long since?"

"I've no idea, sorry. Although"—the man moved papers around on his desk with no particular urgency—"the telegram from the train was about forty minutes ago. Must have been just after that. If you need lodging for the night, there's an inn opposite the west entrance to the station." He pointed a long, thin finger.

"I need to get to Glenmaidens as quickly as possible."

"There's no coach this late." The man peered over his spectacles at her. "The roads are...The best thing is to wait until tomorrow."

"He didn't leave a note, did he? Or any messages?"

"Not with me."

She sighed. "Thank you, Jeremy."

"Pardon? Miss, it's the other way to the inn."

Ismay returned to her bicycle and followed the sign outside the station indicating the road to Glenmaidens. Not long after she started up the lane, the incline sharpened and her rotations slowed. Her forehead grew damp with sweat, and she cursed the Southwestern Railway with all the venom in her pounding heart. Though the amber moon was nearly full, the glow was not bright enough to prevent her from being thrown from her bicycle thrice in all. Her wheels struck

rocks, or roots, or whatever natural inconveniences lurked in these woods. Ismay's palms were bloody, and her dress was torn somewhere around her left knee.

At least Mr. Underhill had sent clear directions to the house, in case anything prevented him from meeting her at the station.

"What else would he be busy with so far into the middle of nowhere?" asked Ismay's sister earlier that week, reading over the letters as they packed her trunk together.

"He's a musician, Iona. They do have culture in the countryside."

"Of course, a musical emergency might arise, then."

"Or perhaps something to do with his three young daughters."

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Iona flung herself backward over Ismay's bedspread. "Marceline did say she thought she could help you find—"

"I don't need help from Marceline," Ismay said too quickly.

"But must you go quite so far away?"

Another imperfection in the lane caught Ismay by surprise, and she barely kept herself vertical. She could not think of Iona here, or what she had replied to her sister's last question, or she would simply lie down in the trees and abandon herself to the woodland, to the creatures Ismay had read about in dusty volumes as a child. This was the part of the countryside where Elven Eithne (Ett-na) was said to have lived, before she was stolen away by fairies to serve as their cupbearer. Perhaps Ismay could do a job like that instead.

The shadowed curves of the lane vanished ahead, and she gritted her teeth at the top of the hill. Her answer to Iona's question followed her over the crest. Both of them had known this offer of employment was a miracle.

The descent into the glen, although easier, was still treacherous in the darkness, so when Ismay recognized the imposing tree near the foot of the hill from the directions, she allowed herself a moment to breathe. The giant oak marked the edge of the village and bore some romantic name or another, which she did not recall. This tree was the heart of several local festivals and folktales, a pastoral monument of some significance, but at this hour, it was little more than a wide shadow. Squinting hard into the night, seeing light, the outlines of roofs, Ismay gripped the handlebars tighter. Left at the first fork, and again at the second, and she should see Mossgaan. She might be late, but she had arrived. Perhaps she really could not be stopped.

The house was exactly where it ought to be, in the end, three stories of ivy and other greenery. This accordance with its name made Ismay laugh out loud through her delirium. A name scrawled on the postbox confirmed her arrival, and she clambered off her bicycle, propping the cursed metal vehicle against the wall and stretching her arms up as high as she could manage before she chapped the door, which opened right away. Ahead loomed a set of stairs with a blue velvet runner. To either side were doorways, and beyond, a hall. Just before her stood a little girl.

"Can I help?" the girl asked, pressing herself close to the door.

Ismay stuck out her hand to the girl. "Hello, I'm Ismay. I believe I'm your tutor."

A man lingered on the landing at the top of the stairs, tall and wild haired, clad in a black housecoat and slippers. "Who is it, Morven?"

"She's here!" Morven called back to him. "The lady is here, and she's bleeding!"