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the water views from a successful South Boston brewer who had built the place in a nineteenth-century effort to gentrify the neighborhood.
    It hadn’t worked. The house stood out like a sore thumb at the end of a long row of modest double-deckers. But it was big enough for Miach’s sprawling family and followers, and the profusion of ornament, of paneling and marble and stained glass, made the sorcerer happy. It was also a suitable house for a wealthy Irish American philanthropist, which is how most of Boston thought of Miach MacCecht. He gave generously to schools, hospitals, and museums that served the community. The Irish in Southie and Charlestown who remembered the old ways knew better, of course.
    The house made Elada stir-crazy. It made him wish he had bought himself that house he’d been looking at in Quincy, even after Maire refused to share it with him. Simple and classical, it would have been a soothing place to convalesce, particularly after a night like this one.
    “I can’t take any more of this room,” he added, eyeing the Renaissance-revival built-ins with their bulbous carved garlands of fruit, hanging game, and fat, smiling cherubs.
    “Good,” said Nieve. “Because you can’t lounge in bed all night. The old man”—she meant Miach—“has been in his study for an hour with the door locked. He was on the phone with Finn for at least half of that, and you know he can’t stand to talk to Finn for more than five minutes.”
    That was true. Miach’s feud with Finn had reached an uneasy state of détente of late, but it went back two thousand years—and it ran deep. No matter that Nieve was married to Finn’s son.
    “What were they talking about?” Elada asked.
    “Your girlfriend,” said Nieve.
    “She’s not my girlfriend.”
    “And whose fault is that, Elada Brightsword?”
    “What did they say about her?”
    “You think I eavesdrop on my grandfather?”
    “I know you eavesdrop on your grandfather, because you’re the only one who ever knows what’s going on in this family.”
    “So I do,” she agreed. “The old man wants Sorcha Kavanaugh dead. Finn agrees, as you might expect. They say that if she can play the iron music, then she might be a singer— a stone singer —and that makes it too dangerous to let her live. They agreed that if the Prince gets his hands on her and she really does have the true voice, she’ll be able to bring the wall down for him.”
    So Miach suspected Sorcha was a stone singer. Of course he did. He wasn’t stupid.
    “Sorcha wouldn’t do that,” said Elada.
    “So she is a stone singer,” said Nieve.
    “I didn’t say she was a stone singer.”
    “You didn’t have to.”
    Elada got out of bed and reached for his sword.
    “What are you going to do?” asked Nieve.
    “I’m going to reason with Miach.”
    Nieve snorted. “Good luck. He’s already called Donal. He’s leaving nothing to chance. The Manhattan Fae are coming north to kill your black-haired bard.”
    Finn alone would have been a formidable adversary. Against Finn and Donal, Sorcha would have no chance.
    “She may not even have the voice,” said Elada, who knew in his gut that she did.
    “They’re not willing to take that chance,” said Nieve.
    “Thank you.” Elada strapped his sword to his back. His glamour hid it from human eyes, but Miach would understand the gesture.
    He found the sorcerer in his study, the paneled library with the bay window that looked out over Boston Harbor.
    “You should be resting,” said Miach when he saw Elada.
    “We need to talk about Sorcha Kavanaugh.”
    Miach sighed. “This house has too many ears. Who told you?”
    “Don’t change the subject. This is not about your family. This is about Sorcha Kavanaugh.”
    “The matter has been dealt with,” said Miach. He was used to issuing orders.
    “I’m no longer bound to you by magic,” said Elada. “Only friendship. So I will tell you plainly. What you are planning is wrong.”
    “Of