I heard a shout, but it was deeper, Matilda’s answering laugh more musical. Three horses shot from the forest, a coal-black stallion and a dappled mare leaping over the stream, their riders Arawn and Matilda, no longer children but perhaps seventeen, eighteen. They raced into the field.

Gwynn crossed the stream behind them on a white stallion. Then he climbed off and walked back to crouch and peer into the water. Matilda circled around. She swung off and went to kneel beside him. He pointed out something in the stream, and they talked, serious and intense, until he reached into the water, took out something, and laid it in her palm. Her hand closed over it, and when she looked at him, it was not the look a child gives a friend.

It’s you. It’s always been you.

Arawn rode back. Before he reached them, they climbed onto their horses, and the three took off across the meadow.

“And so there was a dilemma,” the little girl said. “One girl, two boys. The young men knew that if they vied for her hand, their friendship might not survive, and the ties between their kingdoms could weaken, as the boys turned to men and warriors, on the path to inheriting their respective crowns. So they made a pact that they would remain friends—all three of them. Neither would court Matilda. What the men forgot was that there was a third party in this arrangement, one they did not tell of it.”

I heard the shout again, and the laugh, and once more it was Gwynn and Matilda, in the meadow. They were older now, early twenties. Matilda had a basket, Gwynn a blanket. He laid it down and she set out a meal: cheese and bread and wine. She was leaning to pour his wine when he moved forward to take a piece of cheese, and they nearly collided. Matilda leaned forward, her face a few inches from his. Then she darted in and kissed him on the mouth before pulling back quickly, blushing. He froze there, touching his lips. Then, after a long, careful look around, he pulled her to him and kissed her again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

And so Matilda made her choice,” the girl said. “And Gwynn broke his promise. He’d only agreed to it because he was certain he was no competition for the charming prince of the Cwn Annwn. The moment Matilda showed him otherwise, he forgot the pact. He courted her in secret and made her swear not to tell Arawn. The Cwn Annwn prince was busy with fractious matters of state, he said. They ought not to disturb or distract him. The truth was that Gwynn was convinced she also loved Arawn, that he’d only won her because Arawn had played by the rules.”

“Which wasn’t true,” I said. “She chose Gwynn. She loved Arawn as a friend.”

“Gwynn never could—never would—believe it. He kept their engagement a secret until two nights before the wedding.”

The sun went out, pitching the field into darkness. I heard voices, angry voices, speaking Welsh. Arawn and Gwynn, the venom in their words growing stronger with each exchange.

The girl said, “They were young—Arawn hot-tempered and impulsive, Gwynn intense and unbending. That night, both said things they didn’t mean. Eventually, they came to an agreement. A terrible agreement. One they didn’t—again—share with Matilda. She would get one last chance to choose. On the eve of her wedding, if she stayed with Gwynn, then she was his and the land of the Cwn Annwn was closed to her forever.”

“And if she went to Arawn, she was his and the land of the Tylwyth Teg would close.”

As soon as I said it, the dark field erupted in flame, and I quickly turned away, wrapping my arms around myself and trying not to remember what it felt like to be immersed by that flame, plunging into it, trying to return to Gwynn. I could hear Arawn shouting, so loud his voice cracked.

“He couldn’t save her,” the little girl said. “Neither of them could, each on his side. In trying to return to Gwynn, Matilda plunged into the fiery abyss and was lost. They never forgave themselves . . . or each other. Those flames of rage and guilt burned through every tie between the Tylwyth Teg and the Cwn Annwn. Late in life, the two kings came to fully understand the damage they’d done to their peoples, and they reconciled. While they managed to bring an uneasy peace to their lands, it was not the same. It would never be the same.”

“And now they’re enemies again? The two sides?”

She pursed her lips. “Not enemies. They have been known to help one another, but it is not so much kindness as survival. There are other groups of fae. Some are allies, others are not. The Tylwyth Teg and the Cwn Annwn will help one another to stand against them, but their ultimate goal is freedom from that obligation—to stand strong enough that they do not require the other’s help.”

“And I play a role in that because I’m the new Mallt-y-Nos. The new Matilda. Or something like that.”

She smiled. “Yes, something like that. The cycle repeats. New Matildas are born. Not often. Not at all often. She must share the blood of the original, and she must be, like the original, of both sides.”

“Half . . . ? If Pamela is Tylwyth Teg, then Todd is . . . ?”

“Cwn Annwn. That is, they have the blood. Strong blood, mingled many times, from many sources, one path linking back to the family of the original Matilda.”

“Okay, so a new Matilda is born, and she meets the new Gwynn, presumably from the same bloodline as the original . . .”

“She may not meet him. I never did.”

“But the goal is for her to meet the new Gwynn?”

“Or the new Arawn, preferably one or the other, the choice dependent on the side.”