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truth one of the Sheoques herself and so was totally immune to the blandishments of a mortal man like Liam Delaney. It was the truth that won her heart, and Liam Delaney never regretted losing the gift of the gab because he had a far better gift in return for it.’
    ‘And what was that?’
    ‘The gift of love.’
    ‘Ahhh.’ Siobhan smiled and clapped her hands. ‘I like that story,’ she said and snuggled into her pillow, her eyes blinking as she fought to keep them open.
    ‘Go to sleep then, my little angel,’ said Delaney, smoothing her hair neat again.
    ‘But I thought you said we Delaneys didn’t need to kiss the Blarney Stone to have the gift of the gab.’
    ‘We don’t.’
    ‘But if Liam Delaney put the gift into the Stone, why is that, then?’
    ‘Because we are direct descendants of Liam Delaney and Aoibheann Aghna Finbar McCool. Herself a fairy of the magical hills of the ancient Kingdom of Desmond, and favourite cousin to the goddess Cliodna. And when the goddess saw how happy Liam had made her cousin, she gifted the magic back to his children, and so it has passed on through all the generations to his descendants.’
    ‘Does that mean you still have the gift to deceive without offending then, Daddy?’ Siobhan asked, stifling a yawn.
    Delaney smiled again. ‘Ah no, in that respect I take after our great forefather Liam Colm. I am only capable of telling the truth.’
    Siobhan smiled peacefully, and as her eyes closed she was asleep almost before they did so. The smile stayed on her lips.
    However, Jack Delaney wasn’t smiling.
    He was thinking about the last question his daughter had asked him, and what he had to do the next morning.
    Thinking he had more in common with Cormac Laidir MacCarthy than he ever did with his smooth-talking, invented ancestor.

7.
    Perivale. Half-past nine, Friday evening
    GEOFFREY HUNT WAS feeling every one of his sixty-eight years.
    He was a tall, thin man with a full head of once-dark hair that had gone iron-grey early in his fifties. His hair was silver now, shining, as he stood bathed in moonlight in front of the butler sink in his kitchen. He was looking out through the leaded-light window into his garden beyond. Staring into the middle distance, his grey eyes sad. Unblinking.
    A round platter of a moon was shining as brightly as it had done for a long while. Geoffrey was wearing red tartan pyjamas, but no slippers, and he shivered as he looked upwards. His long, narrow feet should have been frozen on the bare stone of the kitchen floor, but when he shivered again it was not from the cold.
    Unaware that he was doing so, he made a sign of the cross on his chest. Then rubbed his hands. His arthritis seemed to have become progressively worse over the last few months. It was always bad when the weather was cold, and it had indeed been very cold of late that winter. Bitingly cold. But this aching seemed more than just that. The pain was eating into his bone marrow and not just his joints. He looked down at his hands, thin but swollen, the knuckles like small deformed walnuts on his twig-like fingers.
    He rubbed one hand over the other again as he looked at the moon and winced.
    ‘Geoffrey, what are you doing out here? Come back to bed.’
    He turned round, startled to see his wife standing in the doorway to their kitchen. She was just a few years younger than him, but she looked younger than that, even though her hair was pure white and the concerned expression that she wore on her face had settled into permanent lines from familiar usage. She had pale-blue, innocent, almost child-like eyes. Eyes that were large with concern. She was dressed in a pale-green dressing gown with matching slippers and held her arms wrapped around her body to comfort herself against more than the cold night air.
    ‘It’s dark, Geoffrey,’ she said again, ‘and it’s freezing down here.’
    ‘Yes,’ he nodded, but didn’t seem to register what she had said.
    ‘You could at least put