I stare in wonderment at Winter Mist and the creature that bears the noble name of Conall. It was fearsome enough that he can crawl, perhaps even walk. Now he and Winter Mist are talking together in a language that must be the Sidhe tongue. The sound of it gives me chills. Poor Ciara's hands fly up to cover her ears. Her eyes are popping out of her face and she has gone dangerously pale. The cup that held the calming potion drops from her trembling hands and shatters on the floor. Her mouth twitches, contorted by the effort of trying to form words that are unspeakable. I fear the strain of caring for this monstrous child has pushed her to the brink of madness. Reaching out to comfort her, I glare at Winter Mist accusingly.

"You know this - this child? By name?" I question her sharply. My mind is reeling, all sorts of terrible possibilities spinning out of the confusion. "Then he cannot be Ciara's baby! What has happened here? What has become of her little one? Stop babbling with him and tell us!"