The barn was spacious, and I was easily able to set up a makeshift bed for Cormac using a couple of bales of hay. It was clear that his energy had been severely depleted by the way he collapsed onto it at his earliest opportunity. He needed rest, and I was pleased we were able to find shelter rather than remaining out in the open, even if it was only for one night.

Although still intermittent, his cough sounded less grating than it had previously, which was encouraging. The burns on his arm, however, looked more tender in the ambient light of dawn than they had under the harsh glare of my flashlight.

Cormac had drifted into an unconscious oblivion by the time our host arrived. As promised, she brought a bucket of cold water and a clean linen cloth, but I also noticed she carried a small glass jar containing an amber-coloured substance with her.

"Thank you, ma'am," I said, voicing my gratitude as she put the bucket on the barn floor next our patient.

"Imogen Doyle," she introduced herself. "I brought you a salve that I thought might help ease the pain too," she added, handing me the small jar.

"That's kind of you," I acknowledged, a little baffled that she was making this extra effort when she'd seemed so reluctant previously.

Mrs Doyle watched as I set the jar to one side and picked up the linen cloth. After immersing it in the cold water, I set to work on meticulously cooling down Cormac's arm, removing stray pieces of charred material from his blistered skin wherever I could.

"Why did you decide to help us?" I asked after a while, breaking the somewhat awkward silence.

"Because you asked me to," she replied. "But also because you told me the truth when you didn't have to. Lyin' would have been easier when you knew the truth could've cost you my help. I say that gives you more integrity than most."

"I'm not ashamed of who I am," I stated honestly.

"Aye, I can see that," she confirmed. "And I admire your conviction, but just be careful out there. I can see you're not from round these parts, and you might want to exercise some caution when talkin' with certain folk."

"I guess I got lucky when talking to you then," I noted as I dipped the cloth back into the water and rinsed it, ready to cool and clean Cormac's arm again.

"I guess so," she shrugged, and then nodded towards the sleeping man. "How long have you known him?"

"Last night was the first time we met," I told her as I focused on gently cleaning the marred limb in front of me.

Silence ensued, and I looked up to try to determine whether she's heard the answer to her question.

Mrs Doyle raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, aye?" she asked in a somewhat suggestive tone.

I flushed red with embarrassment.

"No," I corrected her quickly, mortified at the implication. "No, I didn't ... it wasn't like that. His house was on fire, and I knew he was trapped inside. I saw a way in, and so I took it and pulled him out. That was it. Nothing else. We literally just met."

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

"You seem to care a lot about his well-bein', considerin' you just met him."

I lowered my gaze back to Cormac's arm and continued tending to his injury.

"I feel like I knew him in a previous life," I responded.

It wasn't entirely untrue, and I didn't have any other explanation for her that I felt would make sense.

"I understand that feelin'," Mrs Doyle confirmed. "I felt like that about my late husband, Seamus. First time I met him I felt like we'd somehow known each other before."

She was a widow?

My heart softened.

"How long have you been living alone?" I ventured gently.

"About two years, give or take," she replied.

"How are you doing with it?"

Mrs Doyle sighed.

"Well ... it's difficult with him gone. I miss him every day. We never had children, and although the farm's smaller than most, it's still too much for me to handle on my own. A couple of the local lads help out twice weekly, in exchange for goat's milk, eggs, and a few coins, but they can be unreliable sometimes. So, I just make the best of it." She paused for a moment and exhaled in exasperation. "It doesn't help that I'm down five chickens this week."

I hung the linen cloth over the side of the wooden pail and reached for the small jar of salve. The contents smelled like a combination of honey and herbs. Trusting in Mrs Doyle's suggestion, I gently smeared some of the sticky substance onto Cormac's burnt arm as I continued conversing with her.

"What happened to your chickens?"

"I wish I knew," she sighed. "Four days ago, I had thirty-nine, then a few hours later there were thirty-four. And I couldn't find any dead. If you want my opinion?" She paused and looked meaningfully at me as she lowered her tone. "The sidhe took them."

"The sidhe?" I repeated incredulously.

"Wouldn't be the first time they've taken stuff that don't belong to them."

I blinked in disbelief. She appeared to be serious.

"And ... you've seen these sidhe?"

"With my own eyes," she confirmed. "Many folk 'round here have. Most of us think that they live in the hawthorn grove across the river to the north. But nobody dares venture over there to find out for sure."

My day was getting weirder by the moment.

"And you think they took your chickens?" I asked, washing my hands thoroughly in the bucket of water, having finished applying the ointment.

"Aye."

I stole a glance at Cormac, who appeared to be resting. I suspected he was exhausted after his ordeal, and his body had shut itself down. Realising there wasn't much more I could do for him in that moment, I turned my attention back to Mrs Doyle.

"How would you feel about showing me where you keep your chickens?" I asked as I stood and faced her. "I'd like to help retrieve them if I can."

The older woman hesitated, presumably considering her options and possible consequences.

"Aye, why not?" she decided after her period of deliberation. "Follow me."

The chicken coop was located close to the barn at the back of the farmhouse, but a little further to the east. Their basic living area was surrounded by a mixture of brown and white hens, scratching and pecking at the soft earth beneath their feet. They appeared to be free to roam within the boundaries of an enclosure that was surrounded by a crude fence. Dawn was breaking, and the distinctive call of a cockerel pierced through the cacophony of clucking as we approached, drawing my attention to the top of the henhouse where the rooster stretched his wings proudly for his hareem.

"Do you mind if I take a look?" I asked her.

"I don't know what you're hopin' to find, but you can look all you want. I need to sort them out some breakfast anyway."

Mrs Doyle scuttled over to a nearby compact grain store, while I started poking in and around the chicken coop. I didn't know what I hoped to find there either, but I kept my mind focused on the possible events from four days prior as I lifted the wooden flaps that revealed plenty of fresh eggs hidden underneath.

I was still convinced that the sidhe were creatures of legend - the figments of overactive imaginations from the days without television or internet. There had to be a more logical explanation for the disappearing chickens than one borne of fantasy and folklore.

As Mrs Doyle started to fill the wooden feeding trays with breakfast for her hungry birds, I decided to take my investigation to the low outer fence of the chicken enclosure. I started to walk slowly around the perimeter, looking for any signs that there had been unusual activity.

Initially, everything looked as I might have expected. However, as I approached the furthest corner of the boundary, I noticed a spattering of feathers on the other side of the fence.

Putting both of my hands on top of the nearest fenceposts, and one foot on one of the highest rungs, I launched myself over the top, with both feet landing neatly on the soft ground on the opposite side.

The action apparently caught Mrs Doyle's attention, who hurried over just as I was kneeling to take a closer look at the rogue plumes. They were a mixture of white and brown feathers, which suggested that more than one chicken had been involved in creating this disarray. I silently wondered how the events around the disappearance of the hens had unfolded.

"What have you found?" she asked.

Before I had a chance to reply, I felt a stirring in my back pocket. Instinctively, I reached inside and pulled out the contents.

As I expected, my phone lay dormant.

But the golden rings of the mysterious pendant had started to turn again.