I had no idea whether my ruse would work.

It relied heavily on the fact that the locals believed in faeries and magic, which made it risky, since bluffing had never really been one of my strengths.

Still, I figured it was worth a shot. Although Liam Foley was clearly lacking a moral baseline, from everything Mrs Doyle had told me about him he didn't seem like the sort of person who would actively try to physically hurt someone. I reasoned that the worst conceivable situation was that I would make an idiot out of myself, which, although humiliating, would be unlikely to do any lasting damage.

Mrs Doyle granted me the use of a horse for the task, promising to look after Cormac in my absence.

As the horse trotted towards the village, I silently thanked my mother for all the riding lessons that I'd been subjected to in my youth, acknowledging how useful they were now that I found myself in a period before the invention of cars.

Entering Doran felt strange when everything looked so familiar and yet so different. As I traversed its streets on horseback, I recognised various features of the village, such as the basic road layout, the school, the village hall and the building that accommodated the postal service. But naturally, any landmarks I'd become accustomed to now seemed so anachronous that I had to consciously adjust my perspective - a feeling which was exacerbated by the Georgian style of clothing and the slower pace of life that were apparent wherever I looked.

At the centre of Doran stood our prominent and beloved Roman Catholic church, which, in the twenty-first century was a central hub for our Catholic community. It was disheartening to see how it plainly lay neglected under Protestant rule. However, I knew we were lucky to live in such a remote southern location, because that was the probable reason that this significant piece of our heritage had been spared from abolition by the English. I reassured myself that it would be less than seven years before the Catholic Emancipation Act would allow the church to be used again, and that its quiescence was temporary.

Liam's Ironmongery was relatively easy to find, especially since Mrs Doyle gave ample instructions on how to navigate a village that I was already partially familiar with. Offset from the main village centre, I was informed that Liam lived directly above the shop with his three children.

In an effort to conceal my trepidation, I attempted to present an air of confidence as I rapped loudly on the door of the ironmongery. It wasn't long before the same short, stocky man that I'd seen through the spinning rings of the pendant opened the door and ran his eyes over me with suspicion. There wasn't too much I could do about the way I was dressed, though, so I endeavoured to steer his attention away from my attire.

"Liam Foley?" I asked, despite already knowing the answer.

"What of it?" he snapped, as a girl with blonde ringlets who appeared to be in her late teens emerged from behind him and studied me curiously. She wore a simple, cotton dress, typical of the early nineteenth century, and a necklace that held an unusually long, thin pale green crystal at its focal point.

Bracing myself for the million ways in which this situation could go awry, I pulled my phone from my pocket and showed Liam that I had evidence of him stealing Mrs Doyle's chickens.

"I believe you're in possession of some birds that don't belong to you," I stated as both he and his daughter watched the events of that week unfold in front of them on the screen.

Liam's eyes widened in fear, while his daughter looked fascinated.

"How are you doing that?" the stocky man screeched, stumbling backwards a step as the video drew to an end.

I put my phone back in my pocket.

"My methods are of little consequence," I declared. "What matters is that I have come to retrieve what you stole."

"You're in league with the sidhe," he assumed with wide, terrified eyes.

His assumption worked in my favour, so I didn't see the need to dispute it. Especially since this was the conclusion that I'd hoped he'd reach.

"Will you give back what you took?" I persisted.

Liam nodded vigorously.

"Stay here, Orla," he told the blonde girl as he stepped outside, edging past me carefully as his daughter continued to watch me with fascination.

After leading me down a path that led to a chicken coop towards the rear of his property, he ushered five chickens into a cage.

"Be sure and tell those sidhe that I cooperated," he insisted as he clicked the lock into place and handed me the box containing the trapped hens. "I don't want them anywhere near my family, you understand? And let Imogen know I'm sorry for inconveniencing her like that," he added, somewhat disingenuously. Presumably this was an attempt to curb any further wrath that he thought might be incurred.

Upon my return to the farmstead, I spotted Mrs Doyle approaching me. No doubt she'd heard the clattering of hooves as they clopped over the stony track that led to the main house.

After dismounting, I fetched the cage of chickens and returned them to their rightful owner.

"Liam sends his apologies for any inconvenience caused," I relayed to her, satisfied that my plan had worked.

The older woman peered inside the cage at the clucking hens.

"I don't know what kind of magic it is that you're doin'," she breathed in awe as her focus returned to me. "But it's clear to me that I want to be on the right side of it. You and your friend can stay in the barn for as long as you need, and you just say if there's anythin' else I can do for you both. Talkin' of which," she added, as she started walking towards the large outbuilding. "Cormac's awake if you're wantin' to see him. I gave him some broth, and if you'll be patient with me while I sort out these chickens, I'll make sure you get some too."

Until she mentioned food, I hadn't realised how hungry I was.

"Thank you, Mrs Doyle," I smiled, but the verbal appreciation covered more than just the promise of soup. The invitation to stay in her outbuilding indefinitely certainly helped us out of our immediate predicament of somewhere to reside until Cormac recovered properly.

Mrs Doyle nodded and disappeared into the chicken enclosure, while I entered the spacious barn.

Sitting cross-legged on top of one of the hay bales I'd used for his makeshift bed, Cormac was devouring the last of (what was presumably) Mrs Doyle's home-made soup. He glanced up only when I sat down next to him and dangled my feet over the edge of the bale.

"She's threatened to give me some of that too," I jested, nodding towards the empty bowl. "Was it any good?"

"Aye, I haven't had the pleasure of Mrs Doyle's cooking since I was a lad," he reminisced. "And it's as good as I remember, to be sure."

His blatant enjoyment of the nourishment provided by our host was certainly a positive sign, so I smiled.

"And how are you doing now?" I asked, indicating Cormac's arm, although I intended the sentiment to extend beyond his physical injuries.

"It could have been a lot worse if you hadn't shown up when you did," he acknowledged.

"How did you know I was trapped in there?"

I pondered how to answer that for a few moments. But I wasn't sure how was I supposed to accurately impart any information about the events of the night when I was still processing it myself.

"It's difficult to explain," I decided.

"Mrs Doyle says you can do magic," he stated, his turquoise eyes narrowing. "That true?"

I inhaled deeply and let the breath go in a long sigh as I considered an appropriate response.

"I don't know that either," I answered honestly. "As far as I can tell, anything 'magical' I've been able to do was triggered by the fire last night, and I'm still trying to figure it out."

"Uh huh," he responded, just as Mrs Doyle returned with a wooden bowl and spoon in one hand and a generous chunk of bread in the other.

"Thank you," I told her as she passed me the food.

She nodded and asked me to bring our empty bowls to the kitchen once we'd finished.

The piping hot, thick broth appeared to be made predominantly from meat, potatoes, carrots and barley, and tasted delicious with the fresh bread.

"I heard you say your name was Aidan?" Cormac asked as I consumed the soup with ease.

I nodded my agreement, deciding it was a probably good idea to embrace my temporary identity.

"And you told her you prefer men to women when it comes to ... you know," he probed further.

"That's because I do," I confirmed.

"You said you had a word for it?"

"Homosexual, yes."

We were quiet for a few minutes, presumably while Cormac processed the information that I'd just imparted to him. Meanwhile, I finished the scrumptious soup and bread, grateful for Mrs Doyle's kindness.

"I also heard you say you were here by accident," my companion said, breaking the silence. "What does that mean? More magic?"

"I think 'magic' is probably the best explanation I'm going to be able to give for how I got here," I admitted as I turned to face him, hoping he'd understand on some level. "I'm sorry I don't have answers for you that make a whole lot of sense."

"You just saved my life," he pointed out. "You don't owe me anything. I was just interested."

"It doesn't stop me wishing I could give you a better explanation, though," I reiterated, dropping off the side of the bale into a standing position. "Shall I take these bowls back to Mrs Doyle?"

"I'll come with you," said Cormac, sliding from the top of the hay more gracefully than I had done.

We opened the external door leading from the yard to the kitchen after calling Mrs Doyle's name so that she wasn't startled by our arrival. My eyes scanned the room as she bustled over and took our bowls from us.

Cormac thanked her, but I barely registered it. Instead, I stood in awe, taking in every detail of the room before me.

A hefty stove with a hearth stood in the location where I was accustomed to seeing your mother's Aga. On top of one of the rings of the stove was a kettle, and on the opposite ring was a saucepan. Other cast iron cookware hung on racks around the range. A rustic cupboard sat against one of the walls and displayed basic stoneware, including crockery. The wooden table occupying the centre of the room was undecorated and functional, and surrounded by equally modest chairs. Not surprisingly, the familiar, contemporary electric downlights that your mother had had installed were no longer providing lighting from overhead. Instead, it was clear that the room would be lit, when required, by four kerosene lamps that were placed at its opposite corners.

I suddenly found being in an authentic early nineteenth century kitchen overwhelming, particularly regarding the abrupt clash of emotions that momentarily paralysed me. The historian in me was, of course, euphoric to have been given this momentous opportunity, while the nostalgic, sentimental side of me promptly panicked about how I was ever going to get back to my friends and family in the twenty-first century.

With the inner conflict making my head spin with dizzying speed, I struggled against the vertiginous sensation to no avail. My brain slipped into autopilot, and I started to dissociate, filtering out the voices of those in my company - my mind going blank as it tried to curb the intense confusion.

Until there was nothing.