I'm not sure how long we remained in our embrace. All I know is that I stayed until Cormac had cried himself to sleep, at which point I laid down with him in my arms.

Physically and mentally drained, I ensured the kitchen knife was still within my reach before following him into oblivion. Thankfully, if we were visited by any sidhe during the night, we were blissfully unaware.

Waking up still holding Cormac wasn't as awkward as it could have been, perhaps due to the circumstances under which we drifted into unconsciousness.

When our eyes initially opened, we were both a little sheepish – him more so than I was – but we were also both mature enough to understand there was no salacious intent behind our physical entanglement.

Soon after washing and dressing, we tucked into a breakfast of boiled eggs with thick homemade bread, and I took the opportunity to ask Mrs Doyle whether she had a blank notebook that I might be able to earn from her somehow. I wasn't surprised to learn that she didn't.

However, she reminded me that since it was market day, she would be taking the horse and cart into the centre of Doran to sell her wares. Reasoning that one of the stalls might offer what we sought, she suggested we might want to join her to browse the items offered by the other villagers.

Apparently, the residents' views on her 'harbouring sodomites' was less of a concern to her now that she was convinced that I was capable of magic. And although her belief had me cringing internally, I knew she was unlikely to believe me if I tried to contest the conclusion she'd made. Reminding myself that it probably served in our interests while Cormac's trauma was still so fresh, I continued to let it slide, opting instead to aim for discretion.

After spending the early part of the morning cleaning out the sheep and goat pen, including successfully enticing the persistent renegade goat back inside with an apple, I accepted Mrs Doyle's offer of transport to the market. Still anxious about being alone, Cormac joined us, and we departed mid-morning, trundling along the dirt track that led to the town centre.

Despite the threat of rain from the ubiquitous cloud cover, the main, central street was already buzzing with activity when we arrived. Canvas-covered wagons with chunky wooden wheels lined the wide road while people milled around between the carts like bees in a flower garden, creating a low hum of chatter as they browsed the wares on display.

Clearly accustomed to navigating the conglomeration, Mrs Doyle manoeuvred her cart into an appropriate spot to park. Cormac and I helped with setting up her stall, unpacking eggs, goats' milk and a selection of vegetables, including carrots, potatoes and turnips, before wishing her well, and heading into the throng.

Throughout my youth, my parents had occasionally taken me to 'living history' museums, where actors donning period attire would play the part of Victorian or Georgian peasants or nobles in a typical setting of the time. During my teenage years I had also been to re-enactments of battles scenes from significant religious and civil wars. I had enjoyed all these encounters immensely, often getting immersed in the atmosphere and soaking up every possible detail of the fascinating history of my country.

But nothing compared to the reality of experiencing early nineteenth century Ireland first-hand.

People of all shapes and sizes bustled past us as we examined the paraphernalia offered by the traders. The women mainly wore traditional ankle-length dresses and shawls, whereas the men donned waistcoats, work trousers, long boots and flat caps in various permutations. Small barefoot children, with no interest in commerce, ducked and weaved between the legs of the adults, laughing as they chased each other through the streets.

A rotund, older lady carrying a crock pot drew my attention to a nearby blond man selling traditional earthenware. Intrigued, I approached his stall.

"May I?" I asked, indicating with a hand gesture that I wanted a closer look.

"Aye, sure," he responded with a nod and a nonchalant shrug.

I picked up the nearest bowl and studied it intently. The design was basic and functional - typical of working-class life in the Georgian era. Undoubtedly everyone else in the vicinity would view this as an unremarkable piece of basic crockery, but I couldn't help but see a two-hundred-year-old artifact in perfect condition with which I found myself captivated.

My thoughts drifted to the broken pottery I unearthed as a child, recalling how I used to imagine how each piece had looked and been utilised when they'd been new and intact. And now that one of those items was right here in my grasp, I was transfixed.

"You seem to like this one?" Cormac observed, understandably confused at my fascination with such a basic item.

Returning the bowl to the stall and thanking the merchant for allowing me to examine it, I addressed Cormac's observation.

"I like all of them," I enthused. "All of this," I added, spinning around and indicating the spirited atmosphere of the Georgian marketplace.

Cormac stared at me, evidently bewildered at my exuberance.

"It's just very different where I come from," I tried to clarify.

"They don't have markets where you're from?" he asked.

Grinning, I started to walk towards the next stall.

"Not like this," I told him as I tried to contain my excitement. "It's difficult to explain."

"Well ... can you try?" he challenged with an emerging smile.

It seemed my enthusiasm was infectious.

Itching to share this experience with someone, I gestured towards the closest of the wares on display, which included various items of treen. Scanning the offerings, I quickly honed in a tobacco box made with dark wood - probably walnut - decorated with a simple carved image of a tobacco leaf.

"Where I come from, tobacco boxes aren't common," I informed him brightly, pointing to it.

"Nobody smokes?" he asked, clearly bewildered.

"Some people do," I elaborated, aware that the habit had been much more common before the dangers of lung disease were highlighted. "But not usually with pipes. Cigarettes are more popular."

"Cigarettes...?"

Cormac repeated the word with curiosity, probably hoping for further explanation, but my mind had already skipped to the next item that had captured my interest. Pointing to a pestle and mortar that looked to be made from sycamore wood, I continued my fervent edification.

"I don't often see these for sale either," I gushed, while considering the wide range of twenty-first kitchen appliances that had rendered these more primitive tools obsolete. "We generally have a different way of crushing garlic or herbs. Oh! And we don't really use trencher plates either," I added excitedly, as a square wooden plate with a circular dip carved into it caught my eye.

"Maybe we can find a way for you to take some of these things home with you?" he suggested, clearly on the brink of giggling at my fascination with such rudimentary objects.

Given my exuberant performance, I understood why he thought such a desire might be there. But for me, the allure wasn't about collecting souvenirs.

"It isn't just the items," I clarified, shaking my head giddily and using hand gestures to encourage him to follow me to an adjacent stall. "It's also in the way things are done. For example, here, the fresh flowers are tied together with twine," I told him, pointing to the vibrant blooms on display, inwardly noting that the simple bouquets weren't wrapped in the plastic cellophane I'd become accustomed to.

Cormac continued to appear to be a combination of baffled and amused as we progressed further down the cobbled street.

"Do you keep animals?" he asked, nodding towards half a dozen matted, bleating sheep in crude, temporary pens. Next to them, a cage of tawny chickens clucked and scratched the hay-covered floor in their search for grain, while large sacks containing various oats, grains and flour lay to one side.

"Some people do," I confirmed. Cocking my head slightly to one side, I wondered how many modern health and safety regulations the scene before me would break. "I'm just not used to seeing them traded like this," I added as we continued to weave our way through the throng.

There was plenty more for the historian in me to marvel at as we ambled past additional stalls. The distinct smell of lavender reminded me that during this era, the herb was used as a natural antiseptic as well as an insect repellent which would keep any moths at bay that might destroy the fabric of clothes. As we passed the associated vendor, I heard her encouraging to potential buyers to view her fresh herbs and spices, which also included rosemary, garlic, sorrel and thyme.

Metal pots, pans, buckets, nails and other staples of ironmongery were on display next to a cart containing honey, jam and chutney in ceramic pots. Baskets of fresh apples, blackberries, cherries, bilberries, plums, pears and wild strawberries were being sold by a fruit merchant, alongside an older man selling cider, mead, ale and stout in bottles of varying shapes and sizes.

Further along, I spotted an assortment of imperfect, handmade candles, which I found a refreshing change from the mass-produced, identical wax clones I was used to seeing in our modern department stores.

So absorbed was I in the novelty of being immersed in this world, that I nearly collided with a strawberry blonde girl wearing a simple dress, who was carrying a basket full of cockles and mussels for sale. I excused myself politely for the close encounter, to which she nodded.

However, I observed the apprehensive way her eyes lingered on me before she scurried hastily on her way.

That was when I started noticing similar reactions all around us.

The pointing.

The whispering.

The staring.

Parents anxiously holding their children back, watching us intently as we passed by.

People nudging their neighbours and nodding towards us with concerned expressions.

Apparently, the young lady with her seafood basket wasn't the only one feeling uneasy.

"Something tells me we should find a more discreet way to get back to Mrs Doyle," I suggested to Cormac quietly.

"Aye," he agreed, motioning with a quick sideways head movement towards a cobbled alleyway framed by a thin, stone archway. "Let's nip down here."

Plain lettering printed on a metal plate situated above the curved apex read, "BUILLE LANE."

Darting in behind Cormac, it became evident that the narrow, winding passageway was cutting through to the street parallel to the one we'd just exited.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Not only would this route undoubtedly lead back to Mrs Doyle, but there was surely a lower chance of a precarious encounter on market day in a street with inevitably fewer people.

"Hey!"

A male voice emanating from behind us echoed off the flint walls.

Cormac and I both spun round to see three young men glaring at us menacingly, and any relief I'd previously felt was instantly replaced with despair. The stockiest of the trio, with messy ginger hair, was flanked on either side by his two menacing comrades.

"Foley says you're a witch," the ringleader challenged, raising his right arm and flicking out a knife. "And we don't want witches causing trouble in this town."

"I'm not here to cause trouble," I assured him as amicably as I could, showing him the palms of my hands so that he could see I was unarmed.

"Well, we've decided we don't want to take any chances," he growled, showing me a wreath made of small, thin intertwined elder branches he held in his left hand - a talisman that was believed to keep sorcerers from accessing their powers. "And this should stop you using your magic," he added with a smirk.

His reasoning may have been flawed, but, as they continued to advance, I reminded myself that there was a critical part of his speculation that was indeed correct. I was unable to call upon any beneficial magic to assist us in a confrontation.

They also outnumbered us and had a weapon.

The probability of us emerging victorious from a brawl wasn't looking favourable.

And so, turning to my companion, I uttered the only word that I felt made any sense to say in that moment.

"Run!"