I'd already taken a couple of uneasy steps backwards before I'd put a voice to our proposed retreat. Edging away from the oncoming threat, my mouth had managed to form that single word of advice to Cormac before I span around and prepared to sprint.

However, just before I bolted, a sharp clang of reverberating metal from behind me caused me to turn and look back over my shoulder.

With adrenaline still pumping, I stared in disbelief as the unfolding scene stopped me in my tracks. It seemed that I'd turned just as our ginger assailant was dropping lifelessly to the cobbled path like a rock, releasing both his knife and protective elder wreath in the process.

Lifting my gaze, I found an additional contender had joined the fray, in the form of a blond girl in her late teens wielding a heavy iron pan and wearing a savage glower. The unusual green, crystal pendant she wore was still swinging as a result of the clout she'd evidently just delivered.

I recognised her from my previous encounter with Liam Foley as the ironmonger's daughter.

Orla.

"Anyone else?" she snarled, looking back and forth between the ginger man's two remaining companions with the cooking pot raised menacingly above her shoulder.

Realising that they were suddenly the ones outnumbered, and that their rivals were now the ones brandishing a weapon, the two delinquents shot each other a panicked glance. Without another word, they turned and fled back towards the market, leaving their less fortunate cohort sprawled unconscious on the ground.

Despite my bewildered state, I started putting the pieces of our predicament together. I recalled passing the ironmonger's stall in the market not long before the whispering began, but I'd been so engrossed in admiring the items around me that I didn't consider who might be behind the stall, or what the conversations he was having with his customers might be about.

"Are you all right?" Orla asked us, concerned.

"Aye, they didn't touch us," Cormac assured her.

"He's not looking at his best though," I pointed out, motioning towards the youth left prostrate by what was, presumably, Orla's father's craftsmanship. "Do you think he'll be all right?"

"It'll take more than a bump to the head to break Eamon," the blond girl responded unsympathetically, rolling her eyes. "Right, Cormac?"

"Yeah, he's a tough old nut," he agreed with a similar look of disdain.

It was clear from their reaction that the youth lying at Orla's feet had degree of notoriety amongst his peers, and, given the hostile way in which he'd acquainted himself with me, I could understand why.

"I don't believe we've been formally introduced," the blond remarked, lowering her makeshift weapon and extending a hand in greeting. "I'm Orla Foley."

"Aidan O'Rourke," I told her, sticking with my pseudonym as I accepted her hand and shook it. "You don't seem very scared of me," I added with a little confusion, noting that her confidence seemed disproportionate for someone whose father seemed to be spreading the word that I was some kind of evil sorcerer.

"You don't seem very scary," she retorted evenly as our hands disconnected from the greeting.

"But your father..."

"Doesn't know what he's talking about," she interjected. "Don't misunderstand. I know you can do magic. But I've also seen first-hand how you used it to right a wrong. I love my father, but what he did wasn't right, and he deserved to be called out on it."

"You're not angry?"

Orla gave a nonchalant shrug.

"I didn't know about what Pap did until you showed me. You served justice. I don't have a problem with that."

"You don't believe what he's telling people, then?"

Shaking her head, she answered with her demeanour resolute and conviction in her tone.

"That you're working with the sidhe? No. I just watched you whirling through the marketplace like a giddy child who'd just found their favourite toy. That doesn't look like someone who's in league with the sidhe to me."

Unable to fault her logical deductions or the observations they were based on, I felt the top of my ears heat up slightly.

"I got a little over excited," I admitted. "We don't have markets like that where I come from."

"Oh?" she remarked, surprise evident in her Irish lilt. "Where is it you come from?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I mumbled, still grasping for myself the reality of time-travel.

Orla looked to Cormac for clarity, but he just shrugged.

"So, is this normal practice for you?" I asked, keen to change the subject. "Wandering the streets, armed with a large metal object, looking for people who might need assistance?"

Orla grinned.

"Actually, this was my first time. I heard Pap talking to several people about you, including Eamon and his cronies. Afterwards, when I saw them follow you up here, I suspected there might be a quarrel. So, I decided that if they were looking for trouble, I'd give them some."

Looking down at the knife, I silently acknowledged that today's outcome could have been vastly different if Orla hadn't intervened.

"Well, it was certainly appreciated," I told her genuinely with my gaze returning to her effervescent green eyes. "I wish there was a way of thanking you properly."

The young blonde nodded thoughtfully.

"Aye, there might just be something you can assist me with," she mused. "Assuming you're not in a hurry to get back to the market, that is."

"We won't be going back there today," I assured her. "What is it you think we can do to help?"

"Pap and I heard some noise outside my house late last night as I was on my way to bed," she divulged. "He said it was probably a fox hunting for food, but it didn't sound like that to me. It seemed too loud to be that of a foraging animal."

"Where do we come into this?" I asked.

"From what I saw before, you have the ability to see events from the past," she explained. "Can you see what was going on outside my house last night? It's happened several times now, although last night was by far the loudest, and I feel a little anxious not knowing what's out there."

"I don't mind trying," I told her. "But I should warn you that I'm not necessarily able to control the underlying process."

Orla nodded her understanding.

"I'd appreciate you even just trying."

"All right. Do you want to lead the way so that we don't have any more awkward encounters?" I suggested, indicating the young redhead that was still out for the count.

Orla looked perplexed.

"We can't do it here?"

Her words prompted me to realise that from her perspective, the scene she'd witnessed during our previous encounter had been in a different location to the one she'd been viewing it in.

I shook my head.

"It's not something I can do from here," I informed her. "I know an incident took place at Mrs Doyle's farm and I showed you the images of it on your doorstep. So, I can see the reason why you think I can do this remotely. But what you saw on the screen was like ... a reflection of what I'd already seen. Images that had been captured from my first viewing of the event. To do what you're asking of me, I need to be where the event took place."

Orla frowned.

"Pap will worry if I'm gone for too long," she mused. "And if he finds out I've taken you back to our house, his wrath will know no bounds."

I nodded my comprehension.

"So, what do you want to do?"

Orla paused while she gathered her thoughts.

"I could quickly run back to the market and tell him I need to take a little time to browse the stalls for cotton and thread," she proposed. "I'm learning a trade as a seamstress, so he's unlikely to question that."

It seemed like a sensible course of action.

"I remember the way to your house," I confirmed. "So, we could meet you there if you like?"

"Yes, let's do that," she agreed enthusiastically. "Perfect. Thank you."

"You're more than welcome," I assured her. "In the meantime, what do you think we should do with him?" I added, with a single nod towards Orla's victim.

"Same thing he'd do if it were anyone else," she advocated, throwing him a final look of disgust before turning on her heel and striding purposefully back in the direction she'd come from.

Looking back briefly over her shoulder, she ensured we heard her final sardonic remark as she departed.

"He believes that mercy only serves the interests of the weak."