Cormac and I began the short walk to the ironmonger's house, turning out of Buille Lane and onto a quieter cobbled street that ran parallel to the busy market.

The crisp air gave our cheeks a rosy glow, courtesy of the cool coastal breeze. With our path no longer surrounded by close buildings or sheltered by the large canvas trailers of the market, I was pleased we'd worn Seamus' thick coats to help fend off the brisk autumnal chill.

As I tucked my hands snugly into the pockets of the cosy garment, the final segment of the conversation with Orla replayed in my head. The blonde's parting comment spoke volumes about her less than favourable opinion of Eamon, and I was curious to find out Cormac's perspective.

"You and Eamon seem pretty well-acquainted," I observed. "Friend of yours?"

Cormac rolled his eyes.

"He's never liked me, even back when we were lads," he divulged. "Can't say I'm that fond of him either."

"You grew up around him?" I inferred. It made sense, given that they were similar ages and lived in the same town.

"We used to go to each other's houses a lot," he acknowledged. "Mainly when our Mams wanted to blether. They wanted us to get along, but Eamon always found a way to spoil things. If we played with a ball, he'd often kick it at my head and claim it was an accident. He'd sometimes kick my shins or thump me in the arm when our parents weren't looking. Or accuse me of cheating at a game when actually, he'd been the one not playing fair."

I sighed. Cormac's recollection of his youth with Eamon was a stark reminder that bullies existed in every century.

"Sounds like he was on some kind of power trip," I mumbled.

"A power ... trip?"

"Never mind. It sounds like it never got any better?"

"I hoped things would improve between us, but they never did. It wasn't for want of trying, though. I kept putting effort in, but it seems he was determined to hate me, whatever I did."

"People like that seem to exist everywhere," I reassured him as we passed the neglected church. "And it can be very difficult to ignore them, especially when they're so intertwined in your life. What about his two friends?"

"Dara's been friends with Eamon for as long as I can remember," he informed me. "And I think Connor started to get involved with them about seven years ago."

I had to wonder how authentic their kinship could be after Dara and Connor abandoned him in the alley, but I said nothing.

"I suspect being associated with a witch isn't exactly helping the animosity between you all," I pointed out. "I'd understand if you'd rather not be seen with me."

"Eamon's always going to find a reason to antagonise me," Cormac shrugged. "Even if you weren't around, he'd find something. Besides, I agree with Orla. Just because you can do magic, it doesn't mean I think you're a witch."

"That makes two of you," I replied, flashing him a smile.

"Three if you count Mrs Doyle," he grinned back.

"No, she definitely thinks I'm a witch," I retorted light-heartedly.

"Aye, that's fair," he conceded with a playful tone of his own as we rounded the corner into the street where Orla lived.

"I think this is the right house?" I checked, pointing to the one I thought I recognised from my previous encounter with Liam.

"Aye, that's it," my companion confirmed, just as we heard the spry drumbeat of footsteps from behind us.

Instinctively looking over my shoulder, I saw Orla sprinting towards us with her long, plain dress held high around her knee level so that she didn't trip over it.

"We don't have long," she panted, slowing down as she reached us.

After pacing to a halt, she bent over at her waist and placed her hands on her thighs, clearly trying to catch her breath from energy she'd just expended. It only took a few seconds before she resumed her upright position and nodded the direction of her house.

"Let's go," she urged.

I recognised the path that led towards the rear of her property as far as the modest chicken coop. The trail then curved around the house, opening up into a pretty garden I hadn't previously seen, where there were a couple of small apple trees and a larger pear tree. A thick, spiky damson bush lined the opposite side of the plot of land, presumably with an intention of discouraging intruders while also providing small, juicy fruits at the end of the summer months that could either be eaten straight from the plant, or potentially be made into jam.

"The noises we heard came from around here somewhere," Orla told us, indicating our verdant surroundings.

"And you said this was last night, correct?" I iterated, checking, one last time, where I should focus my thoughts as I drew the pendant from my pocket.

"It was," she nodded.

"All right," I acknowledged, concentrating on the timeframe I'd been given as I held the golden artifact. "Hopefully this will work."

Closing my eyes, I trained my thoughts on any possible sources of noise from the garden from the previous night.

Much to my relief, it wasn't long before I felt the whir of the revolving rings, and opened my eyes to watch the concentric circles gradually enlarging as they spun in my palm. Ignoring Orla's surprised gasp, I held the relic level, gradually sweeping it around so that we could have as much of a panoramic view of the yard as the aperture allowed.

At first, nothing seemed different, other than the natural illumination being inevitably dimmer in the evening light when peering through the central hole.

However, now that I knew the process was working, I pulled out my phone, flipping the camera mode on with my free hand in case we saw anything worth recording. As I continued to scan the area, we heard a sharp snap and muffled laughter, followed by the susurration of a concerned male voice.

"Are you all right up there?"

I immediately hit the record button on my device, pointing the lens through the eye of the pendant as I panned the contraption towards the noise. The shadowy features of a young male came into view, looking up into the branches of the pear tree. I thought I recognised him from the scene in Buille Lane.

"Dara," Orla breathed, confirming my suspicions.

Since he appeared to have company, I shifted our viewing perspective so that we could inspect the crown of the tree.

"Aye! Couldn't be better!" another masculine voice replied quietly. Judging by the jovial, shaky tone he used, typical of the aftermath of a chuckle, this second person was likely to have been the one seeing the funny side. "You should come up!"

Catching a small movement, I searched for the source, lingering when I encountered a dimly-lit profile that was settling into the wide branches of the pear tree.

It was Eamon.

"You know I don't like climbing trees," Dara hissed from outside our visual range. "I'm here because you asked me to be your lookout, and that's all."

"Your loss," Eamon shrugged, facing the house.

Curious, I shifted the focus of the viewing eye so that we could see what he found so fascinating. I paused at the warm, earthy glow of a kerosine lamp emanating from one of the upstairs windows, catching my attention by the way it was sharply accentuated against the surrounding caliginosity brought by the onset of dusk.

However, Eamon clearly wasn't here to admire the radiance of the flickering light. It was abundantly clear that his attention had been drawn by the oblivious young woman with distinctive blonde ringlets that was using the lamp to undress for bed. Her exposed, semi-nude form was only partially visible through the window from where we stood on the ground, but I suspected that her voyeur had a much more explicit perspective from his elevated vantage point.

The moment I registered what we were witnessing, I panned back to Eamon.

Regardless of how either of the two men in her present company felt about viewing a woman removing her clothing, I wanted to respect Orla's privacy. It was evident that her body had already been viewed in an exploitative manner without her knowledge or consent, and I didn't want to add to any resulting distress.

Eamon, apparently, had a very different attitude. By the time I'd put his silhouette back in the pendant's aperture, he was shuffling forwards between the branches, repositioning himself and craning his neck - apparently in an attempt to see more of Orla.

With a heavy sigh of disdain, I silently pondered whether it had been a blessing or a curse that this man didn't have access to the internet.

A sudden, heavy jolt downwards, accompanied by a loud crack, told us that Eamon had tested the limits of the bough he'd been leaning on. Unable to support his weight any longer, the branch had apparently collapsed just enough to leave him stranded in an awkward position.

Not that he seemed to mind, given the laughter that followed.

"You've had way too much of that ale," Dara grumbled from below.

"Or you haven't had enough," Eamon retorted with a chortle as he peered through the limbs of the tree at his accomplice. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

Dara's disapproval was audible in his silence.

"Bah! You used to be fun," the redhead sneered as he attempted to get comfortable again.

"And you used to be interesting," his companion mumbled under his breath.

Just as I was contemplating how my previous assessment of their kinship wasn't too far off the mark, the branch that Eamon had been wrestling with fractured with a thundering crack where it had undoubtedly been weakened previously. Both Eamon and the bough landed on the grass below with a resounding thump.

Presumably realising that such a clamour was bound to draw unwanted attention, Dara crouched silently behind the wide trunk of the tree.

It wasn't long before the door to the back of the property swung open. Dressed in a traditional long bedgown and holding up a kerosine lamp, Liam Foley scanned the garden for intruders. Orla appeared and hovered behind him, now fully covered by a gown of her own. They both looked concerned, and, given the considerable clamour that had just occurred outside, I couldn't blame them.

"Who's out here?" Liam bellowed, just as the rate at which the rings of the pendant were spinning started to ease.

During the minute or so of silence that ensued, the decelerating rings shrunk so much that we lost most of the visual element of the scene. But just before the concentric circles ground to a halt and the link to the event closed completely, we heard Liam Foley's sceptical voice one last time.

"It was probably just a fox."