"I tell you, Father, the babby's a changeling, alright," Mary Blaney said to the priest. Both of them were wrapped up well against the winter cold: Mary in her shawl and layers of petticoats; Father Henry in his long, black overcoat.

Father Henry held on tight to the rail that ran along the side of the jaunting cart, keeping himself from being pitched into the muddy road that ran between the parochial house and the Blaney's farm."That's just superstition, woman," he said. "There are no such things as changelings."

Mary sucked on her pipe. The smoke from it smelled like burning leaves rather than sweet tobacco. Still, it was a pleasant smell and appropriate for the time of year, but overpowering at close range. "Mebbe," she said, "but is it not the Church that tells us that the De'il is real? And if himsel', then why not the fair folk?" She slapped the reins of the horse across its flank to emphasise her point.

"They're not the same thing," Father Henry insisted. "The Devil is a fallen angel, but that's from the Word of God. There are no fairies in the Bible."

"Don't give me that shite," Mary retorted. "The old tales may not be written down, but sure wasn't there no Bible either, once upon a time? Does that mean that the Good Book is as much a lie as you claim the stories of the fair folk to be?" She glared at the priest.

Father Henry avoided her harsh gaze and tried to think of a counterargument. The theologians at the seminary had done their best to prepare him for the world, but that did not include debating with a fierce, Irish matriarch who knew the Bible just as well as he did - if not better!

"Well," he began, "it's not like that. You see, Mary, the Council of Nicea - "

"Och - men!" Mary spat. "As if that makes a difference."

Father Henry hung his head, embarrassed at the blanket condemnation heaped upon the elders of the Catholic Church and, by extension, him. He remained silent until they arrived at the Blaney farm. Mary Blaney halted the jaunting cart in the farmyard, then waited for the priest to help her down from her seat.

The pair entered the farmhouse's kitchen. There was a fire blazing in the range, and the heat in the room was welcome after the cold of the journey. A basket had been placed in front of the range, and in it was a squirming infant swaddled in blankets. Fussing over the child were a young couple - the parents of the child. As the priest entered, the two of them stood up and bobbed respectfully.

"Good afternoon, Father," they chorussed in greeting.

"There's the craythur," Mary said, pointing at the basket with the stem of her pipe.

Father Henry bent down to examine the baby. As far as he could tell, the child was normal. There were none of the features traditionally attributed to changelings: no pointed ears, no claws, no hairy caul.

"Ha!" Father Henry said in triumph. "No changeling here. You have a perfectly healthy grandson, Mrs Blaney."

Mrs Blaney bridled at the priest. "Aye - and he was born a girl from her mother's womb! Explain that, Father!"