Jordan called Mag a bit after breakfast to say that Brighid’s father called Heartenwood because she’s gotten a cold. And she found that out from Horace since he works most often with Brighid, though he did need to be told by Dermot their supervisor.

Mag knows something’s up, because Brighid never gets colds. And she’s not an idiot--the only times Brighid’s ever conveniently fell down with minor illnesses that happen to need a few days of downtime were whenever Owen got in trouble. So Mag puts some of last night’s curry in a bowl and heads over to the Brennans’ after getting a jacket and her keys.

On the way is the Sionnach candy shop, and after a pause (read: one second) to think, she’s come back out with two pounds of caramels, swinging the bag innocently in the cold air.

Always good to be prepared, she muses over the last few blocks.

On the Brennans’ porch she rings the bell, and Brighid cracks it open. She’s still in her pyjamas, but it’s not the reason for her timidness. “Hello, Mag.”

“You never get sick,” the brunette points out.

“I know,” Brighid admits as she steps left to let her in.

“I brought curry,” Mag offers after wiping her shoes on the mat. “And chocolate from Sionnach’s.”

“Yay,” she drones, and accepts Mag’s hug after closing the door.

-----
It’s been a couple hours since Matthaeus undertook his “make something with my boyfriend’s chopped hair and whatever’s in my bag” challenge, and so far he’s managed three things:

1) Making a mess of zip-locks and pouches to the left of the bed.

2) Fixing the lamp. It took him an hour or two to remember that light’s sort of important for jewelry-making. (He won’t repeat the "make jewelry in the dark" situation with Owen’s runestone.)

3) He’s also wrapped Owen’s hair into a fragile circle, with red cord crossing around it like ribbon. It’s been strung onto a two-inch grommet with more of the same cord for more stability, looping through the middle in a knotted cross.

With magical jewelry, you need to match a person’s colors. Owen is a red person, every possible shade, and that’s rare--most people are cool colors or earthtones. Mal is sky blue, Harry’s gray, Aine and Mag are both lighter, floaty green. Brighid is a gentle, heavy mix of purple and bronze. Gods’ colors depend on their personality or whichever face they’re using, if they don’t have a sacred color already.

He’s getting the impression of orange or gold, so this isn’t a dark red like the runestone. He starts putting away the browns and blacks, eying the piles of chain and cord. “Sif, can you give me a hint or something?” He calls.

"No lobster clasps," she teases.

"Figures," he groans. "If that’s all you--"

A little golden ribbon is all that binds the wolf. He rages, but the filmy mesh is steeped in the power of impossible things. And he howls, he twists, he gnaws at Tyr’s wrist-bones--he cannot move now, but he can feel the sailor’s knot at the end beginning to fray--

"Oh," Matthaeus says. "Thank you, Sif."

“Also, I found this,” Sif adds, and hands him a polished round of moonstone. It glows blue in her hand, and in the center is the slit of a cat’s-eye.

Matthaeus tests it: The stone nests into the round of Owen’s hair, like it was made for it. So he rummages in his bag for the silver wire and pliers--he’s noticing a pattern with Owen’s jewelry and caging.

-----
“Well, this is a bitch,” says Ogma to Lucy for the third time after lunch, as the servants clear everything away. “The Hunter got your hair, your husband is cursed, and your daughter isn’t American anymore so we can’t ask the American spirits for help. But she’s not Irish yet until that damn legal magic kicks in five years down the road, so we can’t do much for her either.”

“Ooh, ooh!” A black-haired Fianna member called Nick shoots a hand up. “She can just marry someone!”

Lucy chokes on her water, and Ogma clears his throat pointedly. “Marriages of convenience are illegal now, Nick,” says the old man.

“Especially for Alima!” Lucy adds.

“I know, but if she marries one of the Tuatha De,” Nick argues, “god-magic trumps legal-magic! And if we happen to meet her somewhere and happen to go--”

“Nick, do you understand who’s in the room?” Ogma asks him. The Fianna are hiding grins behind mugs or the last few bites of food.

“I don’t get why mortals always panic about being god-wives or husbands,” Nick laments. “It’s a title, not just a relationship! I mean, sometimes it’s both, but that’s maybe ten percent of the people who get tapped. The rest of them are basically glorified druids or maybe some sort of healer--oh shit, her mum.”

Nick carefully slinks away from Lucy to hide amongst his fellows. Nothing comes from the Fianna’s mouths, but the lights on their side of the table flicker, and the remaining dishes clatter in an unknown quake.

“No god-marriage!” Lucy orders.

“And since that promising option was tragically shot down,” Ogma says with a grin, “the only thing we can really do for now is get your hair back.”

“Will that break the curse?” Lucy wonders.

“It... will break your imprisonment in the Otherworld,” Ogma answers carefully. “I can’t say whether it’ll help the rest of your family.”

Next Chapter: XIX: blind man’s bluff