October 29.
Alima settles into the routine of feeding Bulan and the cats after breakfast. Dandelion is starting to meow in anticipation, and the spotted cat stopped holing up in his crate, though he usually sticks to a corner instead of coming near anyone. Lucy keeps an eye on the litterboxes, which are predictably empty right now.

They’ll have to find a name for him soon, but using it is for when they can interact enough to give him treats and food.

“Why are we in here?” Dandelion asks him through the lean-to’s door. “It’s not like we’re attacking each other.”

“You might be sick and not know it yet,” he tells her. “A lot of things sneak up on you.”

“They do,” Dandelion muses. “My first kitten got the starving-thirst in the green season. She drank and ate as much as she could, but her back legs got weak. She got the shakes one day, and the woodwose said she was too far gone.”

There are a lot of leg problems roaming around for cats, but with the big appetite and a seizure, he’s pretty sure it’s diabetes.

“I’m sorry.” Ned doesn’t feel like teaching her human terms for things right now, and he whimpers. “Normally that happens with older cats.”

“Well, normally. But what can you do?” Dandelion mews under the door. “The Childless Black-Mask was calling her.”

“Who’s that?”

“He can’t have kittens.” She scratches at the wall a couple of times. “Not by blood, anyway. He’s one of our Big People.”

“So… what, he kills other cats instead?” Ned growls.

“He doesn’t kill them. He just shows up.” One of Dandelion’s eyes peers under the crack. “When the Great Forest Clan threw him out, he made the Tenth Life Clan so mortals could stay with him. His mate is Lacefur Who Hunted the Sun.”

Is this why cats do dumb shit all the time? Because their god of death is lonely? Why are the other cat-gods such bastards?

“Of course--a risk-taker pairs up with a god of death.” Ned tries to laugh--does the sun look like a laser to a cat-god? Are they housecats, or are they big cats like jaguars and pumas? But it comes out as a whine instead.

“Oh love, risk-takers usually have reasons to do it. Lacefur was just an eejit.”

He wants to know more about the cat-gods, who sort of make sense and yet still confuse him, but he’s already worried about a human-shaped immortal trying to kill his daughter--he doesn’t need a third species around.

“I should learn animal-speech,” Ned says. “For when I change back.”

“Ned, we’re almost out of rice, so I’m taking the bus to the store soon,” Lucy says.

“No worries.” He paws at the crack under the door, then stops and shakes himself out. “Sorry. Shouldn’t do that.”

“Also, you know how to use the offering pool, right?” She puts her jacket on. “I’m gonna use the altar, too, but I want to cover all my bases.”

“Gonna look for the Pinay girl?”

“Yep.”

“Offering pools are basically like altars, but you throw stuff in when you’re done.”

“Oh, that’s it?”

“Yeah.” He stretches and heads to the couch. “It’s not rocket science, but the problem with water-offerings is how you need to be there. It’s hard to do spells in advance or focus on more than one thing.”

“So that’s why your dad does offerings every day.”

“God, he made us do it when we were little. I hated when he’d remind me, but thirty years later, it looks like he was right.” He pants as Lucy laughs.

“Ouch.” She ruffles his mane, and he lies down on Alima’s sneakers. “Ned, those are Alima’s shoes.” She pokes at him with a chuckle.

“Yeah.” There’s the literal scents--Alima’s sweetgrass shampoo and the clinic’s animals, Malachy’s house three-days-ago, and her shared-blood-with-parents--but then a different one comes: Sea-spray and mangroves, under a furnace of a sun. “She smells like… the Pacific.”

“I have to leave now, but that can’t be literal,” Lucy muses. “We’re in the Atlantic Ocean.”

“I guess it’s what dogs smell?” Ned snuffles at the patch of floor around them. “Be careful, honey,” he calls as Lucy goes through the door.

“She’s got an awfully big scent for such a little thing, doesn’t she?” Dandelion says.

“What are normal scents like?”

“Humans, you’re land-folks. Most of you smell like saltwater or sand. Maybe wind, for sailors and fishers. You don’t often narrow it down to places. ‘The Pacific Ocean.’” Ned hears Dandelion lap up water before she returns. “It’s very pretty.”

“Well, that’s great, but there’s not many Filipinos in Ireland.” Ned whines. “Can we cover up her scent so the Hunter can’t track her?”

“There’s not many ways to trick dogs and cats,” Dandelion says. “And what works on animals might not work on the Folk. You are mostly related, after all.”

Ned groans and digs his muzzle into Alima’s shoes again.

- - -

Alima comes home to find Lucy by the offering pool, balancing her phone and a bowl of rice in the crook of one arm. There’s black dinuguan ladled across the top; next to her, Bulan’s lounging at the pool’s lip.

“Okay: ‘Hello, ancestors, do you know who I talked with recently,’ toss the offering in, and don’t freak out if it starts churning or flashing weird colors.” Lucy skims the text on her phone before she puts it in her pocket.

“Doing some brujeria, Mom?” Alima waves.

Lucy chuckles. “Yeah, I’m trying to find the ancestor who showed up. My grandpa had an offering pool, but I don’t remember how he used it, so I checked the Internet.”

“You looked it up after I told you?” Ned tells her with a dog-grin, and he pokes at her knee. “You can’t mess up a water offering without using poison or some other bad shit. Fire’s what you need to be careful with.”

“Stop that,” Lucy chuckles. “All right, let’s focus… The Philippines.” Lucy thinks back to the vacations on the holidays: Heat that feels like a plank to the face, outrigger canoes motoring out from the docks, and the ever-crowded streets.

“Bulan, come.” Alima twitches her fingers for his attention. “She’s talking to someone.”

He lies down and hopes she’ll go inside by herself; doesn’t work. Alima tugs at his collar.

“Come on, dog. Inside.”

He groans and stretches before he obeys, and Alima scratches his ear before shutting the door: There’s another bowl of rice and with the telltale black of dinuguan on the altar--not steaming anymore, but leftover warmth clings to the glass.

Her mom’s hands move stiff and unpracticed, and Alima just barely hears the words: “Ancestors, I’m looking for someone.” Then she drops a spoonful of the bowl’s contents into the water.

It starts to bubble as Alima squeezes through the door back outside: More of a simmer at first, but then the water starts steaming from a sudden rolling boil, and Lucy jumps when it starts to go over the lip of stone and mortar.

“Careful!” She moves Alima back.

“Don’t worry, it’s not gonna hurt!” Ned calls, panting.

An old woman gets billowed out of the offering pool, leathery brown skin and white hair--their ninang Corazon.

Her smile falls quickly and she shivers. “Ay, naku.” A shawl appears and she pulls it tight. “Where are you two staying? I thought you were home. It’s fucking cold!”

“We’re in Ireland, Ninang.”

“Ireland? Ay.” Corazon walks up to Alima, slipping into Tagalog. Alima hears buhok for hair, but she can’t catch the rest of it. “Is Ned still missing because of the diwat? If it’s been this long, anak, they might not give him back.”

“Yes, but I saw an ancestor a little while ago,” Lucy says. “She smelled like jasmine, and she had curly hair and dark skin. And it was really dark skin, not just me or Alima being tan. I think she was wearing white or gray? Plus, she didn’t know I was married.”

“Curly hair, that’s indio. Like you and Neneng.” Corazon takes the bowl of rice, politely refuses the spoon, and scoops some with her hand. “She’d be old.” She chews and swallows. “Maybe a spirit, away from the cities. Or very long ago.”

“She can’t be from that far back. She spoke English.” Lucy says.

“Language isn’t hard when you’re dead, anak.”

“Can you still help us find her, Ninang?” Alima wonders.

“I can help, just not that much.” She wipes her hand and mouth off, then leans over the offering pool. “HOY! LUCY TALKED TO A PROVINCE GIRL! ANYONE SEE HER?”

“Oh my god.” Lucy grits the words out to keep from laughing, which is more than Alima can manage. “Thank you, Ninang.”

“Go on, laugh.” She waves the politeness off. “I’m old and dead. I can’t get embarrassed.” Then she grins and returns to her food.

In a moment, another young woman starts laughing, but she’s not in the offering pool.

The clouds sail away in a wind: Moonlight congeals into a spot on the water, and it grows into a pillar of light. When it reaches their eye level and bursts into mist, she stands in front of them.

“Hey there!” She’s got dark ochre skin in glowing white-and-indigo pineapple silk, and a crescent-moon headdress floats above her black curls, but the patch on her left eye is as black as her tattoos. “My name is Mayari.”

They can feel the tremor from her name as well as anyone, but Corazon nearly drops the bowl to put her face to the ground--Alima picks it up as she murmurs something in Tagalog.

“Wait, Ninang, who is she?” Lucy only caught “moon” at the end, and wonders if she and Alima should bow as well.

“She’s a god.” Ninang waves for Alima to give her the bowl. “Go, go, neneng. Give it.”

Alima hands the bowl over; like their godmother, Mayari doesn’t need a spoon. “Mayari? It’s almost Halloween and we haven’t found my dad yet. We know he’s not dead, but--”

“Don’t worry, honey,” Mayari hugs her. “You know my name now! That’s halfway there.”

A muffled howling startles them all: Bulan’s trying to get out.

The noise makes the skin on their necks prickle, but not because they’re scared--with the frantic, yearning baritone and the scratching, he sounds lonely.

“Don’t worry, boy, we’re just talking to someone!” Alima opens the upper door.

“Naku. Dogs always want to be there when you do magic.” Corazon chuckles, but clucks when she peers inside and spots him. “Ay, he’s too big! Where did you get him?”

“I found him in the street a while ago--he got hit by a car,” Alima says.

When Mayari comes to the doorway, Ned Song stands on the other side in her god’s vision: Six feet and four inches high, blue-black hair. But he’s misty and glowing like a ghost, while his wolf-curse sits solid by his feet.

The moon-goddess reaches out, and Ned mirrors her. There’s only a second or two of contact--his heart gives a one-two blast--but at least he knows her name.

NED! That’s Ned! Mayari can hear it from Lucy’s thoughts, it’s crashing all over her head, but her voice is wrangled into saying something else: “Don’t worry about Bulan, he’s a softy.”

Mayari steps away and blinks. There’s only the wolf here now, tongue lolling under yellow eyes.

Alima’s voice is mingling with Corazon’s, cheerful and polite: She hasn’t heard them.

“Yep. He’s cursed gooddddddd.” Mayari shakes her head and stretches her arms.

They’re expecting to do a lot to strengthen Mayari’s hold on the mortal world, but all she asks for is a second bowl of dinuguan.

She has to sit on the altar, though, since she still falls through the furniture.

Through the bedroom door they hear the cats mewling like kittens, and Mayari grins.

- - -

Neither Aine or Alima have work this morning, so they have breakfast in the shieling.

“Hello?” A black-haired older woman calls from the gate--Owen’s aunt Noreen, the mobile vet. “Alima Song? It’s Noreen from Standing Stone!”

“Didn’t you just find the cats two days ago?” Aine’s brows knit together. “Why are they doing another checkup?”

“It’s not an official checkup,” Alima says. “It’s just to see if the tom’s getting better with people. Plus, they found out something about his tests.” While Alima unlocks the gate without trouble, Aine jogs up as the two of them reach the door, and doesn’t let Noreen in.

“What’s your name?” Aine asks. “Why are you here?”

“It’s Noreen MacAmhlaidh, and I’m here to check on Alima’s cats.”

“Are you human?” She asks next, and holds her unsheathed knife out.

“I am.” Noreen puts her hand against the flat of the blade for a moment.

“Oh, good. Come in!” And Aine sheathes it without further ado.

“Did you just pull a knife on someone?” Lucy worries.

“It’s not the knife.” Aine pours herself some more coffee. “It’s the iron.”

“The gate’s made of iron,” Alima reminds them. “Maidin has to portal straight into the shieling.”

“He prefers going straight inside.” Noreen gets her stethoscope out. “Some fairies can touch iron, even the ones that aren’t part-human. Doesn’t mean they like it.” She goes into the room and calls the cats; Dandelion comes out purring and rolls onto her belly, while her son only goes a few steps away from his crate. “Heart rate’s good; time for a weight check.”

Alima picks her up and walks to the scale with Lucy. “All right, Mom, what’s the number?”

“A hundred and twenty-four.” She writes it down.

“Now for me.” Alima drops the cat, who heads off to the scratching post. “Next number?”

“A hundred and sixteen,” Lucy says, “so that’s… eight pounds for Mama.”

“Well, they didn’t start too bad; if they gain a couple more pounds each in the next two months, that’s on track.”

Alima scratches Dandelion’s chin, and then gets on the floor for her son. “I can’t hold this boy yet, so I’m not sure if we can get him on the scale. Hi, kitty!”

“That’s not an urgent thing, we’re just seeing how he does with people in general.”

“What don’t they like about iron? Besides the obvious burning.”

“It smells bad for them.” Aine sips from her mug. “It’s one thing if you’re walking through a gate, but Maidin hates going to places like Galway. He says proper cities smell like fire, and when a river-spirit doesn’t like fire, it’s something big.”

“Wait, there’s a million stories about fairies who marry humans,” Lucy says as Alima slowly reaches out to the hesitant spotted cat. “We have iron in our blood.”

“Iron as a substance isn’t the problem,” Noreen muses. “Otherwise, they couldn’t eat meat or beans or fish. But cold iron, the kind we take out of the ground and make into stuff? That’s what the Folk hate. They don’t like rock salt, either. Sea salt, how much ‘processing’ does it need? The Folk have saltworks and they can boil water. But you have to mine rock salt, then get the inedible bits out, and then you grind it into actual food.”

Alima finally gets a hold of the spotted cat as he steps into her lap. “Success!” She doesn’t move. “He’s fine once he’s settled, just be careful.”

“Good boy!” Noreen pets him as she starts the motions of a checkup. “Really, though, this is just what we know already. Bit hard to go testing the Folk’s limits; who’s going to volunteer?” She quits the inspection when she tries to check his teeth, since he tenses. “Well, you’re making nice social progress, at least. He’s more of a stray if he’s adjusting so quickly. Or he’s learning from his mam. Alima, have you thought up a name for him?”

“I think I’ll call him Pepper,” Alima says. “The spots are so cute--he looks like he’s gotten a spice rub.”

“All right, I’ll let the clinic know to update his records.” Noreen writes a note down.

“By the way, what’s up with his blood tests?” Alima wonders. “Is anything wrong?”

“Not wrong, just a surprise,” the vet assures. “You know how we thought he was a year or so old, because he’s near his mam’s size?”

“Yeah?”

“Turns out his dad was a Scottish wildcat and they get to be fifteen pounds, so he’s probably only half a year at this size,” she says. “It also explains the spots. They don’t match the domestic breeds, and in Scotland and England, a spotted cat usually means they’re hybrids.”

“Are Scottish wildcats common in… Ireland?”

“Not anymore,” Noreen says. “We have lots of myths and they’re still in the Otherworld, so they were here a long time ago. As for recent history, nobody’s confirmed anything. And out here? We have Kilkenny cat clans and we’ve started reintroducing the lynx, but unless they got really busy, Pepper’s dad is most likely a cat-sidhe to get this far and keep his limbs.”

“A fucking cat-sidhe?” Aine asks. “So Maidin accidentally gave her a magic tiger? Oh gods, we need to tell him.” She heads for the offering pool.

“No, love, don’t worry!” Noreen grabs her. “We aren’t gonna let her take a cat-sidhe on a walk! We have a system now.”

“I assume Kilkenny cats are also big cats? And they’re not very nice?” Alima looks down at Pepper--he’s certainly not feral, like Noreen confirmed. He and Dandelion are clearly around people often enough to be sort of used to them.

“Well, they’re wild animals,” Noreen says. “That’s why we warn people. Folks get awful attached when the hybrids are young and small--it can be a year or two before the cubs finally start showing signs that they’re hybrids. But once they do, that’s when trouble starts.”

The newly-named Pepper is done with contact, and skitters away back to his crate. Alima picks up Dandelion instead and sets the tabby on her lap--she knew she was only fostering them, but it’s definitely a surprise. Would they have to separate her and her son?

“Is there anything urgent right now?”

“Not too much, just keep to regular cat rules for now,” Noreen confirms. “We’ll call the Chattan Clan from Scotland to help with food and training, but more often an owner has to turn the cat-sidhe over because they just can’t afford the upkeep. Or, well, the neighbors panic.”

“Would I need to get a license for Pepper, then?” Fuck, all the regulations are gonna be--

“No,” both Aine and Noreen chorus sheepishly.

“…What?”

“We don’t need a license to own specialty pets,” Aine says. “Assuming you have the money and that a pet shop has one, you could… technically… get a baby crocodile.”

“Is… is this why you have a system for cat hybrids?”

“Basically.” Noreen stretches and gives Dandelion a final pet. “All right, love, just keep feeding and socializing these two, and they should be right on track in a couple more months.”

- - -

Ogma O’Luain is at the Brennans’ house with a half-finished mug of tea, brushing the crumbs off his hands, when someone rings the doorbell.

“That’ll be my boy.” Helen goes to get the door, and Ogma goes with her.

“Hi, Mum! Ogma, how are you?” He waves, but his face falls as Ogma blocks the doorway, taking out a chunk of rock-salt.

“What’s your name?”

“Ogma, are you doing the Folk test?” He strains to look inside and spots a sliver of Brighid’s hair. “Brighid! Tell him it’s me!”

“You grew up here, dunce. I’d have thought you had a bit more sense in you,” Ogma seethes, and holds out the rock-salt. “What. Is. Your. Name?”

“Mum!” He protests, but Helen shakes her head. “Ogma! My name is Tressach Brennan and I’m visiting for Samhain! There!”

“Well, no loopholes.” Ogma holds out the salt. “Now, are you human?”

“Yes! I can’t smell it or nothing.” He holds it flat in the palm of his hand, squeezes for good measure, and hands it back. “Can I come in now?”

“Was that so fucking hard, boy?” Ogma returns to the table. “There’s Folk trouble brewing. The Wild Hunt’s getting ready for their killing game.”

“Do you think it’s gonna happen here?” Tressach wonders. “Last time, it was in Brittany.”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I’d rather have a false alarm than the opposite.”

- - -

Back in America, Hilal is watching TV as Melissa Banerjee knocks on the family’s door.

“Hey, babe.” He lifts her in a hug, to a contented chuckle. “What have you been up to?”

“No work today.”

“Yay, the planets have aligned.”

On the TV is the news, though it’s a different station than his usual one: The Irish channel.

“Are they warning us again about the murdering fairy gangsters?” She wonders after the deer-skull mask is posted on screen. “God, why did Alima go to Ireland?”

“To be fair, she went before they found out there’s about to be a magical killing-spree.” He sighs. “They still haven’t found Uncle Ned.”

“In their own damn country, white fairies still go after one of the three brown people they know about?” Melissa grouses, and nestles into Hilal’s shoulder. “He doesn’t even live there.”

“It’s not… confirmed yet.” He holds her tighter. “We’ll find out on Halloween.”

- - -

The next morning is when Mayari becomes solid again; Alima and Lucy wake up smelling the mismatched combination of coffee, eggs, and… pakbet, of all things.

“Are we having pakbet for breakfast?” Alima asks as Mayari wrestles with Bulan.

“I’d hope not,” she says. The coffee and fried eggs are there, but there’s no pot on the stove for the other smell. “Smells like someone wants it in the Otherworld.”

“Oh, man.” Alima checks her phone. “If you want bitter-melon, I only found it in Galway. I’d have to go after work.”

“No rush, we just need it by Halloween morning.” Mayari waves to the altar.

There’s a golden bowl that wasn’t there before. It can’t be from one of Alima’s moving boxes; it’s got geometric designs and stylized squatting figures.

“Where did you get that?” The two are drawn like moths to a gleaming flame, and Alima can’t resist taking a photo.

Pakbet seems far too normal for such a thing, especially when they need to find Ned Song--but, Alima muses, even lechon kawali needs about an hour for proper cooking.

- - -

The bus ride is astonishingly clear, with few stragglers heading down the streets as the sun goes down--no doubt because of the warnings about the Wild Hunt. The automatic doors don’t open for Mayari, and nobody else sees her--though there are hints of her presence.

“Sweetheart, I love that perfume!” Another woman taps Alima’s shoulder. “Is it jasmine?”

“Oh… yeah,” she says. “Thank you.”

The bitter-melon is found and tucked into the shopping basket, though if they’re all the way in Galway, they add a few more things that they can’t get in town.

The customer before them is a young man, dark-haired with dark eyes, and surprisingly dark skin for Ireland’s climate. His caribou-hide shoes drip seawater. Searching his coin-purse, he winces as he takes out a small golden coin, about the size of a quarter. “Okay… I have this, two plates, and some tairbh.”

“Who gave you a cumal for the groceries?” The cashier wonders. “And no, lad, I don’t have change. You can’t turn it into something smaller?”

“I have no transfer-slips.” He takes a moment and steps aside, waving Alima and Lucy over. “You three can go. I need to call my mum.” He takes out a small glass orb, with a bronze ring around the middle.

“We’re not together,” the man behind them calls.

“Oh! Sorry!” He laughs, high-pitched and sharp. He doesn’t mention Mayari, but he is looking at her: In his eyes is the moon-goddess’ pearl-dripping headdress.

“No worries, mate, this happens.” The cashier shifts his things aside and scans Alima’s purchase.

The selkie-boy twists the ring--it must be attached to one half, for it sparks a light inside his orb, and a woman’s voice filters through in the middle of a conversation.

“One minute. Hello, love, what’s wrong?”

“Yes, Mam? I need a bit of--”

Mayari reaches out for the selkie’s nervous hand, holding it shut for a moment; when he opens it again, there’s a stack of twenty-euro bills instead.

“Oh. No, I don’t. Thank you.” He twists the ring again to turn it off, waits for their stuff to get bagged, and then pays for his own things.

Just past the doors, he catches them on the way to the car.

“Thank you for the help, Miss. Are you a diwat?” The selkie wonders to Mayari. “You smell like them, but I’ve never seen one who looks like you. Most of the diwat I’ve seen have lighter skin, unless they’re servants or farmers, and some of them have red or yellow hair. Unless you’re one of the merfolk? They’re not all Catholic, I hear.”

“I’m the moon-goddess for the Tagalogs,” she says. “Mayari.”

“Oh,” he smiles.

“How do you know what Filipino fairies are called?” Lucy wonders. “Are there a lot of them in the Otherworld?”

“Not to stay, but we get folks dropping by on the way to America or the Old Colonies,” he says. “They found out how to get across the whole continent in one jump, you know.”

“They don’t have to cross the Stormbight or the Pacific Ocean?” Lucy muses. “Normally water travel is easier than land.”

“Water is faster, Miss,” the selkie corrects. “But easier, that depends on a lot of things. And they can’t do big groups or cargo shipping yet, but if we tried to send someone just to France or Spain without a solid portal, we’d half-kill ourselves.”

“Wait, we’re American,” Alima says. “When have the Old Colonies gotten more of the diwat visiting? And why hasn’t anyone mentioned it here?”

“You’re assuming everyone wants to talk to the Folk,” he tells her, brow furrowed. “Once you get too far out from the cities, humans and fairies both think it’s a good sign if they keep to themselves.”

“My grandparents thought that, too,” Lucy chuckles. “They always asked permission when we were walking around in the wild places. Even after they visited my parents in America; they worried that the diwat followed them over.”

“That’s the land-folk’s trouble, you know,” says the selkie, shifting left as a person goes inside. “They get so attached to places and people. Even their herders and merchants, or the Plains folk--they travel, sure, but they don’t like to stray. The Fairy-Hills have been in trouble since the Hunter took over. Awful shame--if he’d tried to take over the sea-folk or the wind-folk, we’d have just gone somewhere else.”

This is a detail that Alima didn’t expect; the Hunter made fun of humans for their attachments. But now she finds out how much more like people they are… And how have the diwat travelled from the Philippines to Ireland so easily?

“We have to head home soon,” she says ruefully, after checking the time on her phone. “We came here for one thing and now we have a whole bag. Thanks for talking, though.”

“Thank you for getting me some change,” the selkie laughs, and then turns to Mayari. “You didn’t have to do that, you know; you’re a human god, not ours.”

“Well, if you can see me and you need help, what else can I do?” Mayari waves. “Remember to check your money before you shop. Gold is mighty expensive.”

- - -

With the food cooked by next morning, they scoop some steaming rice into the bowl and ladle the pakbet over it, sprinkling some patis over the whole meal for good measure.

“We’ll have to take the offering to the sea,” Mayari tells them.

But sea-offerings have regulations in California now, thanks to pollution, and Alima only has dim memories of the time before.

“Let’s see about any rules they have here. I was eight when you could just go to the beach and drop stuff in, right?” She wonders to Lucy.

“Six,” Lucy laughs. “You tripped and got it all over your shirt.”

---

“Baba!” She wails. “I messed it up!”

“Honey, it’s okay!” Ned laughs and scoops her up, then brings her to the car for a change of clothes. “Look, we brought extra food.”

- - -

They stop by Ogma’s place to ask about any rules.

“What do you mean, rules?” Marian wonders. “You can’t make sea-offerings in the Bay Area?”

“We can,” Alima explains. “You just need to fill out a form the day before, and don’t drop food where people are gonna swim or boat. There’s too many people now.”

She clucks. “Just stop by the gate and let Rick know what you’re doing.”

- - -

Aine and Harry drive Lucy and Alima out to the beach for the sea-offering, since Alima’s waiting on a replacement car. Mayari appears already buckled into the backseat, with the pearl trim clacking as she shifts.

“Oh,” Aine breathes out, and some of the glow reflects back from the mirror. “Who are you?”

“I’m Mayari,” she says. “One of the Tagalog gods.”

“You have gods?” Harry wonders. “I thought Filipinos were Catholic now!”

“We thought so, too,” Alima says with a chuckle, though there is a question brewing inside her chest that she can’t quite name. She has heard of different peoples who believe in other gods--her grandparents called them tribes, but always mocking or annoyed, and they never spoke very long about them. “So… yeah, we’re gonna call more of them up at the beach.”

If they’re going to the sea, she wonders, how many other gods will show up?

“Our beaches aren’t as nice as yours, though,” Aine laments while Harry starts the car. “And it’s winter, too.”

“We have plenty of rain in the Philippines,” Mayari laughs.

“Do you mind if we ask Maidin to come?” Harry asks. “He’s freshwater, but water-spirits are all pretty clan-like here. Is that the same in the Philippines?”

“Rivers and lakes usually end up in the ocean,” Mayari assures.

“All right, I’m gonna head a little bit this way.” Harry rounds the block and detours along the wall for a few blocks, until the wall makes a sharp angle, and they can hear the river flowing past three watchtowers. “Oi! Maidin!” He calls out the window.

“Hey, mate!” He comes out of the water.

“Alima and her mam are gonna do an offering by the docks! It’s fine if you want to come!”

“The sea!” His eyes light up, so blue that they almost hurt. “Brilliant, I’ll meet you there!” He melts back down into the grass, almost like the wind blew him apart, but they can hear his laughter mixed with the water.

- - -

Back at the main gates, Rickard the warden comes along as they stop. “Morning, Harry. What are you and the birds planning?”

“Hi, Rickard?” Lucy rolls the window down. “Alima and I are doing a sea-offering. We’re gonna try calling someone for help with Ned.”

“You’re Filipino, aye?” Rickard asks. “Are you gonna call one of the Maria girls? I didn’t know they found lost folks.”

“We’re calling whoever can make it,” Mayari says, but Rickard doesn’t hear it right.

“Sorry, love--didn’t catch that.” He’s looking at Alima, not Mayari, and taps her window.

“There’s some spirits who say they want to help,” Alima rolls it down. “At this point, why not?”

“All right, good luck!”

- - -

“He brought whole cumals for shopping?” Aine shakes her head to hear the story about the Folk boy. “Poor thing must have been rich. That’s half a year’s pay for a farmer.”

“In the Old Colonies, a gold dollar is about a week’s pay,” Alima says.

They can smell the sea now: Mayari’s dress begins to gleam.

“Yeah, love, cumals are three hundred euros here,” Harry says. “If a gold dollar’s the same size, I’m hoping nobody spends that much on food across the pond.”

“Of course not, they use pesos and silver deeds. Or the little apple coins.” She checks the box of food, and the heavy gold bowl wrapped in a towel.

If one coin is three hundred euros, she wonders, how much is this bowl? It must weigh dozens or hundreds of them.

The pearls on Mayari’s dress clatter during a turn, and she wonders how much they cost, too. Alima’s only seen real pearls in necklaces and bracelets, in one or two strands at a time--but Mayari’s got a headdress and trimmings full of them.

They reach the parking lot by the beach, with the light going soft pink and orange. With the wind whipping at their clothes, Alima worries if the food will get cold. But it steams comfortably on the whole walk down, the smell of shrimp and bitter-melon wafting here and there.

“You want us to stay on the beach?” Aine says at the start of the pier.

“You can come, it shouldn’t be too long.” Alima shifts the bowl and waves.

Alima, Lucy, and Mayari cross to the edge of the pier, boards creaking and arms linked to brace against the wind.

“Hey there!” Maidin surfaces and swims up, unhindered by the cold. “You want me to head back with Aine and Harry just in case? I’ve seen the regular spirits from Luzon and all, but I don’t think anyone talks about gods from there. I heard a dragon tried to eat the moon, though. Was that you, or another one? Fucking hell, I don’t like how big our dragons get--”

“Maidin. They’re doing something,” Harry tells him, though he coughs a little too loud and hides his face. “Save the questions for later, maybe.”

Mayari chuckles. “Okay, so I told them where I was heading, but since it took me this long to actually get here, I don’t know how many are gonna show up. And I got sidetracked, too, so I don’t know where they’re coming from, either.”

“Oh, general location problems! No worries, I’ll keep folks from knocking into each other!” Maidin submerges again, and reappears on the docks behind Aine and Harry.

“Alima, I can call the other anito,” Mayari says, “but I can’t do the actual offering.”

“No worries, I’ll do it. I’m holding it anyway.” Alima checks the food. “Oh, I forgot to bring a spoon. Do I just tip it over and the anito can get what falls out, then?”

“You have to give the bowl, too.”

“Why?!” She clutches it--she should have taken more photos. “This is a votive offering?!”

“That’s why I didn’t use your stuff.” Mayari chuckles and pecks her forehead.

Between the goddess and the gray sea, Alima remembers how short she is, and she raises the bowl with a sigh.

Mayari steps in front and speaks Tagalog now, shutting her good eye for a chant--but it’s a strange relative of the modern language, and Lucy and Alima are already less-than-fluent. Too focused with keeping her balance, Alima only catches anak for children, and dagat for the sea.

It is only a short prayer, for this is an emergency; and then Mayari raises her dark arms out, either towards the red clouds or the horizon just below them.

“Anito. We give you this offering,” she says in English, with her good eye the black-velvet of night, and her voice ringing with the sounds of other people.

Alima drops the bowl then, wincing at how the water foams to swallow its buttery gleam.

Do we have words for gold besides ginto? Alima wonders. What kind of carvings were on it? I should have copied them.

She doesn’t know why she misses the bowl so keenly; it isn’t hers, after all, and she’s only seen it for a day. But she’s never seen anything like it before--not in person, at least. The Filipino artifacts in museums, already distant through pictures, are all shut behind cages and watched by guards. She cannot touch those things even if she was in Chicago or Britain, or somewhere else she can’t afford to go.

Maybe that’s why, she muses bitterly.

The water froths under Mayari’s outstretched arms, and the boards of the pier start to rattle with the violence. From the deep comes a behemoth’s long shadow, rippling up to the surface, and Alima feels her mother’s knuckles tense on her arm.

Mayari, arms still straining, laughs loud and hard with ecstasy, glowing silver in response to the oncoming stars. The sight makes Alima want to shiver and draw closer both.

She knows of the usual practices, folk-magic that her grandparents often tell her stories of, but they never liked when she asked about plural gods, or if the Marias were once one of them.

“The Marias are diwat, apo, not gods,” her grandfather told her. “That’s what the tribes say. Tagalogs used to think so too--everything was a god. The crocodiles are gods; the ancestors are gods; the sun and the moon and the ocean are gods. But we know better now, because the Spanish taught us the Bible. Why are you asking me?”

“I have homework for college, Lolo. My class is on traditional magic, so I thought I’d ask you or Lola about Filipino magic.”

“Ay. Why do you need that? You aren’t a farm-girl. That’s why we came to America, so Lucy and you don’t have to work all day.”

“Well, it’s a requirement. Take one class from every subject, you know?”

“You should have taken pottery, then, apo,” he’d said. “You could make us new dishes.”

“The ocean is a god?” Alima remembers, and she wants to run from the shape in the water--

But what finally breaks through the surface is just a ship, though a strange and magnificent one: Long and narrow, with a crocodile’s head gaping at the prow, and bamboo outriggers straddling its low sides. The crab-claw sails were once painted or dyed, but now they’ve faded to gray, with only errant smudges of color to remind people what was there.

No, this is no god--not with barnacles littering the hull and kelp tangled in the sails, stuck between the crocodile’s painted white teeth.

But it carries them.