Rowanne and Mary stuck around most of the morning until Charles showed up. Just as they were set to leave, Margaret pulled Rowe to one side, pressing a long decorative wooden box into her arms. “Ah hear ye’ve been havin a hard time convincing Georges aud marras to treat ye reet lass, tek this, without George they’re going to need yan mair person for most of those dances of theirs. Divvent open it here like, now gan on hyem, it seems I hea business here.”

Then with one more far-too-tight-for-comfort hug they were off and on their way home, past the crumbling husk of the Royal Oak. These days if you wanted a halfway decent pint (or one that wasn’t brewed in somebody's washhouse using goodness knows what) you had a 5 mile walk to old Esh, since James had been one of those who hadn’t come back and nobody else had taken over the old wreck of a pub.

“Divvent gan anywhere the neet, Mary,” Rowe requested. “We have family business to discuss and I’d like it if we could eat at hyem alreet?”

Mary gave a nod as they entered, and Rowe quickly drew all the curtains tight, even clipping them shut with a few clothes pegs to make sure they weren’t being watched.

“What’s gannin on?” Mary asked, looking around nervously as her sister quietly locked both doors. Rowe never locked the doors, there was no point round here. Nobody really locked their doors, because with the sheer number of nosey neighbours somebody could fart at one end of the village and people 3 villages over would be holding their noses, and also if anything ever went missing you just went round and punched Mick Burrell a few times until he gave it back.

“First off, promise ous ye’ll tell neabody first, please sis. It wouldna end well for either of us.”

“Al-alreet, ye can always count on me,” Mary really couldn’t keep the stammer from her voice at how strangely her sister was acting.

“Something happened to ous while ah was doon there, and ah divvent knaa how to tell ye so ah’ll just show,” her tail slipped free. Next thing she knew Mary was gone, and a flat iron was flying towards her from the kitchen with all the force an 11 year old can muster, which luckily wasn’t enough to hit from that range. To be honest, even the ability to heft and throw the thing at all was a bloody impressive show of strength.

“What did ye dea with mi sister, changeling!?” Mary hissed, looking for all the world like an angry kitten as she placed the chair from the corner between them, and reached for more projectiles to throw.

“I’m still me sis and I can prove it, remember that time ye took a fancy to Sam Wilki-” she was interrupted by a saucepan to the shin “Buggerofhell it’s me, sis, what dea ah need ta dea to prove it!?”

“I believe ye, that was for talking about that,” her sister replied while trying her best to hide her blush. “Now I’m staying reet here until ye tell ous everything, and until I have answers ye keep your distance alreet. Ah expect yer solemn oaththat ah will na be harmed. Sidhe follow rules from what Mrs Robinson telt us in school.”

Rowe gave a sigh, saddened that her only kin no longer felt safe trusting her without compulsion. “Alreet, ye have a deal, ye will na be harmed, and on that ye have mi oath. Just divvent hoy anything else alreet kidder, especially iron, I divvent knaa how it would affect ous now and am na in a hurry to find out.”

It took over half an hour to slowly explain what happened, leaving out no detail as Mary kept a frying pan in both hands just in case. Then she carefully approached. “Alreet so that thing is real,” she gulped. “Oh god it’s moving.”

Rowanne gave her sister a mucky luck about the blasphemy, but there were more pressing matters at the moment. “Aye that it is, and without it I’d be Cutty's dinner reet now, so I guess now I’m ganna have to learn to accept it.”

A moment later she was wrapped up in another hug as her sister examined the new appendage carefully. She seemed a bit calmer now, but still hesitant round the tail.

Desperate for a distraction from the tension in the room, Rowanne headed over to the kitchen table and placed the box that Margaret had given her on the top. She knew what it was, of course - she’d polished the decorative woodwork for George often enough - but she had always been forbidden to ever open it until today.

Reverentially, she undid the fastening, then the clasps, and opened the box. Sure enough, wrapped carefully in oilcloth was a beautiful old rapper sword. Not iron of course; no matter how beautiful it may be, iron was far too expensive. The odd looking swords had once been common to the region, with a hilt more like a rasp, with a rotating bearing in it, and that thin flat blade. It was an odd looking thing, but it was hers now.

Her eyes swam as she remembered George promising it to her one day, and even giving his word he’d teach her. Of course he hadn’t had a chance, and now he never would, but the old men were going to be short one for the gala in a few months now, and she wouldn’t let him down by letting the dance get cancelled.

Her sister of course was far too enthused by the presence of an actual sword in the house, as if enough weird stuff hadn’t happened lately. But that was better than her fleeing in a panic and revealing them both as half blood fae. So Rowe was happy to let her look over the blade, under the strict condition that she not look it over without an adult present. That it didn’t leave the house ,and that it would never be treated as anything but an heirloom.

After a little grumbling Mary reluctantly agreed.