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of his books.
    “Our great poet, Mr. Yeats, spoke of ‘the rise of the soul against the intellect.’”
    He pulled out an ancient volume and brought it over to her. Printed in 1815, the hardback was frayed with age, the pages as brown as autumn leaves. The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns, and Fairies. Inside, a young hand had scrawled the words: WILLIAM THOMAS BLACKBURN, DECEMBER 1952.
    “This was mine as a schoolboy. I almost know it by heart. The author, the Reverend Robert Kirk, was a minister of Aberfoyle who was ‘taken’ by the fairies in the seventeenth century. He swore that he had direct experience of Faerie, and that when he died he would return to that magical land.”
    As her grandfather took down more books, little heaps formed around Laurel, on the arms of the chair, in her lap, and spilling over the floor. The titles alone were enchanting. The Fairy Faith in Celtic Countries. The Crock of Gold. A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Some were old and smelled of must. Others were new with lavish illustrations on glossy paper. Faeries by Brian Froud and Alan Lee. Michael Scott’s Irish Myths and Legends. Joseph Campbell’s The Masks of God.
    “Here is Professor Tolkien’s essay ‘On Fairy Tales.’ I like this line.” Granda read out loud, “‘Behind the fantasy, real will and powers exist independent of the minds and purposes of men.’”
    Laurel handled the books reverently. What the Bees Know by P. L. Travers. Lady Wilde’s Ancient Legends of Ireland. Dr. James Hollis’s Tracking the Gods. She felt a little lost, as if she were wandering in a foreign land where the language and customs were strange to her.
    “This was the kind of stuff Honor loved,” she murmured.
    Her grandfather watched her closely. When he spoke again, she could see he was choosing his words carefully.
    “For the ancient Irish, Faerie was the place where they went after death. There are those who believe to this day that we can still go there, if we wish.”
    Laurel caught her breath. Her heart beat rapidly.
    “What do you believe, Granda?”
    Old eyes gazed into young and didn’t turn away, but she saw a struggle there and a sudden reluctance to speak. She could only assume it was out of concern for her, or perhaps a fear of ridicule.
    “Please tell me,” she persisted.
    “I believe,” he began, then frowned, stopped, and tried again. “I believe there is more to creation than either science or religion allows. I believe that a death in one world means a birth in another. And, most of all, I believe that Faerie is one of the rooms in our Father’s house.”
    He had no sooner spoken than Laurel felt the other question rise with such force that she had to stop herself from shouting it.
    “Can people come back from Faerie? Can they return to this world?”
    Her grandfather blanched. She saw his anguish and knew what it meant, his fear for her, and his guilt and regret for leading her to this point.
    “I’m the one who brought up the subject, Granda, not you. Please tell me what you know,” she urged. “That’s all I ask.”
    They were both suffering, but it was obvious she was determined to see it through.
    Though his voice sounded sluggish, her grandfather did his best to respond.
    “There are various tales of those who have tried to retrieve their loved ones from the other world. Orpheus. Tam Lin. The first was not successful. The second was. Then there’s the story of Catkin. He was a kitten that went to Fairyland to rescue a child who was stolen when he was minding her. The outcome in that story was a compromise. It was agreed she would spend part of her time in this world and part in the next.”
    Laurel could hardly breathe. His words mesmerized her. They were exactly what she wanted to hear. And for that very reason she doubted them. Not so long ago, she would have dismissed them as nonsense or a cruel fantasy. But the shock of her sister’s death had cracked the monolith of her disbelief. There is a crack