His father's stench couldn't reach him there, in the green meadow. His horse also stank, as he had taken it out before the stable boys could clean it, but it wasn't half as unpleasant as his father's smell.

He had once ridden on Ailill II's back when he was much smaller than him, and they had played together. Back then, his father still had the ability to laugh, and he did everything he could to hear that sound: jumping, dancing, sneaking up behind him to try to surprise him. Those were good times, when his father laughed.

He spurred his steed and rode into the forest, where his mother had told him about the each-uisge and why it was important to stay away from unknown horses. His escort stayed behind, at his request. In any case, they looked as if they were about to fall asleep in the saddles of their own mounts.

He stroked the neck of his Epona, a fine specimen imported from Rome, where his aunt, his mother's sister, lived. Baird had named her after the goddess of horses, as she seemed to him the most beautiful mare ever to set foot in Exeter.

The gift was originally for his mother, Queen Aoife, in commemoration of her third pregnancy, but she found it impossible to ride in her condition, so Epona passed to her son, the prince.

Baird dismounted and sat down at the edge of a babbling brook, where he finally allowed himself to relax, surrounded by mist and the green and brown tones of the forest, the eternal forest, cradle of all mysteries and home of spirits.

He cupped some water in his hands and rinsed his face, but he didn't remove them for a while, regretting that the water was slipping through his fingers without drowning him.

But the water was doing the kingdom a favour, and he knew it, for he was still needed. One day he would no longer be, just like his father—he had heard that madness was hereditary—and then no one would care if he plunged his whole head into the mud and drowned.

The sound of birds, newly awakened by the sun, filled the air, a mixture of cries and laughter, and Baird couldn't tell if they were mocking him, encouraging him to die, or trying to imitate the lost laughter of Ailill Sr.

The prince raised his face to the sky, almost invisible through the foliage. His father, his father. Daddy was dead, and only Father remained.

The noise of the birds disappeared so quickly that he hardly noticed. Baird opened his eyes to look for them, without moving his head, and only managed to see one straggler, flying at full speed.

As if afraid of having to interact with him. He couldn't blame them; lately he felt incapable of feigning deference to anyone. However, his people still loved him, and they did their best to show it. He wished they would spare him their courtesies; he had heard them offer them to his father on the day his grandfather, Ailill I, died.

When his neck began to ache, he lowered his head, and before him appeared she.

She, with her long obsidian braid and equally dark eyes, wore a moss-coloured dress over her tanned skin, elements that made her blend in with nature. Her steps were silent, and her mouth did not move, but her eyebrows arched as she watched the prince.

He, dressed in silk adorned with silver, his skin almost transparent, felt like an intruder in his own forest.

The girl only looked at him for a moment before continuing on her way, without giving him any more attention than she had already wasted on him. She held a simple bucket in her hands, walking steadily across ground she could surely have covered with her eyes closed.

‘Maid,’ Baird called, to his own surprise. ‘Maid, where are you going?’

She continued walking as if she hadn't heard him, a dark spectre blending into the increasingly dense fog. The prince followed her as closely as he could, his fine boots sinking into the mud.

He stretched out his arms to reach her shoulders, but she seemed to float in the air. Finally, he lost sight of her, but he didn't stop moving forward. He kept running with his arms raised, as if he were learning to walk, shouting ‘Maid!’ ‘Maiden!’ ‘Woman!’ louder and louder, more and more desperate.

He took several false steps, sinking knee-deep into small muddy holes, but he got up each time, shouting for her. Finally, he stumbled and fell face-first onto the shore of a lake.

He didn't get up this time, consciously allowing the cold water to soak his clothes. He would have dropped his head if she hadn't finally approached him. The bucket she was holding now seemed heavier, and her clothes had vanished.

The prince looked at her again, the skin that had once been covered was so pale that her veins were visible. The girl's breasts were large, and her nipples were big and dark. Her whole body glowed, as if the miserable amount of light that managed to penetrate the fog fell exclusively on her. Baird didn't dare look down at her pubis.

‘You're loud and clumsy, like a child,’ she accused him. ‘And you'll probably make me treat you like one.’

“I am the prince,” he managed to reply, embarrassed, almost without opening his mouth. She was not impressed.

“You fell on my clothes.”

Baird jumped up as if the beach had kicked him. Sure enough, the clothes of his ghost were half buried in the mud. He gave her a sad look as he retrieved the ruined garment.

“I'll make it up to you, I'll give you twenty silk dresses.”

She just shook her head, her expression one of disgust. She offered him her hand to help him out of the hole his own weight had created. Baird tried to kiss her knuckles, but she rejected the gesture, expressing her disapproval with just a glance.

Finally, the prince climbed out of the riverbed with the help of the ghostly woman.

She guided him by the hand through the fog, preventing him from falling again, still without speaking to him, no matter how hard Baird tried to strike up a conversation.

‘What is your name, woman? The prince of Cernyw asks you.’

He had to repeat it a couple of times before receiving a response full of exasperation.

‘Maeve.’

Baird suspected that she had lied to him, but he did not want to irritate her further.

‘Beautiful Maeve, let me escort you home, the forest is full of dangers.’

She shook her head again. ‘How are you going to protect me?’

The harsh words seemed to comfort him in a strange way, but he still wanted to know where this woman lived. Any excuse would do.

‘Where should I send your twenty dresses?’

Maeve just shook her head in exasperation. Her long braid slid down over her buttocks. There was no further response. Little by little, the fog lifted, and Epona's neighing could be heard in the distance. Suddenly, Baird wondered if a small child had seen her and mistaken her for an each-uisge. His hand squeezed Maeve's, as he had once squeezed his mother's in that same forest.

Epona was the monster that would take him back to the castle. To the smell of death, of his father.

Little by little, he was able to make out not only his mare, but also Jory, one of his escorts.

If Jory was looking after Epona, the others must be wandering around nearby, looking for him.

“Beautiful Maeve, let me cover you with my cloak.” He felt like an idiot for not offering it sooner, but she didn't even seem to feel the cold. “...So my men won't see you.”

“Your cloak would only make me dirty.” It was true, he looked like he had emerged from the earth with all the mud covering him. “Walk towards your servant, and I'll lose myself in the fog so they won't see me.” She turned to give him an accusing look. “I wouldn't want to have to lead them all by the hand.”

Baird hesitated before letting go of her, just as one hides one's face in a pillow to try to keep sleep from escaping, but Maeve let go of her own, not without difficulty.

‘Never bother me again,’ she said before vanishing. Then Baird realised he was still holding the spectre's clothes, but he didn't want to call for her again, as his men would ask questions, and he wanted her to be his secret. His Beautiful Maeve.