It was not the realm of the dead Augusta had expected. She was expecting a large fort instead, guarded by souls of the lost Hibernians who still drifted through this place, wondering why they were here, wondering when they’d done enough servitude.

  She even thought there might’ve been a Hibernian ferryman outside of the place too. And a Hibernian Wolfhound with three heads who scrounged up one unfortunate soul for a chew toy. And maybe Donn’s crazed Hibernian wife whom he’d met on the world above, not unlike Eithne had done with Augusta, really.

  But there was none of that. In fact, “Teach Donn” looked not much different than all the sleazy thermopoliums Augusta had come across as a young girl in Rome, then as a centurion. It was a large, dark building crafted from stone and from wood, with the same thatch roofs Augusta had seen the Britons do up when she moved through their villages.

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  It wasn’t a pleasant sight. Yellow lights flashed through the window, but in a most unhinged way. There was lots of noise. Arguments. And the clattering of people being shoved around as they moved through the place.

  She winced, only settling herself when Eithne put a hand to her shoulder and started to trudge her and Lúnasa along to the doorway. There was light, and there was lots of laughter, and there were womanly voices chattering their teeth as they talked about this or that and how nice and freeing it was to fall into the lull of actual darkness, and not the horrible darkness that Balor had indulged their world in.

  “Come on,” Eithne said. “I trust him.”

  So did Brigid, whose ravenous laughter was the only one among all the voices that Augusta could make out. She was lost in spirits, and not the spirits that Augusta had usually prayed to when her own mother had been lost with the anger of the drink to make it stop.