"Those aren't stories where I'm from," I say. "Not the flaming ones or the three-headed dogs, but the capaill uisce lived in the ocean. Everyone on our island knew someone who'd been killed by one."

I don't give him the answer right away but I know the next question is obvious. If everyone on Thisby's known people to die from the water horses, who have I lost?

Suddenly, the thought of hacking away at meat turns my stomach and I have to drop my head and close my eyes until I get my bearings again.