The child in the cot was a changeling, I knew by the look in her eye, the way she pursed her lips before she was about to cry, the small tongue. It didn’t matter. I bathed her each night, fed her thin porridge. When I slept, I dreamed of the oak tree in my grandmother’s garden and the owl that sometimes appeared in its branches. I knew then that the first one would never be returned to me, the fairy queen had come for her, and I wept for that babe, just as my mother had wept for my brother.