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“Pint of Guinness,” I said to the bearded man behind the bar, and he shuffled away to fetch it.

When he returned with my drink, and I had waved at his request for payment, I moved to the side with the band.

As I scanned the room, I sniffed my drink. They really have no clue how to pour it in this country. But the magic of the black nectar can survive far worse than a long boat ride and an unsteady pour and still be better than most of the swill they peddle in this young land. I took a deep draught and felt almost at home. I scanned the room again.

This time I spotted him, cloaked in darkness, near the low stage. He was absorbing the energy of the band. And there was a fair amount to absorb. They were a three-piece of hairy ruffians, two of them crouched over guitars that seemed too small for their bulk, and one, his right wrist wrapped tight in an Ace bandage, pounding manfully on a bodhran. They finished “The Boys of the Old Brigade” and ripped into a speedy version of “The Merry Ploughboy,” stopping in the middle of every chorus for the crowd to shout, “Fuck the Queen!”

Good Republican stuff, if you go for that. But far too loud for me.

I caught the One’s attention by blowing a breath of the Old Country toward him. He turned slowly, raised his head, his eyes like lamplights, and motioned me to join him. Shaking my head, I pointed to the band, then my ears. He mimed earplugs. I could have silenced the band, but magic in new surrounds always leaks out around the edges. No need alerting other Powers beforetime. So, in return, I gestured to the front of the bar, but he shook his head.

If we were at an impasse already, it did not bode well for our negotiations. A few more rounds of gestures, and finally he got up, walking toward me, then past me, his cloak still keeping him invisible to the mortals.

I followed him to a stairway in the far corner of the bar, a stairway that I hadn’t seen before. We walked down into the basement, which, surprisingly, had a full-length bocce court. Quickly, I scanned the room for signs of Lars or incubo, those familiar spirits of the Latium, but there were none. I smiled to myself. Perfect!

Turning, he dropped the spell of darkness and grinned at my genuine surprise. There, underground, closer to his natural habitat, he grew more substantial. His skin had less pallor, his hair was long and golden, as were his eyes. They glowed with power. He was no mere underling sent to parley but a true prince of the Unseelie Court. I could not decide whether this was a good thing or no.

“Tiocfaidh ar la,” he said in Gaelic. His voice was gravel.

“Our day will come,” I agreed, careful not to put too strong a stress on the first word. Then I pulled up a chair that was made gray as a toadstool by the dim light, and sat.Negotiations may take a minute or a millennium, but no one ever gets through them on his feet. If this violated protocol, I did not care. Prince or no prince, I was going to sit.

Above our heads, the thump-thud-thump of the band and its fans was a bit annoying. But at least it was no longer a dagger in the ear.

“Well,” I said.

“Well,” he answered.

We were talking. It was a beginning.

COMING TO THE UNTIED STATES, as we call it in Eire, takes more than courage for any of the Sidhe. Crossing that amount of water— by boat or by air—is difficult and painful. Yet airplanes are full of us on every flight. The reason is simple. The world’s power center is now here, and no longer on our green isle. If we wish to continue to be a part of the world’s destiny, the Long Passage must be endured.

And the Long Negotiations, as tricky a passage as the ocean,must be endured as well. Or so said my superiors who had sent me over.

So there was I, in the dark bottom of a dirty pub, a band of mock Irishmen above me pounding out the old songs with execrable accents and no sense of history.

I cast one baleful eye at the ceiling and began to wave my hand.

My opposite number touched my thumb, halted me. “We need them,” he said, “for cover.” His own accent was