Effy had always believed the sunlight made her safe from him. In Angharad, the Fairy King had come for her at night, when her father and brothers were sleeping too soundly to notice. There was something wrong here, in Hiraeth, in perhaps all of the Bottom Hundred. Old magic and wicked—or worse, ambivalent—gods. The Fairy King had more power here. The unreal world was close to breaking its fetters.
I like this connection of nature and magic, rural places still retaining it whereas the city has been stripped of it.
