‘You think she needs a planchette? To talk with the Dead? Nàirg, m'child. She is the planchette. Canna you see how he spins her around? Pointin’ to things? It’s how they talk, until she returns to Him.’ The old woman looked at the grave under the Tree. ‘Thas her soulmate. Once you Mate with an IrishMan, ain’t no leavin’ ‘im, My child. Ain't no leavin’ Him.’