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Gansey couldn't resist talking about Glendower. He never could. He asked, "How much do you know about Welsh kings?" Ashley pursed her lips, her fingers pinching the skin at the base of her throat. "Mmmm. Llewellyn? Glendower? English Marcher lords?" The smile on Gansey's face could have lit coal mines. Adam hadn't known about Llewellyn or Glendower when he'd first met Gansey. Gansey had needed to describe how Owain Glyndŵr — Owen Glendower to non-Welsh speakers — a medieval Welsh noble, had fought against the English for Welsh freedom and then, when capture seemed inevitable, disappeared from the island and from history altogether. But Gansey never minded retelling the story. He'd related the events like they'd just happened, thrilled again by the magical signs that had accompanied Glendower's birth, the rumors of his power of invisibility, the impossible victories against larger armies, and, finally, his mysterious escape. When Gansey spoke, Adam saw the green swell of the Welsh foothills, the wide glistening surface of the River Dee, the unforgiving northern mountains that Glendower vanished into. In Gansey's stories, Owain Glyndŵr could never die. Listening to him tell the story now, it was clear to Adam that Glendower was more than a historical figure to Gansey. He was everything Gansey wished he could be: wise and brave, sure of his path, touched by the supernatural, respected by all, survived by his legacy. Gansey, now fully warmed to his tale, enchanted again by the mystery of it, asked Ashley, "Have you heard of the legends of sleeping kings? The legends that heroes like Llewellyn and Glendower and Arthur aren't really dead, but are instead sleeping in tombs, waiting to be woken up?"