Her first concern is really the fact that her child is visible again and looks like he is hanging onto his ordinarily bizarrely calm demeanor by a thread. She scoops him up. It's hard to scoop a baby and a toddler at the same time, but this is important, and she manages.
She notices the man. Notices the mushrooms. There are stories, both here and in Britain, of beings that are neither human nor angel nor demon, beings that create rings of mushrooms with their dances. Two seconds ago she would have said, if pressed, that she wasn't sure whether she believed in unseen spirits that meant neither good nor ill, but now she believes. The main point of uncertainty is whether such beings are more like elves, the powerful but almost benignly human creatures the Scandinavians speak of in well-lit feast halls, or more like fairies, the creatures she only knows from whispered dire warnings she heard as a child on the edge of sleep. Fairies, she remembers, are legalistic, vengeful, obsessed with politeness, and above all, impossible to predict, their values only dimly reminiscent of anything a human might consider caring about. You may try to protect yourself with medals or charms or clever words or iron swords, but the only way to ever be really safe from them is to avoid anywhere that fairies have ever thought to claim as their own.
For the first time in years, maybe ever, she hopes the Scandinavians are right. She isn't counting on it.
She rocks her child back and forth. She doesn't say anything to the fairy, or the elf, or whatever he is. But she doesn't step out of the ring, either.