We moved back to the fire, where Finbar still sat silent. Conor took my small hand in his and began to rub the salve gently into my skin, rolling and kneading my fingers with his own. He stopped talking and instead began to hum softly, a monotonous little tune that had beginning and ending woven into one, so that it went on and on, and seemed to fit well with the strange stillness of the night. Further away the dull thud of axe on wood punctuated the flow of the song. I began to relax. At first I had flinched, for it hurt to have anyone touch my hands; but after a while the song lulled me and I heard owls in the trees around, and the croaking of frogs in the many tiny waterways around the lake. And then Finbar came over to sit by me and took my other hand in his. Conor’s hand was warm and full of life; Finbar’s was like ice. For a while we sat thus, and I surrendered my damaged fingers to my brothers’ ministrations, storing up images and feelings to last me the long, weary time till midwinter. It would have to be enough. Conor was still humming scraps of song under his breath, working his own strength into my hands and through them into myself. At last Finbar spoke.

“I’m sorry, Sorcha. I hardly know what words to choose. One night. It is too short a time to waken our memories of this world. My mind holds so much, and I have seen—I—no, some things are best left unspoken.”

I turned to face him, and this time he met my gaze direct. I saw firelight flicker in his gray eyes, and there was doubt in them.

What is this? You can’t give up! You, of all people. What is wrong?

Still he kept his shutters down.

“You can talk to us, Finbar,” said Conor quietly. “Here, we three are linked hand in hand. We know you. We know your courage. Speak aloud of what troubles you, if you will not open your mind to us.” It was spoken gently enough, but there was an authority in his words that seemed to give Finbar no choice.

“Why Sorcha?” he said. “Why single her out for such suffering? She is innocent of any wrongdoing, incapable of an evil thought. Why should she make this sacrifice for us?”

“Because she is the strongest,” said Conor simply. “Because she can bend with the wind, and not break. Sorcha is the thread that binds us all together. Without her we are leaves in the wind, blown hither and thither at random.”

“We are strong. We are all strong.”

“In our own ways, yes. But each of you would break before this storm. Even you, for there comes a time when the path straight ahead crumbles underfoot, or is washed away by floodwaters, and then if you will not take another way you are lost. Only Sorcha can bring us home.”