I knew what he was talking about, despite the sudden change of tack.

“He was mending well enough, until I was forced to leave. Could even that have been part of her plan?”

“She could hardly have known of it. Best not to add that to your worries. It sounds as if you have done some good; perhaps now he can heal himself, with Father Brien’s help. And there are others who can guide him to safety. Maybe it’s time to let go, and tend to yourself. Go on, off to bed with you.”

The next day there was a bit of sun, weakly filtering between the ever-present clouds, and I set to work in my garden, determined to make up to it for the way I had neglected it. I tied my hair up with a strip of cloth, put on an old sacking apron, and armed myself with knife and spade. Overgrown lavender and sprawling wormwood got a good trimming; weeds were rooted out and paths swept clear. As I worked steadily on, my mind slowly began to lose the confusion of fears and worries that plagued it, and the task in hand became all that mattered.

At length it was tolerably tidy, and I fetched the assortment of bulbs I’d lifted last season to dry out for replanting. Daffodils in the biggest basket; then crocuses, iris, lilies of five different kinds. Some, too, that would grow as well in the wild reaches of the forest as in my sheltered beds: pig’s-ears, faery chimes, and the slender pale bulbs of mind’s-ease. Throw a handful of its leaves on your campfire at night, and you would sleep so well you would never awaken.

Padriac had fashioned me a little tool of birch wood, for making the planting holes. As I moved around the garden, digging, setting each bulb in its place with care, smoothing the rich soil back over them, tucking them in for the winter, I recalled Conor’s words to us on the day Padriac had offered to make this for me. Don’t cut the live wood, he’d said. Find a limb that wind or lightning has taken from the tree, or a birch that has fallen in a great storm. Cut your wood from that if you can. If you must cut new wood, be sure to give due warning. The forest’s gifts should not be taken without a by-your-leave. All of us knew this lesson. There would be a quick word, and whether it was to the tree herself or to some spirit that dwelled within, probably made no difference. And sometimes, a small gift was left—nothing of great cost, but always something of significance to the giver—a favorite stone, a special feather, a shining bead of glass. The forest was always generous in her favors to the seven of us, and we never forgot it.

It made sense, now, that Conor had been the one to teach us this lesson.

I had almost finished; I knelt to plant the last few crocuses among mossy rocks that would shelter them, later, from the chilly breezes of spring. Crocuses are early risers. The door from the stillroom swung open with a creak.