He would not look at me. “I don’t know,” he said finally, his voice thick with tears. “I was in the yard, practicing, and she ran up behind me and I—don’t know what got into me, I just let fly with my staff. It was almost as if someone else was doing it.”

I opened my mouth to speak, then thought better of it.

“It wasn’t as if she were even in the way, Sorcha. Just—just suddenly, I was angry and I hit her.”

“Speak to her,” I said. “She forgives you, look.”

Hearing his voice Linn had raised her damaged head from the straw, and her long tail was thumping weakly. The donkey grumbled in its sleep.

“I can’t,” said Cormack bleakly. “How do I know I won’t do it again? I’m not fit for any company, man’s or beast’s.”

“You did a cruel thing,” I said slowly. “There’s no undoing it. You are just lucky that your brother had the skill to mend this damage. But she needs your love, as well, to get better. A dog does not judge you. She loves you, no matter what you do.”

Linn gave a whine.

“Go on,” I said. “Pat her, talk to her. Then she can sleep easy.”

“But what if—”

“You won’t do it again,” I said grimly. “Trust yourself, Cormack.”

He knelt down, finally, and put out a tentative hand to stroke her neck, never taking his eyes off that ghastly, disfiguring wound. Linn turned her head with some difficulty, and licked his hand. That was how I left them.

I move reluctantly toward a part of our story that is difficult to tell; though not the most difficult. So, we had supper, and Cormack was not there, and neither was Finbar. Father commented on this and was greeted with a wall of silence by his remaining children. Father Brien sat quietly near the foot of the table. He ate sparingly, and excused himself early. Eilis kept glancing nervously at the lady Oonagh, like a frightened animal. Liam held her hand under the table, but his face was like stone. Nobody needed to tell me that Father Brien’s talk to Father hadn’t changed anything.

Then it was late at night, and most of the household was asleep. As the only girl, I had the luxury of my own chamber for sleeping, and that was where my brothers gathered. We were all there but Diarmid, though Cormack’s eyes were red, and he would not sit by his youngest brother. Finbar had appeared from nowhere, like a shadow. We lit seven white candles, and burned juniper berries, and sat there in silence for a while thinking of our mother and trying to share what strength we had. There had been no chance to visit the birch tree together, so we communed with her as best we could. The fire was down to embers, the candles threw a steady light on solemn faces and linked hands.

At such times, we spoke if words came to us, but were content to draw strength from one another’s touch, and from our shared thoughts. Not that all of us could communicate mind to mind, as Finbar and I did. That was a skill reserved for few, and how we came by it is a mystery. But still, the seven of us were well tuned to one another, and could feel without words the pain and joy and fear of our siblings. That night, we felt Diarmid’s absence like the loss of a limb, for we were united in our sense of impending doom, and our network of protection was incomplete without him. Nobody would hazard a guess at his whereabouts.