The little path followed the course of a stream. My boots squelched. I could feel more blisters forming. There would be no hope of getting anything dry in here, even supposing Cathal could really make fire without a flint. I had seen Johnny do that once; Deirdre had been most impressed. Oh, Deirdre . . . How I longed to talk to her, to tell her how I was feeling, to hear her going on about her hair or her gown or how fine Illann looked on horseback, just so I could remember there was another world out there, one where I need not be confused and afraid. How I longed to hug Sibeal and Eilis, and to tell my mother I was getting closer to finding Finbar. I wanted to ask Father to forgive me for everything I had got wrong, and to tell him I loved him even when he was cold to me . . . I will not cry, I told myself fiercely. Cathal’s keeping going, and he hasn’t even got the cloak.

“Perhaps we should rest for a little.” He stopped walking and turned to wait for me. “You look exhausted. Sit down awhile, Clodagh. There’s a spot under that oak.” He took a knife from his belt.

“What are you doing?” I obeyed him, for now that I had stopped walking my legs did not want to hold me up a moment longer.

“We’ll need a cloth to feed the baby. He won’t survive long without water. I suppose we can dip this into the stream for him.” Before I could speak, he removed his tunic and used the weapon to rip off a length of linen from the shirt he had on underneath. “Better than nothing.”

“Thank you,” I said, lost for anything else to say. I watched as he shrugged back into the tunic, stepped over to the stream and wet the cloth, wringing it lightly, then brought it back to me. Becan’s cries had increased when we stopped walking; he was anticipating food. At first he sucked hungrily, needing the liquid. Then he realized there was no honey this time and jerked his head away, wailing an outraged protest.