“Cathal.” My voice came out as a nervous croak. “Cathal, I’m here.” Part of me longed to rush forward and throw my arms around him. A wiser part held me where I was.

For the space of a breath he went completely still. He might have been turned to stone. Then he said, “A pox on my father. Can’t he think of something new? I said go. I don’t want you.” He could have been the Cathal of early spring, the one whose cruelly dismissive comments had so irked me.

“Cathal. Turn around and look at me.”

I saw him take a deep breath before he moved, as if to fortify himself. Perhaps there had been a whole string of women who looked like me, spoke like me, pretended they were Clodagh of Sevenwaters come back to fetch him as she had promised. Then he turned, stood, and looked into my eyes.

“Go away,” he said. “You’re wasting my time.” He looked wretched; he looked years older than before. There were deep shadows around his eyes and his face was grooved by lines of sorrow. He was so thin—not the lean, fit warrior who had done battle with such skill and flair in the courtyard at Sevenwaters, but a pallid, sorrowful wraith of a man. My heart bled for him.

I walked across and sat on the edge of the hard bed. “Then I will waste it until morning,” I said. “That’s the time I’ve been given by your father, no more, no less, and I don’t plan to head back home without making best use of what little he’s allowing me.” I struggled for an easy tone. The sight of him wrung my heart, and I could not keep the anguish from my voice. “Cathal,” I said, “in our world, the human world, only one day has passed since I left you in your father’s hall. I’m sorry it has been so long for you. I thought you knew me well enough to be sure I would come back, no matter how much time it took.” I must be careful, very careful. I did not for a moment believe Mac Dara would forego the chance to watch us and, if he could, to listen to every word. Such a man placed no value on promises.

“Uh-huh,” said Cathal, folding his arms and leaning against the wall so his face was in shadow. His eyes were intent on me. On the table beside the writing materials, something was emitting a faint glow. Not a lamp; a flat object that I could not identify from where I was. There were a mortar and pestle there as well, and stalks of yarrow in a jar. Had Mac Dara’s son taken up divination? I took heart from the fact that he had been engaged in some activity, not sitting in the dark with his thoughts. Wretched as he seemed, perhaps he was not yet defeated.