“Something about waves,” she said eventually. “Till waves are calmed by human hand, that was the last line. It sounds poetic, but it’s not especially useful. I think hand rhymed with stand.”

“Till ancient foes in friendship stand, and waves are calmed by human hand,” said Ciarán quietly. “It could be interpreted in many ways. Now we must go. You will be quite safe if you wait here for me, Clodagh. Within the boundary marked by the ogham stones we are protected by forces of nature.”

My sister looked so small, standing there with the baby in her arms. “Thank you, Sibeal,” I said, getting up and embracing her. “You’ve done so much for me already, and now you’re having to do all my explaining again. I’m lucky to have such a true sister.”

“It’s all right, Clodagh,” she said soberly. “I hope you’ll be safe. I’ll watch for you in the water.”

While I waited for Ciarán to come back I tried to imagine under what circumstances human hands might be able to influence something as big and powerful as the sea, and failed. The other part was easily interpreted. In a realm where folk kept saying things like Our kind does not speak to his kind, there were foes aplenty. Changing their attitudes, it seemed to me, might be the work of a lifetime.

It was some while before my uncle returned. I refilled my water-skin at the nearby stream and helped myself to some supplies from the store of food at the little camp, packing them neatly into my bag. I washed my face and hands and changed my clothes. It was a pleasure to put on the familiar things Sibeal had brought for me—a favorite old homespun gown, fresh small-clothes and a warm shawl. I rolled the embroidered gown I had been wearing into a ball and left it under a tree. Then I sat quietly awhile, thinking of what awaited me and trying to gather my strength. My thoughts strayed over the tale of Firinne, that sad, strong young woman. If she had outwitted Mac Dara, I thought, then perhaps I could, too. There was a little thread of the uncanny in my own ancestry, after all.

I was deep in my thoughts and did not hear Ciarán approaching until he had walked right up to the encampment. Perched on his shoulder was his raven, Fiacha. The bird’s plumage was glossy, his eyes preternaturally bright. The hair stood up on the back of my neck.

“A message is on its way to your father,” Ciarán said, putting a little bag down by the fire and seating himself opposite me, cross-legged and straight-backed as a child. The raven fixed me with its gaze.