Cathal lifted my hand to his lips under the eyes of all three men, holding it there a moment. “Until later,” he said.

“Until later,” I said, smiling as I turned away. Maybe my beloved did look exhausted, worn-out, aged beyond his years. But he most certainly hadn’t lost his courage.

There followed a whirl of greetings, embraces, tears, smiles and garbled explanations. By the time Father and I reached the sewing room we had an entourage: Sibeal, Eilis and Coll. Mother was seated in a comfortable chair, the remains of her breakfast on a tray nearby. Morning sun streamed in through the window, catching the bright flame of her hair where it curled out from the confines of her veil. She was embroidering a pattern of spring flowers onto a tiny shirt. The baby was beside her in a willow basket. With her were Muirrin and Eithne, mending.

I had imagined all manner of grave possibilities for my mother’s health. I saw immediately that I had troubled myself without cause. She rose to her feet, holding her arms wide, and I walked into them. After a little we drew apart. Both of us had tears in our eyes.

“Eithne,” said Mother briskly, “Clodagh needs something to eat and drink; fetch another tray, will you? And ask someone to take warm water and a tub to her chamber for bathing, please. She’ll be ready for that as soon as she’s had her breakfast. You young ones, off with you! You’ll have plenty of time to talk to Clodagh later. You’re not to disturb her until she’s had a rest. Go on!”

I was astonished to see my mother so remarkably restored to her old self when it was only a day since she had got Finbar back, but perhaps I should not have been. Although my double journey had encompassed only a few days by my own counting, that first absence had taken up almost a turning of the moon in the human world. I recalled Ciarán saying that hope had restored my mother to herself; the hope that I would bring Finbar safely home. It warmed my heart that she had had such faith in me.