“Mother, Father and Johnny worked it out together,” Muirrin said. Then, seeing me yawn, she turned her healer’s gaze on me, shrewdly assessing. “Clodagh, have you still not slept? What’s wrong with you and Cathal? You can’t go on forever, you know.”

“I should think Cathal probably is asleep,” I said, “since he isn’t here in the hall.”

“Ciarán arrived just before supper,” said Sibeal. “Cathal may be talking to him.”

If he was, I thought, it would likely be out of doors where privacy and quiet were easier to find. I made my way out, throwing a shawl around my shoulders, for the evening was cool. The moon had appeared above the fortress wall, a welcome presence after those empty Otherworld skies. It bathed the ancient stone in light. Sigurd and Mikka were on duty, standing one to either side of the main gate. They were easily identified at a distance, Sigurd by his bulk, Mikka by the gleam of his hair, wheat pale in the moonlight.

I walked over. “Have you seen Cathal?” I asked.

“He went that way,” said Mikka, pointing in the direction of the herb garden. “May I escort you, Clodagh?”

“Thank you, but I should be fine.” There were lighted torches in sockets all around the courtyard, and the moon illuminated the path in between. I was longing to see Cathal again, see him properly this time without my father’s eye on us, without even the well-disposed Johnny or Gareth as witness. I yearned to hold my dear one in my arms, kiss his weary face, remind him that I loved him and tell him how much I had admired his strength today. I wanted to whisper secrets in his ear and to hear his words of tenderness and passion. I hurried along the path, head down, shawl hugged around me. Of course, it was very possible that Ciarán would be there. I knew he would want to talk to Cathal. Ciarán would have questions, his own kind of questions. I would politely ask him to leave us alone for this evening at least.

In the archway leading to the herb garden, I paused. Cathal was sitting on the stone bench under the lilac, his head tipped back against the trunk of the tree, his eyes closed. A hooded cloak wrapped him; he might have been sleeping, or perhaps deep in thought. The moonlight played on the white plane of his cheek, the darkness of his hair.

“Cathal?” I said, suddenly hesitant. Perhaps I should let him rest. He was so still, as if enmeshed in a sleep beyond dreams. I took a step forward, then another. “Cathal, are you all right?”