“Maybe tomorrow,” I said. I had forgiven Aidan for his lie, but it was far too soon to be playing music with him again. I hadn’t forgotten how good that felt before; perilously good. Feeling that way might have me thinking of a future that probably wasn’t going to happen, a future in which my mother’s child was safely born, and she recovered well enough to resume all her old duties, and Rathnait’s father agreed happily to her not marrying Aidan after all, and . . . There were too many ifs in this picture, and I knew I could not entertain it, not yet. “I’m too tired tonight. I would only make a mess of it.”

“I’ll play,” Aidan said, and fetched his harp from an alcove nearby. “Such a fine tale deserves a musical end piece. I’m afraid I don’t know any songs about clurichauns, so it will have to be something else.”

Cathal was looking particularly stony. Perhaps he didn’t approve of stories, especially ones with magic in them. He was all too ready to dismiss talk of the Fair Folk as sheer fantasy. If he stayed here long enough, he’d find out how wrong he was.

Aidan sang a ballad, the melody ringing out sweetly in his soft, deep voice, the harp providing mellow accompaniment. It was a love song, and while he did not embarrass me by looking me in the eye as he sang it, I could hardly miss the fact that the lady in the piece had hair like a flaming cloud and eyes like green jewels, or that the swineherd who was trying to win her admired her not only for those qualities but for her forthright nature and her devotion to her family. It was a pretty piece that I was certain he had composed himself. In the end the lady left her family and went off into the forest with the pigs and their keeper, which I liked—I had been expecting a predictable tale in which the swineherd turned out to be a prince in disguise, and the surprise added to the charm of the song.

When it was done, folk seemed in no particular rush to retire to bed, though Father excused himself and left the hall. He had little enough opportunity to spend time with Mother, and if Gareth failed to placate Eoin of Lough Gall and the other northerners, those chances would become even fewer. Despite the presence of Muirrin and a bevy of attendants, I knew how much Mother needed him. He had always been able to calm and reassure her in times of crisis. I worried about Father more than I told anyone. What would happen to him if we lost her? It seemed to me he would not weep and rage, but would retreat inside himself, no longer able to smile at a story or laugh at Eilis’s silly jokes.