“If there were, why wouldn’t Knut have told it? It’s not as if Svala can tell us in words.”

It was a reasonable question. “Maybe it’s something only she knows about. Or Knut could know more than he’s chosen to tell.”

“If you’re right,” Clodagh mused, “it could be tied up with Ardal. Perhaps when he regains his memory it will all come out, whatever it is.”

“Maybe.”

“You know what the men are saying, don’t you?” Clodagh gave me her basket to hold as we negotiated a stile. “That he has brought ill luck to the island. That wherever he goes, he casts a shadow.”

“Ardal?” This shocked me. Cathal had not suggested the talk of portents and omens was associated with anyone in particular. “Why would they think that?”

“I don’t know, Sibeal. Don’t sound so upset; it’s probably just idle talk. Maybe it was the odd way he was found, or the fact that he reached shore alive at all after such a long time in the water. The shipwreck unsettled everyone. Folk are edgy. It’s not just Cathal who wishes he had done more, it’s all of them. They don’t like to see men lost when there’s a chance to save them. If so many perished so quickly, they’re saying, why did that one man survive, especially after so long in the water? Then there was the freak storm that caused the wreck; there are plenty of theories about that.”

“You mean people are saying it was Ardal’s presence on board that made the sea carry Freyja onto the rocks? What do they think he is, an evil spirit?”

“They just think he brings bad luck, Sibeal. Don’t look so worried. They’ll realize soon enough that there’s no foundation for such superstitions.”

~Felix~

She is troubled. Nothing outward; her voice is controlled, her features are grave and composed. But something disturbs her; I see it in her eyes.

Gull is abed early after a long day of work. Tomorrow, Knut’s fight takes place. It has troubled me to see that man cross this chamber every day; that man with cold eyes. As he passes, he turns his gaze on me. Sometimes he greets me—Comrade, how are you?—but he need not speak for me to know his enmity. And still I cannot remember. They say he was a crewman. They say his wife was on board with him. And his son. Drowned. I remember nothing, nothing at all save Paul, and the knots, and the wave coming over. When the sea came, it took everything.

Today I have worked again on regaining my strength. I can walk from bed to fireside and back with my hand on a man’s shoulder, or a woman’s, for balance. Seven steps each way. Gull made Sibeal demonstrate that she had the strength to support me before he agreed to retire for the night. I cannot yet go abroad. Those seven steps rob me of breath. I am like a child’s doll, a manikin stuffed with wool. Weak. Too weak to defend myself, save with words.