I approached Svala. She was far taller than I, with the kind of figure that would draw men’s eyes and make wives jealous. Her face was strong, the cheekbones high, the nose proud, the mouth well-shaped and full. Her hair was drying in the warmth from the infirmary fire; its natural shade would be sun-gold. Her eyes were the gray of a winter sea. Right now there was a disturbing blankness about those fine features. Perhaps, when the shipwreck had claimed her son, it had also washed away some vital part of her. She followed my every step as I came closer. The tumult of feelings that came from her was disturbing: grief, loss, fury, confusion. I struggled to hold it all. I breathed in a well-practiced pattern, calming myself. “Is she injured?” I asked Muirrin.

“She won’t let me examine her. There are no obvious signs of physical hurt. At this point, if we can get her out of her wet clothes and into these dry ones I’ll be happy.”

I halted three paces from Svala, holding her gaze. Gods, my head hurt! “Svala,” I said quietly, “I am a druid, a wise woman.” I inclined my head to her, indicating respect and greeting, then stretched out my arms to the sides, palms up, and closed my eyes, trying to suggest priestess or prayer. “I am sorry for your loss. But now . . . you must be cold.” I mimed shivering, then pretended to put on clothing. Slipping a gown over my head, smoothing the skirt down. Wrapping a shawl around my shoulders. Stepping into slippers. “Let us help you,” I said.

Something stirred on her face. For a moment there was a kind of recognition in the lovely eyes. Her hands moved, graceful as fronds of weed stirred by the current, copying my gestures.

I smiled, nodded, even as my head threatened to split apart with the pain. “Yes,” I said. “Dry clothes, nice and warm.” I took a step closer, thinking to help her with the fastenings, and she shrank away, her hands going up before her as if to ward me off. Her fingers curled, claw-like. “I won’t hurt you.” It was hard to keep my voice steady. I wondered if the men were within easy call.

“Like this, see?” Muirrin spoke from behind me, and when I turned my head I saw that she was demonstrating, removing her own shawl, untying her big linen apron, laying each garment on the work bench in turn. I proceeded to do the same, hoping it would not be necessary to strip naked.

“You, too,” I said, setting my shawl on a bench and pointing to Svala.

Her hands moved again, plucking at her neck, tearing at the ties of her shirt. She made a sound like a creature in pain, a deep moan of anguish or frustration.