“Maybe you’d go and pick me a nice bunch of parsley, Sibeal,” said Biddy, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.

Clodagh made to get up and come with me, but I waved her back down. “I’ll do it,” I said. “You stay here and chat with Biddy.”

“All right, Sibeal.” The fact that she agreed without argument showed me how tired she was. But Clodagh had not changed so much. As I headed out, knife in hand, I heard her say, “I’ll pluck that other chicken for you, shall I?”

The day was growing warmer. I took my time wandering up the path of the walled garden, from the part near the kitchen door, with its straw-covered vegetable beds and orderly lines of stakes, to the area closer to the infirmary, where both culinary and medicinal herbs grew in profusion. Stone benches were set at this end, among the plants. It would be a good place for Ardal to sit out in the sun when he was stronger.

The herbs were looking especially well kept, thanks in part to the time I had spent trimming, staking and generally tending to everything. It was a form of meditation, one I especially enjoyed. With both hands in the earth and the scent of growth all around me, I felt the working of a powerful spirit, an essence that had no name, but was part of me, and at the same time part of these bushes of lavender and wormwood, and part of the sheep grazing on the cliff tops and the apple trees in the little grove and the pebbles in the coves of Inis Eala. Even now, crouching to take a few green leaves from one plant, a sprig or two from another, I whispered acknowledgment and blessing, and felt my heart grow calmer. For this bounty, I thank you. For this gift, I am grateful.

It did not take long to gather enough for Biddy’s purposes. There would be time to slip into the infirmary and bid Ardal good morning before I went back. I hesitated, remembering last night. He had unsettled me. Perhaps I had done the same to him. Still, we were unlikely to have any awkward moments with Muirrin there.

Outside the back entrance to the infirmary, I halted. Voices came from behind the closed door, and their tone was disturbing. Silence followed, and I found that still more disturbing. I pushed open the door.

Ardal was lying in bed. Close beside him stood Knut, looking down at him. There was nothing at all untoward about the scene, yet a wash of emotions flooded through me as I approached: unease, resentment, a furious courage. And sheer terror. There was no telling which man held which feelings within him. Knut’s expression was all courtesy; Ardal’s face I could not see.

“Better,” Knut said, glancing in my direction, then indicating the other man. “Good. I go now.”