I am up, on my feet. I take four steps and sit down on the bench beside her. My heart is pounding, a drum for dancing. My arms go around her shoulders. She turns toward me and presses her face against my chest. I hold her; she weeps. I remember all the things I said to her last night, and I am ashamed of myself.

We sit for some time thus. I am hoping Muirrin does not decide to come back with Gull to check on Sibeal’s welfare. Our pose could be that of a brother comforting a sister; it is quite chaste. My thoughts, however, are not those of a brother. Gull has seen this already. I raise a hand to stroke Sibeal’s hair, fine, rippling hair, as dark as a crow’s wing. She is like a girl from an old tale, a forbidden princess, an enchantress in a mysterious wood. She is the rarest creature I have encountered in all my life. Even in the lost part, the part I cannot remember, there can surely have been nobody like her.

“Hush,” I murmur. “There, now.” And after a while I hum a tune, as if I were lulling a child.

“Ardal,” she says, her voice muffled against my shirt. A clean shirt; I thank Gull for that.

“Mm?”

“What is that song?”

“A lullaby. I will call a hundred larks from the meadow, to sing my little one to sleep. I will call a hundred owls from the dark forest, to watch over my little one’s cradle. I will summon a hundred stars from the heavens, to light my little one’s dreams.” My mother’s voice comes to me, singing in the Norse tongue, and I see her blue eyes with their tilted corners, her flaxen braid coiled like a golden crown around her head, her linen apron with its rows of red embroidery, houses and horses and trees. I learned both tongues from the cradle, Brezhoneg and Norse. No wonder I have a facility for translation. I would like my mother to meet Sibeal, but I know this will never happen.

“What a lovely song. Gods, I didn’t know I had so many tears in me.” She sits up; withdraws her arms from around my waist. I release her. It feels like giving up my heart. But perhaps that is already lost.

Sibeal is delving for a handkerchief. She finds one tucked into her belt, wipes her eyes, struggles to compose herself. Even with red eyes and streaming nose, she is beautiful. Suddenly she sits straight, staring at me. “Ardal! You walked by yourself!”

So I did. Only now do I realize it. “Four steps,” I say, feeling my mouth twist. “A true feat of strength.”

“You did something you couldn’t do before. Four steps today, perhaps eight tomorrow. Evan did say it might be midsummer before you are well enough to travel. I’m truly proud of you, Ardal.”