“You may have trouble convincing Johnny,” muttered Gull. “I’m glad it’s not my decision. Think what your father would say, if he knew. Or Ciarán.”

“I’m a grown woman,” says Sibeal calmly. “And since neither Father nor Ciarán can be consulted in time, there is no point in wondering what they might think.”

Gull grins, but I see the concern in his eyes. “Ah, well, that’s for the morning,” he says. “Felix, do you need to go to the privy before bed?”

I shake my head. He goes; I stay. There is time to speak to Sibeal alone: brief, precious time. I can find no words. We stand facing each other. She reaches out her hands. When I take them, they seem swallowed by mine. She is made small and fine in every particular.

“You lived up to the name I gave you,” she says, fixing her lovely eyes on mine. “You were brave, and you’ll go on being brave, no matter what happens. We can do this, Felix. We will do it.”

Now I have too many words, and none of them can be spoken. I don’t want you to go. You might die, and I couldn’t bear that. Or worse, I love you, Sibeal. I wish from the bottom of my heart that you were not a druid. Say that, and I will lose her friendship forever. Besides, it is only half true. Her faith is part of her; part of what makes her so remarkable.

“Sibeal,” I ask, “what happened with the fire, when Knut was attacking me? What did you do?”

An odd little smile curves her lips. “I wasn’t sure anyone noticed. Druid magic; elemental magic. I’ve never used it before outside the nemetons. Ciarán taught me. Though, of course, his skill goes far beyond mine.”

“Of course.” Jealousy flares up in me, deluded fool that I am. Who could compete with this beloved mentor, this much-revered teacher, this magical, brilliant kinsman of whom she speaks so frequently? I am no more than a wandering interpreter, a younger son whose inability to comply with rules led his whole family into danger and caused his brother’s death. I think perhaps I hate this Ciarán.

“Felix?”

I have stood in angry silence while she watched me. I relax my grip on her hands, loosen my tight jaw, make myself breathe.

“What’s wrong?” Sibeal’s voice is like water fresh from the mountains, clear and sweet. Hearing it, I cannot hold on to my anger. Perhaps I should wish Ciarán was here. If he tried to stop her, as any reasonable man surely would, perhaps she would take heed.

“Felix?” she says again, lifting her brows.

“Sibeal, I wish—no, never mind. You should go to your bed. It’s halfway to dawn already.”