In the semidark I find myself smiling. There is no lamp down here; the risk from fire is too great. But the nights are never quite dark in summer, and we are heading northward. A lantern up on deck casts a slanting beam down into the hold, picking out Knut’s inimical eyes, Sibeal’s ghost-white face. “Sibeal would say she still has choices, even though she has a window on a possible future,” I tell him. “The Sight helps a person choose right. It doesn’t tell what will happen, only what could happen.”

“Mm.” Sigurd closes his eyes. “Fond of her, are you?”

I say what I must say. “She’s a druid. Destined for the life of the spirit.”

“That’s no answer.”

“It’s the best one I have,” I say.

Sigurd does not reply. Liadan’s progress has slowed; the wind has died down. Manannán, the sea god, cradles this frail vessel and its human cargo: the sure and the brave, the uncertain and the doubtful, the resentful and the furious. It is time to sleep. You would like that plan, I tell my brother. A quest to find every last island. A little boat, the two of us rowing, a fantastic, crazy mission . . . Sweet dreams, Paul. Sigurd’s breathing slows; he is already asleep. In the shadows Knut lies still, watching me through narrowed eyes.

The second night. Our progress has been slow, the conditions calm all day. Now it is overcast. The stars are in hiding, and we cannot go on. The sail comes down. We trail a sea anchor. Gareth orders most of the crew to rest. It is cold, wet and cramped in the hold, and my joints ache.

Sibeal has stopped being sick and is taking sips of water. Her eyes are sunken; her jaw is set with fierce determination. I make myself get up and stretch as Gull has taught me. A crewman named Garbh is in charge of rations: hard bread, cheese, strips of wind-dried mutton. I make myself useful fetching supplies for Gull, for Svala, for myself. At Gull’s suggestion, I soak my bread in water before eating. No nourishing soups on this voyage. Gull can provide herbal potions, but cannot brew any freshly until we make landfall and can light a fire. If I get sick, he may not be able to save me this time.

Svala will not eat. I have not seen her swallow so much as a mouthful.

“I don’t think she eats this kind of food, Felix,” Sibeal says. “If we could fish . . . ”

“No way to cook it,” says Gull. “More’s the pity.”

“She eats it raw.”

“Now, why don’t I find that surprising? Catches it with her bare hands, does she?”

Sibeal stares at Gull, taken aback. “Possibly,” she says.

“I expect someone has a hand line. We might try in the morning. Depends on the conditions. And on what Gareth decides to do.”