Instinct told me Svala should be present when I cast the runes, since these matters affected her so closely. When it was time, I went down to the fisherman’s hut to fetch her. She was sitting not far from her open doorway, on the shore in the fading light, humming to herself and setting out shells in a long, snaking line on the ground. When I gestured that I wanted her to come, she got up and followed me quite willingly.

All of those I had asked for were there when we reached the garden: Johnny and Gareth, Cathal and Clodagh, Muirrin and Evan, Gull and Biddy. And Felix, whose eyes were on me the moment Svala and I came into the garden. I tried not to look at him. His presence made my heart race. My well-governed thoughts threatened to become a jumble of raw emotion. I must not allow this. A runic divination required calm, control, detachment.

Johnny had stationed Kalev and Niall further down toward the dining hall, out of earshot but close enough to intercept anyone who might think to interrupt us. I had prepared the ritual area earlier. It was simple: a circle of swept ground, a folded blanket to kneel on, an oil lamp. Gull and Biddy sat on one bench, Clodagh and Muirrin on the other. Evan and Felix were on the back steps; the other men were standing. When she saw how many were gathered, Svala stopped in her tracks.

“Come,” I said, beckoning. “You are among friends.”

She came a certain distance but no further. Just beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp, she halted and squatted down, waiting.

“Good,” I said, giving her a reassuring smile. I hoped she would stay. Perhaps she was already familiar with the runes. Before she found herself on that lonely island she had most likely lived in a Norse community. That race was generally fair of coloring and robust of build, as she was, though Svala’s beauty was something exceptional.