I sat by the fire for some time. I would not retire to bed until I had taken a closer look at the man I had wrested from the sea’s grip. Eventually Evan took away the screen, and he and Gull started cleaning up the area around the pallet where the survivor lay. They’d propped him up on pillows. He was conscious, his eyes open to slits. His skin was a blanched gray-white. His hair, which I had thought black, had proven on drying to be of a deep chestnut hue. It was an interesting face, though so thin as to be almost gaunt. The brow was broad, the nose straight, the mouth generous. In health, perhaps his features would be handsome. Right now he looked wretched.

“I’ll sit by him awhile now, if that suits you.”

Gull had no qualms; he placed a stool by the pallet for me, smiling. I wondered what the survivor would make of this nursemaid, who looked every inch the warrior with his night-black skin, his powerful build, his hands with less than their full complement of fingers. Before the incident that had seen him maimed thus, Gull had been a fighter of exceptional skill. Afterward, when he could no longer hold a sword, he had continued to prove his worth on Inis Eala as an herbalist and healer. He had been the closest friend and confidant of Johnny’s father, Bran, in the early days, and was viewed with special respect by all on the island.

“You look tired, Sibeal,” Gull said now, scrutinizing me across the pallet. “Why don’t I make you up an infusion, something to help you sleep? I know just the thing.”

“Thank you. I feel fine.” But I didn’t, entirely. I had cuts and bruises everywhere, and now that I was close enough to see how ill the survivor looked, I was filled with doubts.

“Can’t seem to get him warm,” Gull said over his shoulder as he went to rummage for ingredients among the myriad jars and bottles on the infirmary shelves. Evan had joined Muirrin by the fire, where they were talking in low voices. “He’s cold to the bone. I know how that feels.”

The man was indeed cold, despite the fire in the chamber and the blankets piled on him. Bouts of trembling coursed through him. “Has he spoken to you?” I asked. “Does he understand Irish?”

“He hasn’t said a word yet. Doesn’t have the look of a Norseman, does he? I think Johnny’s planning to bring the other fellow up before bedtime. Knut, I mean. Might reassure this one if he sees a familiar face. Now, where is that jar . . . ?”

“What are you giving my sister, Gull?” Muirrin was smiling.

“A pinch of ease-mind, hot water, a drop of honey . . . works wonders on the nerves.”