“Eat,” she ordered. “You look like a little ghost. Every mouthful, Sibeal. And drink this mead. I want to see some color in your cheeks.”

I ate, though the food tasted like ashes. I watched her awhile, realizing that while absorbed in Ardal’s struggle I had lost sight of others on the island who might have needed me.

“How is Svala?” I asked. “Is she better now that she and Knut are lodged on their own?” It was days since I had left the infirmary; so many days I had lost count.

“I haven’t seen much of her, Sibeal.” Biddy had her fair hair tied back in a scarf; her red-knuckled hands were wielding the knife with precision. “She comes to supper with Knut, but she doesn’t seem over-fond of my cooking. I’ve hardly seen her eat a morsel, and she’s a big woman. I took food down to the hut a couple of times. She didn’t invite me in. The place was a mess, from what I could see, bedding all over the floor, clothing thrown into corners. Either she’s not much of a housewife, or she’s still too overcome by her grief to bother with such things. As for the food, she took the dish from my hands, backed inside and shut the door in my face. I feel quite sorry for Knut. He’s a good man, always willing to set his hand to a task if there’s a need. And he’s got his own grief to deal with.”

“Svala seems ill at ease among us. As if she’s not used to having people around her. I wonder where they lived before.”