“What about the horse?” Molly asked.

Prince Lír’s face grew glum again. “That was strange. When she took no delight in the gift itself, I thought she might be interested to hear how it was won. So I told her about the view and the charge‌—‌you know‌—‌about the hissing and the naked wings and the way dragons smell, especially on a rainy morning; and the way the black blood jumped at the point of my lance. But she heard none of it, not a word, until I spoke of the rush of fire that nearly burned my poor horse’s legs from under him. Then‌—‌ah, then she came back from wherever she goes when I talk to her, and she said that she must go and see my horse. So I led her to the stable where the poor brute stood crying with the pain, and she put her hand on him, on his legs. And he stopped moaning. That’s a terrible sound they make when they’re really hurt. When they stop, it’s like a song.”

The prince’s dagger lay glittering among the potatoes. Outside, great gusts of rain growled round and round the castle walls, but those in the scullery could only hear it, for there was not a single window in the cold room. Nor was there any light, except for the meager glow of the cooking fire. It made the cat dozing in Molly’s lap look like a heap of autumn leaves.

“And what happened then?” she asked. “When the Lady Amalthea touched your horse.”

“Nothing happened. Nothing at all.” Prince Lír suddenly seemed to become angry. He slammed his hand down on the table, and leeks and lentils leaped in all directions. “Did you expect something to happen? She did. Did you expect the beast’s burns to heal on the instant‌—‌the crackling skin to knit, the black flesh to be whole again? She did‌—‌by my hope of her I swear it! And when his legs didn’t grow well under her hand, then she ran away. I don’t know where she is now.”

His voice softened as he spoke, and the hand on the table curled sadly on its side. He rose and went to look into the pot over the fire. “It’s boiling,” he said, “if you want to put the vegetables in. She wept when my horse’s legs did not heal‌—‌I heard her weeping‌—‌and yet there were no tears in her eyes when she ran away. Everything else was there, but no tears.”

Molly put the cat gently on the floor and began gathering the venerable vegetables for the pot. Prince Lír watched her as she moved back and forth, around the table and across the dewy floor. She was singing.

If I danced with my feet
As I dance in my dreaming,
As graceful and gleaming
As Death in disguise—

Oh, that would be sweet,
But then would I hunger
To be ten years younger,
Or wedded, or wise?

The prince said, “Who is she, Molly? What kind of woman is it who believes‌—‌who knows, for I saw her face‌—‌that she can cure wounds with a touch, and who weeps without tears?” Molly went on about her work, still humming to herself.