“Let’s do it,” Astrid said. “Time presses, the armies are already moving toward battle in the West, and Operation Lúthien must succeed in time. Coneth, you’re in charge here.”

A short, olive-skinned young woman silently bowed with hand on heart.

“I’m leaving . . . Hírvegil, Tarachanar and Ýridhrenith with you. Hold and keep close concealment for three days, and then use your initiative if we haven’t returned.”

Ritva felt a moment’s sympathy as Coneth gulped slightly and bowed again.

“N’i lû e-govaded ’ wîn, Hiril,” she said, which meant Until we meet again, Lady, roughly.

Rangers had discipline; within fifteen minutes a rope corral had been made on a dry spot shielded by half a dozen willows for the remuda, the pack-beasts offsaddled and the gear and supplies covered by camouflage nets, and the stay-behind party were busy building a concealed blind—what Dúnedain called a flet—in the limbs of the biggest cottonwood. The rest of the band switched to fresh horses and remounted.

“By pairs, at ten-minute intervals, and be careful not to cross each other’s paths. Gwaenc—we go!” Astrid said.

Why did I have to be the one person sent down to make contact? Ritva thought a little sourly underneath the pine trees. I’m not really a diplomatic type. Oh, well, it’s part of the job.

Most of the Rangers were farther back, keeping watch in all directions. Eilir looked at her and smiled a little impishly; you could see her mother Juniper Mackenzie in her then, though her face was longer.

Then the world seemed to shift a little. With a tiny shock Ritva noticed that there were more small lines beside her eyes, and not just weariness and the weathered look of those who were often outdoors regardless of rain or season. Eilir Mackenzie-Hordle was growing older.

Whoa. It’s just being away two years. She looks fine and I’m older too—not a teenager anymore.

Eilir was a mother and near to middle age now, though it would be a trim handsome middle age. It was natural, the Doom of Men . . . but somehow it felt as if the ground had stirred.

Mary and I went to join the Rangers because Mom seemed like a prematurely old fuddy and granddad was dead and the Rangers were all young like us . . . and because the Histories spoke to our souls, of course. And Aunt Astrid was family, and Eilir was for all practical purposes except Mom never really liked Lady Juniper but come on, Rudi’s my half brother, get over it, Mom. Mithrilwood was like an endless game that never had to stop. But it’s not a game, it’s life. I’m grown up now.

Eilir’s grin got wider; a lifetime spent lipreading had also made her uncannily acute at following expressions.

You’re growing up, niece of my anamchara, she Signed. Even Astrid and I did that, you know, eventually. Mithrilwood isn’t Neverland, nor yet Aman the Blessed. It’s just home and the place my children were born, which is fine enough and more.