It was time for the story. And, as if someone out there knew it, the rain slowed and ceased, and behind it came a chill breeze from the north. Geiléis drew a deep breath. Hope, she thought. How fragile hope can be. Short-lived as a March fly . . .

• • •

Despondent, soaked through and trembling with cold, Lily arrived home just as her father was riding out of the courtyard with an escort of men-at-arms. Between her stumbling explanations and the summoning of serving folk to prepare a hot bath, dry clothing and nourishing food, Lily learned that her father was not looking for her, but heading out to help search for a missing man. A young man. And as she stripped off her wet clothing, then lowered her shivering body into the bath, she discovered from Muiríol that the young man was named Brión, that he was the son of a chieftain from the south who had been visiting a neighboring holding to hunt, and that he had been gone two days and two nights. The dogs had picked up his scent once or twice but kept losing it. Brión, thought Lily, trying it out. Brión. Fate must surely be on her side, to deliver this answer without her needing to ask a single question.

An inquisition followed the bath, though at least her mother waited until Lily was dry, dressed and seated in comfort in her bedchamber eating her meal—broth, fresh-baked bannocks, soft cheese—from a tray. By then Lily had her story all ready. She had been at her window, watching the storm approach. She’d spotted a light in the old tower; at least, that was where she’d guessed it was. But nobody ever went to the island; the old tower was empty. She’d been about to call Muiríol when she’d seen something else, something small and pale running off under the trees. She knew now that she’d been foolish, she told her mother, but she’d thought it might be one of the lapdogs, Pearl, known to have a great terror of thunderstorms. No time to tell anyone where she was going; no time to fetch help. If Pearl ran off into the forest she would be lost forever. That was what Lily had thought. She’d slipped out the little side door.

Her mother was not entirely satisfied with this neat explanation. How was it that Lily had run all the way from her bedchamber to the little door in the wall without anyone seeing her? How was it that the shutters of her chamber had been left open?

“I was watching the storm,” said Lily sweetly, hoping the trembling of her hands was not too visible. Hoping her desperate need to hear more about the missing man was not too obvious on her face. “I did tell you.”

“Hmmm,” said her mother, but asked no more. Lily had always been a good girl, a biddable girl, and her mother had no wish to punish her if that could be avoided. She decided to overlook the small inconsistencies in the story. “If it ever happens again, don’t give in to your instincts. Come straight to me and ask for help. Or to anyone close at hand. This was ill-considered behavior, Lily. As it happens, Pearl is with Poppy in my quarters. They’re both tucked up safely in their basket.”