“Of course it was,” Geiléis murmured with her gaze fixed on the Tower of Thorns, where someone would soon reach out to close the shutters. The setting sun touched the tower gently, turning it gold as a ring, rose-pink as a young girl’s blush, blue as the wing of a butterfly. “If not, why would I still be here? Let me tell you how fine that time was. It was like the first blossoming of spring flowers; it was like sweet honey from the hive; it was as precious as the first whispered words of love. Oh, that time was as wonderful as all those things and more . . .”

Brión’s recovery was slow. The physician recommended that he not be moved until he was fully restored to health, and neither the young man nor his kinsfolk raised any objection. He stayed on at the home of Lily’s parents, where folk fed him a special diet and fussed over him, while the physician tried bloodletting and the application of leeches. Brión’s illness, declared this learned man, was an ague brought on by his two days and two nights wandering lost in the chill and damp of the forest. They gave him possets and wrapped him in warmed cloths.

Lily behaved impeccably, though she longed to see the man she had first known as Ash. She yearned to hold his hand, to comfort him and whisper tender words. But she held back, hoping her mother might start to forget her foolish escapade in the woods. In time, her patience bore fruit. Brión told Lily’s mother that what he wanted most was someone to tell him stories or read to him; lying in bed all day was difficult for a young man who loved riding and hunting. Was there perhaps someone of his own age, or near his age, in the house who might be prepared to visit him and perform this service?

Lily was the only highborn and well-educated person in the household who was anywhere near Brión’s age. When asked if she would help, she managed to conceal her delight. “Very well, if you wish,” was her response to her mother, who had suggested Lily might sit with the invalid twice daily for an hour, always in the presence of Muiríol or one of the other handmaids.

Now Muiríol, having received a gift from her mistress so generous that very soon she and her young man could be wed, was happy to do whatever Lily asked of her. She was ready to slip out of the sickroom for at least half of the appointed time. She waited within sight of the closed door. Should anyone happen to come by, she would say she was fetching a draft for Brión or a warm shawl for Lily. Who would challenge that?

Those snatched hours, or half hours, became the most precious time in the world. Young as they were, the lovers behaved as nobly born folk are supposed to behave; their passion was balanced by restraint. So there were soft kisses; tender touches; sweet whispered words. There were blushes; there was stammering; there was poetry. And if, after many days had passed, the passion threatened to outweigh the restraint, time always intervened. Half an hour was not very long at all; not with one’s mother in the same house with an ear out for trouble.