Finding myself lost for words, I took the baby in my arms. Born at Beltane—so he was not quite two turnings of the moon old. So small. Surely too small. She’d said she had milk, but she looked half-starved. A child that was too weak to suckle for long was in immediate danger.

He’s my only one. “A beautiful boy,” I said. I could not banish the image of my Brennan at that age, rosy and content. No amount of robust good health could have saved him from Mathuin of Laois. Ana’s child would not even live the two years my son had. The blue-gray tinge to his skin was a sure sign of something seriously wrong. Add to that the rasping cry and the small size, and the odds were against him. “I’ll just have a listen to his chest, if I may?”

In my bag was a small wooden funnel I used on such occasions. Grim had made it for me, and its mirror-smooth surfaces and rounded edges were a testament to his understanding of the instrument’s purpose, not to speak of his woodworking skills. I parted the baby’s wrappings and set the narrower end against his scrawny chest, and my ear against the other end. For a while I listened, wondering what to tell Ana. Would I have wanted to know, as a very new mother, that my child would be dead before his second birthday? If I’d known, I could have taken Brennan away, out of harm’s reach. I could have saved him. For Ana’s child, the harm already lay within his tiny body, and there could be no rescue.

I looked across and met her tired eyes. Perhaps she already knew. Or guessed; a mother often knows these things by instinct. “Fursa’s heart is not strong,” I said. “I don’t have a tonic for a child so young, and I don’t think it would help him much anyway. But I do have a tonic for you, that will help you keep up your milk.” It was fortunate indeed that I’d brought a small supply of the most commonly sought remedies with me, thinking they might prove useful in unlocking folk’s tongues. With Midsummer Eve so close, I would not be coming back here. “Add three drops to your brew, morning and night. It doesn’t taste bad.” If Ana had been the wife of a well-to-do cottager, with her husband and family close by, I could have told her to eat well and rest well in order to do the best for her baby. But it seemed that when this household had lost its man, it had lost its heart. “Does Donncha bring you supplies often? Is there someone who can gather wood for you? A neighbor, a friend?”

“Donncha does what he can.” Ana lifted her chin. “We manage.”

“I can’t do much for you in a single visit, and I’ll be leaving this district in a few days. Ana, I think you need more help. There’s an infirmary at St. Olcan’s, isn’t there? There must be skilled healers there who tend to sick folk in the community.”