She found another water skin, though she hoped Ash would, at the very least, have regained enough strength to get down the stair to the island, where the river could provide as much water as anyone could possibly want. Perhaps the little ferryman would have brought him back over. Indeed, the more she thought about it, the more obvious it became that Ash would have gone home, wherever home was. He was surely tall enough to wade to shore with no difficulty. Of course he would be gone. He would have been braver than she was. He would have faced up to his family and told them he’d been out late, and had drunk too much, and had fallen down and hurt himself, and had then found himself in a strange place, and had suffered disturbing dreams . . . He wouldn’t be there, she told herself. And that was a good thing. But she would still go, just in case.

She found bandages and salve in the stillroom, making sure she slipped in and out while her mother was occupied with bathing the lapdogs. Back in her chamber, she packed everything into a bag and, hearing Muiríol’s voice from the hallway as her maid returned from the stables, thrust it under her bed. She waited, trying not to think of him and failing miserably.

Then there was the midday meal to get through, and a conversation during which she made brief responses while barely aware of what her parents were saying. The meal seemed interminable. Her mother commented that Lily seemed out of sorts; perhaps she was unwell? Lily agreed that it was time for her rest, and that she might stay abed a little longer than usual. She retired, telling Muiríol to take the afternoon off. She closed her bedchamber door.

Then it was bag on her back, shutters open, down the oak tree, out through a tiny door in the outer wall that only the kennel boys used, and away through the forest to the tower. Lily was certain nobody had seen her go; she had made herself as swift as a shadow.

Today the sun was veiled by clouds, and the river flowed sullen and gray. Lily made her way along the bank to the little pebbly beach, but no small craft bobbed there in the shallows. There was no sign of the ferryman. Should she call out? What if her voice alerted the wrong person to her presence—a traveler heading north across the ford, or even someone from home, who would surely tell her parents she’d been in the woods alone?

“Ferryman?” She dared a soft call. “Are you there?”

No reply. Even the birds had gone quiet.

“Ferryman? Will you take me to the island?”

Nothing. The wee man was not there, and nor was his boat. Common sense said go home, climb up and slip back in the window, try again another time. But Ash . . . What if he was still up in the tower, on his own and needing her help? She could not turn her back and walk away. That would be wrong; cruel. But she could not shout his name. Her father’s swineherd took his charges out to forage in the woods most days. If not him, then someone else was sure to hear.