One day as Nessa walked home along the weed-strewn shore, she saw a man sitting on the rocks, watching the sky. He had his back to her, but his identity was instantly plain from the way he sat. She did not need to see the bright yellow hair or the big axe on his back or the gray pelt he wore on his shoulders to know this. No other man she had ever seen could be so motionless, as if he were part of the very rock that supported him. Nessa passed well behind him, keeping as quiet as she could, but she wondered what he was thinking. He gazed up into the clouds as if he hoped to hear some voice there, or see some vision. He stared as if hungry for answers. It seemed to Nessa that he was not happy. Perhaps he did not like the islands. Maybe he was homesick for a wife or sweetheart. Well, his wait would be over soon enough if her uncle made the sensible choice. Autumn would come, and these men would sail their boats home, and all would be as it had been before. Nessa shivered as she passed him. It was not so, of course. You could never go back. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see the fellow still seated on the rocks unmoving. But now he was standing, watching her as she walked away toward the Whaleback. As quiet as she had been, still he had heard her footsteps above the roar of the sea, above the scream of the gulls. The man’s ears were as finely tuned as a night owl’s. She pulled her hood up over her head and walked on. Closer to the causeway were more of the Norsemen, three big warriors, and two of her uncle’s guards talking to them; it was some sort of deputation, maybe. As she scuttled past, one of them gave a piercing whistle of summons, and Nessa sensed, rather than saw, the yellow-haired man move away from the sea and back toward his companions. She fled across the narrow path to the Whaleback, and safety.