But Nessa pulled the blanket over her face and turned away from him, and would not be comforted. Anger burned like a small flame within her: anger at herself for being so weak and helpless she could not even get out of bed; her sisters had died right here and she had not even known, she hadn’t done a single thing to help them. Anger at Tadhg for his words that meant nothing, for his faith that was lies, all lies. Anger at her uncle, too. He had changed the way things were. He had welcomed strangers to the Light Isles, and made a new pattern. Then the sickness had come, and now the Folk were weakened and the cycle unbalanced. If Engus had left things as they were, maybe this would not have happened. No wonder she had felt uneasy, seeing those men with their big axes made welcome at her uncle’s table.

There was a little time, brief enough, when she let despair overwhelm her and sat weeping in the dark. But she forced herself to recover, for there was no longer any time to waste. She made herself eat, though all food tasted like sand. She made herself walk, though every part of her body felt limp as a hank of spun wool. She went to see her mother, who sat listless on a bench, hair uncombed, hands idle in her lap, staring out toward the sea. It became immediately apparent that Nessa herself must take some sort of charge here, young as she was. There were few serving folk left. Those who had not perished were away tending their own families in scattered farmhouse or cottage. Engus had gone to assess how many islanders remained, what stock had been let wander, what damage autumn storms had done to ill-guarded homes. Ulf had come with his big guards and made a formal offer of help, though all knew he was already doing as much as he could for them. Kinart was organizing a small group of fishermen to maintain supplies and bring boats up to safety before winter. That left Nessa to keep the pitiful remnant of Engus’s household in order, and she did. There was no time for the mysteries, no time for the women’s place.