The dog had been following her for a while now. It was a big, gray thing, shaggy and wild-looking. She’d walk across from the Whaleback to the shore, and as soon as she reached a certain point, she’d catch a glimpse of it up in the dunes, padding along quietly as if keeping watch on her. Its hair was matted; its ribs showed. The dog did not come within the boundaries of Rona’s secret domain. It halted in the same spot every time, crouching very still under a group of low bushes, while she went forward to the sheltered hollow of the women’s place. It would wait there while she performed the necessary tasks. When she was ready to head back home, the dog would get up and follow, as if to see her safe on her journey. Lately, Nessa had taken to bringing scraps of food, a little fish, a crust of bread, and leaving them where the dog could reach them while she worked. Sometimes, it would let her come quite close, almost close enough to stroke its rough pelt. For all its fierce looks, it was a shy thing.

She knew whose it was, of course. They’d all seen those two hunting dogs the Norse chieftain had with him; he’d even used them to help find their own lost sheep in the time of the sickness. But Ulf was dead now. Perhaps nobody wanted the hound anymore. Perhaps its mate had died, and it was lonely.