And, remarkably, she was. With her stomach empty, the headache receded to a dull throb. Eyvind wedged the pillow behind her back so she could sit upright. He cleaned up; he returned with a wet cloth, and held it to her brow.

“I was worried,” he said. “You seemed so far away.”

“It’s the trance. And–and what I saw was bad. It was so bad I couldn’t come out of it properly; I went to sleep instead. Running away again. That’s why I’m sick now. It will pass. I must go soon, the tide will be at its lowest. How did I get here? How did I get out of the chamber?”

Eyvind smiled. “Well, the old woman didn’t carry you, that much is certain.”

“But…you mean she let you go down there and fetch me? You brought me back?”

“She gave me permission, with instructions to keep my eyes down. You were freezing cold; breathing as slowly as a man left out in the snow at night. We might have lost you.”

“Thank you for bringing me back.”

“It was quite awkward. That passageway is narrow, and you’re tall for one of your kind. Almost up to my shoulder.”

“When we were little, my cousin used to call me Beanpole,” Nessa said dryly.

Eyvind said nothing for a while; she began to wonder if she had got the word wrong in his language. Then he said, “I would not give you such a name.”

She glanced at him. There was a look in his eyes that seemed new. It troubled her, for she felt its reflection in herself, something fragile and lovely, so painful she could hardly bear it. “What name would you use, then?” she asked him, not sure what he meant.

“I would call you Pearl, for your beauty. I would call you Dove, for your sweetness,” said Eyvind softly. “I would call you Bright Star.” He would not look at her now, but stared with apparent fascination at the ground by his feet.

Nessa’s heart seemed to turn over, and steady, and beat again. Men did say such things, of course, she knew that. But they never meant them; her sisters had told her it was only a trick to make women give them what they wanted. She drew a breath to rebuke him, but could not find any words. It was quite plain to her that Eyvind was not that kind of man. Indeed, she doubted very much if he had ever spoken thus before. He seemed to be blushing.

“Men do not say such things to me,” she told him, not managing to keep her voice steady.

“No?” Now he did look at her, gaze deep as the summer sea.

“I am a priestess. Men do not address me thus. It’s not…appropriate.”