Eyvind gave the dog a name: Shadow. Perhaps she had once had another name, one Ulf had bestowed on her, but that was forgotten. Shadow stayed close; if she missed her mate, who had gone away with Nessa, she gave no sign of it. She lay by the entrance to the howe, nose on paws, watching gravely as Eyvind practiced with the sword, lifting it high, sweeping it low, turning, blocking, slashing, holding it steady. His weapons had been laid away carefully, but not hidden from him. That meant Nessa had trusted him from the first, when she had every reason not to. There were reminders of her everywhere: the cloak that she had left behind, in whose folds lingered a trace of the sweet scent that so beguiled him; the small pattern of stones she had made beside the place where Biter was stored. He took the axe out every morning and laid it back every night, without touching those secret symbols. He could imagine the solemn expression in her strange, light eyes, he could see how her silky brown hair might flow over her shoulders as she bent to move the little stones delicately into place. He could envisage the play of lamplight on the pale skin of her cheek, and the soft rosy curve of her mouth. He could see her as if she were right there before him…Curse it, this was a slow torture, and he was a complete fool. There was a job to do, and he must do it, and that was where it ended. That Nessa had enough faith in him to seek his help must be enough for him. It was not her fault that his eyes saw only her image, that his body ached for her touch, that his mind was full of terror that she might be in danger, and himself not by her side to protect her. She did not know that she had stolen his heart the moment she folded her hands around his, and called him Eyvi. She had not asked him to love her. That part had been his own stupid fault, the weakness of a man who, in Somerled’s words, had never been very good at thinking. Now he would have to think, and think fast, because spring was nearly here, and he still didn’t know how he would say what must be said. What you’re doing is wrong. Your whole strategy for the islands is wrong. These are real men and women here, not toys. He could already hear Somerled’s reply. Oh dear, Eyvind. You’ve got it all muddled. Leave this to me, will you, and stick to what you’re good at?