It was pointless. Rona’s eyes were closed; she snored peacefully. As soon as the sky began to brighten, he’d have to wake her, and they’d have to go…where? A fugitive, whose own folk thought him a ghost, an ancient crone and a very large hunting dog: the three of them could surely not travel far, unobserved. He did not like to think of Rona in Somerled’s hands. Somerled’s treatment of the cat woman all those years ago had shown what he thought of priestesses. Where could they go? Where could he take her? To the Folk, he was the enemy, a butcher who had slaughtered their sons. And what about Somerled? Every moment that passed seemed likely to put Nessa and her people in greater danger. If only she were here by his side; if only it were that first night again, when he had woken from his long nightmare to see her there in the shadows, with all the mystery and gravity and wonder of the islands written on her delicate features. No wonder he had thought her a goddess, a spirit. No wonder he had sat close by her, with her body warm against his own, as if there were nothing untoward about it. That night had not been part of ordinary time; it was its own time. Where was Nessa now? Did she think of him at all? Did she wonder if he had begun to fulfill the quest she had given him, or had she forgotten him the moment she’d turned and run from him, back to her own people? Eyvind put his fingers up to touch the place where she had kissed him, and, knowing himself foolish beyond belief, he whispered his good-night words to her. “Rest sweetly, my Bright Star. Walk safely. My hand in yours.” He closed his eyes and slept.

It was quiet. It was so quiet he knew the moment he woke that the old woman was gone. A glance around the howe found no sign of her. Eyvind made his way outside, hoping Rona was merely dipping water from the spring, or perhaps rummaging through the pitiful remains of her home, hoping to salvage some small treasure. But the place was deserted. A gray film of fine ash coated the small bushes and dusted the banks of the stream. Rona was gone, and so was Shadow. A raid, an abduction, even murder—had he slept through that? Think, Eyvind. No sign of a struggle, no blood, nothing touched as far as he could see, though the boot prints Somerled’s men had left behind them still marked the soft soil. Where did Rona’s footsteps lead? Did she walk as subtly as she wove charms of green mist and ghostly voice, so cleverly she passed with never a trace?