The day passed swiftly; the sun bathed this small patch of western shore in deep gold, lighting the faces of Nessa’s companions to a translucent glow. A note of urgency had crept into their voices now, the pattern of their speech-song conveying a clear message: Hurry! The sun moves lower. Make haste, or it will be too late!

Pegs, little pegs of finger bone. Notches almost too small to see. So small, her hands were shaking, she must concentrate, she must slow down. She must keep her mind only on the task of making, and put those other images out of her mind: Eyvind hurt, Eyvind fighting and falling again.

“There must be time,” she murmured to herself. “I’ll light a fire, I’ll work all night. In the morning, I’ll find a horse at one of the farms, I’ll ride there as swiftly as I can. He’s only been captive one day. They must have some sort of hearing, these things take time…Tomorrow, tomorrow must be soon enough.”

Even as she spoke she saw the look in the sea women’s wide eyes, and heard the tone of their wordless voices, and recognized what they were trying to tell her. One raised a delicate hand, gesturing toward the sun, and ululated a warning. Another pointed to the cliff path, to Nessa herself, and to Guard, who now slept with eyes half-open at the rear of the shallow cave, twitching and trembling. The sea woman used her hands to show running, running. She pointed eastward, her hum rising to a kind of scream, which rang from her mouth and nose, a braying danger call like the voice of a war trumpet. There was no mistaking the message. Finish it and go now. Now. Tomorrow is too late.

They began to work alongside her; it seemed they had decided she could not finish in time, not on her own. Their thin, pale fingers plucked the hair from the tumble of discarded bone and began to twist and weave it together with a speed and dexterity that made Nessa stare in wonderment, until one hissed at her, motioning to the harp frame where the small holes still lacked their pegs. These finger bones were so little, and it was getting dark. She had made the holes as neatly as she could, not easy with a knife better suited to the casting of ritual circles than such a delicate and precise task. She fitted one peg, working hard to keep her hands steady as the sky darkened and the sun turned red, sinking until it was a finger breadth above the slate gray of the western sea. She eased another into place.