Nessa swallowed. “I’ll explain,” she managed. The ancestors aid her, what she bore was made with the very bone and sinew of this girl’s husband; it was his body she had opened to find the makings of her charm. Explain? How could she even begin? “Let me come in first; this is not a matter we can speak of out here. I’m cold and hungry, and I badly need your help.”

Perhaps something in her eyes spoke to the young widow; perhaps Margaret remembered a time not so long ago when she herself had asked for aid.

“Come, then. Warm yourself by the fire and share our supper. I am not so neglectful of my duty that I would leave you out in the dark. Come in.”

The cottage was cozy; a fire burned on the central hearth, and lamps stood at either end of the room. Shelf beds were well furnished with rugs and linen, and cups and bowls stood on a stone slab. The two dogs were already making themselves at home, Guard lapping thirstily from a bowl of water, Shadow sitting quietly next to a woman who was crouched by the fire, stirring the soup pot. Nessa blinked. Surely she was seeing things; hunger and exhaustion must have addled her wits. Yet the smell was unique; there was nothing in the world as good as Rona’s onion broth.

“As you see,” Margaret said awkwardly, her eyes sharp on the dark, swathed form of the harp, “you are among friends here.”

Nessa came close to dropping the instrument then, overcome by a sudden flood of feelings, hope and sorrow and fear, grief and joy and terrible anxiety. Half-blinded by hot tears, she set harp and wolfskin carefully on the floor and ran to throw her arms around her old friend and mentor.

“Rona! By all the powers! I thought you were dead, Eyvind said you went off all by yourself—how is it you are here, with her? Don’t you know what happened? They’re all dead, all of them, Engus and Kinart and all the men who stood up with them, they cut off their heads and left them lying, and they took the women from the Whaleback, and now Eyvind is a prisoner, and Somerled—”