Margaret said not a word. She rose and took two steps forward, and with trembling fingers she reached to draw back the wrapping, revealing the graceful, small harp gleaming in the firelight, the neat pegs of finger bone, the twists of sea wrack that bound the joints, the dark, silent strings. The harp quivered of itself. Ulf… it hummed low. Ulf…chieftain…

Margaret’s face was gray, her eyes dark pools of horror. She stepped back, made a choking noise, and fled out the back door of the cottage. Sounds of painful retching could be heard, punctuated by strangled gasps for air. Nessa’s heart was pounding; she made to go after the other girl.

“No,” said Rona. “Leave her be. There’s nothing ails her that time and a bit of hard thinking won’t cure, poor lass. Now tell me. I see what you’ve made, and I know what it’s for. I’m impressed. You summoned the Seal Tribe? That was risky. What did they want in return?”

“They didn’t ask me for anything,” Nessa said, shivering. “Not yet, anyway. The Hidden Tribe helped me, too. All played a part.”

“It’s as well the old ones are stirring.” The old woman’s voice was grave. “There aren’t many of us left. That day on the Whaleback, the flower of our people was plucked before its time. Say you get to court with this harp, and it tells its tale, and people believe it. What then? The Folk are weakened almost beyond saving, and these Norsemen have weaponry and numbers. Maybe you persuade them this cruel chieftain is not the best leader they have, but what do you see them doing about it? They’ll set up another in his place and start the whole thing again.”

“This is not like you,” frowned Nessa. “Where is your faith? Where’s your belief? We cannot fail. Truth must win here, truth and goodness. Eyvind will help me…” Her voice trailed off.

“Oh, yes?” Rona asked, brows raised.

“If I can reach him in time,” Nessa whispered. “If I can get there before Somerled kills him. Trust me, Rona. I haven’t forgotten that I am a priestess.”

Margaret was coming back; she held herself very straight, shoulders square, head high, as if determined to show she was a noblewoman, and in control. She walked past the harp, not looking now, and sat rigidly upright on the bench by the hearth.

“Cover it up,” she said. “I don’t want to see it. Did you—no, I can’t say it—was it you—?”