“But—” Nessa hardly knew where to start, there were so many objections to this. So much to do, so few of them to manage it: stock to be tended, boats repaired, dykes mended so the tender grain, planted almost too late to be guided by the season’s rhythm, might not now be mown too early by hungry sheep or wandering cow or foraging hare. They must divide responsibilities and set to work. And she must travel to the outer islands to visit her people there and reassure them. How could she take time?

“He seems strong,” Rona said quietly. “Already they gather around him. He will continue to grow; whatever challenges the world sets him, he will meet bravely. But he’s still a very young man, Nessa, and he has bid the last of his family farewell today. You, who have lost so much, know how that feels. Take time for each other. Trust us; we’ll get on with things until you’re ready to come back.”

Thus it was that, on a day when the sky was a cloudless warm blue and the sweet grasses of the Light Isles were dotted with flowers of many hues—blush pink, sun yellow, dusky violet—Eyvind and Nessa made their way on foot, each bearing a small pack, up to the west and along the shore near the Whaleback to a place where a burned-out cottage now stood half-rebuilt, and a low opening between stones led to a chamber a little girl had once named the tower in the earth. There they unpacked what they had brought, and Eyvind made a fire where Rona had once baked fish wrapped in weed, while Nessa fetched fresh water and set her provisions neatly at hand. Neither of them spoke much; the frequent meeting of blue eyes and gray, the touch and clasp of hands in passing, the brushing of body against body as they walked said more than any words could signify. In this quiet place there was a whole world of sounds: the wash of waves on the westernmost shore, the high passing cries of seabirds and the closer, reedier voices of pipit and meadowlark, the distant lowing of cattle and the small anxious cries of lambs, all these were part of it, and yet, beneath and beyond the signs of habitation there was an immense silence, a vast, open emptiness in which the mind might drift, searching for answers, and find there were no answers, there was no ending—only a journey to be taken, a pathway to be followed. One could do it well or badly; every man and woman had that choice.

“Well,” Eyvind said, sitting back on his heels as the fire settled into a darkly glowing mass crowned with licking flames. “What next?” He looked at her, eyes fire-bright, and she looked back smiling.

“A walk,” she told him, reaching out her hand.

“Oh.”

“Don’t sound so crestfallen. Not very far. Only up to the clifftop, there to the south. Do you remember?”