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Stop that! Stop being a baby.
That's what Mel would say. With her eyes if not with her words. I have to listen to her voice inside my head; I have to act smart. My wet clothes
are freezing into hard clumps that will rub me raw. I need to get to those houses fast!

But nothing is fast. Every little bit of distance takes so long to cover, hobbling like this. A wandering spirit will find me before I ever get there. If not the vengeful fairies, maybe the vampire Dearg-due herself. Do I hear them? Or is that the wind?

Finally two mounds take on clear form out of the gloom ahead. But they aren't recognizable. My nose is no better than my ears in the cold air; still, one is a low building, oddly stubby—I don't think an animal of any decent size could go into it. I don't see how people could either. It might be for geese. Or maybe storage. But I don't think so. Something about it spooks me.

The other building is ordinary height—and not as big, not as threatening. Plus, it's closer. From what I can make out, there are no windows. That's all right, though—no windows means no wind. I pass through the opening in the wood fence, pitiful in comparison to the sturdy stone walls that separate fields back in Downpatrick, and I crawl around the outside of the more ordinary building.

No noise, no noise, no clues at all.

I stop still. What if the people inside are not good like folk from Eire, but all wicked, as wicked as the men on the boat?

But it's so cold. My teeth ache. Shivers rack me. It can't matter who they are. I can't think of anything else to do, anyway. I can hardly think at all. Mel should be here—she should be telling me what to do. She should be doing it all!

I press on the door. Nothing. I push hard. I ram with all my might, smashing my right shoulder and hip. The door scrapes open enough for me to squeeze through. Totally dark inside. But the air is hot breath, and my nose comes alive again. I stifle a cry of relief—hay eaters! I mustn't frighten them—these wonderful hay eaters. I can do this—I'm good with animals. I shove the door closed and feel through the dark to the closest one.

A cow. Best of all creatures at this very moment.

But beware: The animal closest to the doorway is the one easiest to see if someone comes.

I lift my head and breathe deep. The scent of pigs worms through the other sweeter smells—it sullies the air. They seem to be huddled together near the middle of the room, though their waste stink comes from the farthest corner. All the animals keep their distance from that reeking muck, of course.

I tuck my hands in my armpits and blunder along to the other rear corner, using elbows and shoulders to make a path past horses, sheep, goats.

I concentrate. I mustn't fall. I mustn't release my hands.
A taste of my blood could excite hungry pigs into a frenzy.

How hungry are these pigs?

At last, another cow. Thank the Lord, there are two. The most docile creature on a cold night is a cow.

I run my hands along her until feeling returns to my fingers. They ache now something awful. The cow's thin but not skinny. I rub and rub her. She rocks from hoof to hoof, coming awake at last. “Good. Good girl.”

I move to stand at her head, and I shove my hand under her muzzle—the split palm. The smell of my own blood makes me woozy. The cow licks it. That's what I was asking for. This cow's a good girl. I press my forehead against hers in gratitude.

Then I crouch under her and feel. It's been long enough from her evening milking—her bag has rounded again. I yank on a teat, shooting the milk toward the center of the room. That should stop the fairies.

Pigs snort, and I sense them shuffling around one another, confused.

I should yank again and drink. But the pain in my palm is fierce now that the numbing cold has passed. I cradle my hand against my chest. My shoulder and hip hurt too, from slamming into the door to get inside this barn.

I sweep straw against the wall with the side of my foot, because the bottoms of my feet sting bad. I burrow inside
the straw and roll side to side till my heart stops racing.

Everything is wrong. Only weeks ago my life was perfect. Then Mel insisted we go to Dublin for her birthday; she was turning fifteen and wanted to shop for fancy jewelry. And for no reason, no reason at all, a Viking boy cut off Nuada's hand. My poor brother. Father wouldn't trust a physician in that heathen town, so we rushed home and our royal physician saved his life. That would have been the end of it all. But the Viking chieftain who was in charge of that wicked boy sent a messenger with jewels and gifts, and the news that he would come in his ship to take Mel away as his wife. He was so rich he thought our family would forgive the loss of Nuada's hand if Mel became a rich queen. What an idiot! Vikings know nothing—as though Mel would marry a heathen, and after his boy had done such a horrendous deed! But Father was going to trick that Viking chieftain and slay him and all his men. So, before the battle, Mother sent us off on the horse. She gave Mel a pouch with her old teething ring in it; it was gold, so we could trade it for shelter. That would keep us safe. That, and the fact that we were dressed as boys.

But we weren't safe. Not at all. We got stolen—not by a Viking ship, no, but by another kind of boat entirely. A boat with two sails, instead of one. And fat men with scars, whose hands smelled of clay and whose breath smelled of
goat and who shouted that ugly language, men who stole children and women who were unlucky enough to be near the shore when their boat passed. Like Mel and me. We captives huddled on the deck, hands bound, mouths gagged. They freed our hands only to eat.

Except tonight. After dinner they hadn't yet tied us up again. And for once we weren't out on the open sea; we were going through a river with land close on both sides, which was why they put our gags on, I'm sure. But free hands were enough. It was our chance—I took it; Mel didn't.

All of it is wrong. No fair, no fair, no fair. I'm supposed to be in Downpatrick with my mother and father and sister and brother. I'm supposed to own pigs instead of sleep with them. I'm not supposed to be alone.
Ar scáþ a céile marait in doíni
—“people live in each other's shadows.” That's how we survive. That's what the priests always say. But right now I'm in no one's shadow, no one's shelter.

Neither is Mel.

A little cry escapes me. Tears burn the cracks in my lips. I lick them away.

Mel's on that boat with those men.

And where am I?

I wake with something nasty in my mouth. Straw? And it's rank! I go to spit, when I remember where I am, what happened.

Mel. Oh, Mel. Oh, sister.

I press my lips together hard to hold in a sob.

Weak dawn light seeps through the building. Someone has opened the door wide. How did I not wake at the very first sound? My throat constricts; I can't breathe. I'm hot. Hunger squeezes my stomach.

The one in the doorway shouts. But he yanks at the rope around the first cow's neck. It's her he's shouting at, not me. He hasn't spotted me.

My throat eases and breath comes harsh. I shrink back till I'm pressing with all my might against something rough and pitted. And good Lord, how much it hurts to move. I can't even say the source of the pain, there are so many.

The boy shouts again in some garbled language, and how on earth will I make people who speak like that
understand who I am and that they should take me back to Eire? The boy tugs so hard his whole body is at a slant. He's urging the cow outside. The idiot. That's no way to get an animal to do what you want. Or it is, but a stupid way. At least he's putting all his effort into budging that one cow. He knows that if he gets the one at the front, the others will follow.

At last the cow moves sluggishly. The other animals turn too, jostling one another, blocking my view of the doorway. All I see is a crowd of different-sized hairy legs. But I hear the boy shouting at them, and even not knowing the words, I can tell he's mean. I'll have to find another home to ask for help—with nicer people. Once I'm feeling better. I reach out to grab more straw to hide myself, and alas, the scab on my hand breaks open. It feels like I've just grabbed a fire poker. Who's the idiot now?

I curl tight and small and stop my breath voluntarily this time. Please, Lord, don't let that boy notice me.

Shuffle, shuffle. Bleat. Baaa, baaa, baaa.

Then quiet.

Really?

Or is someone waiting to pounce?

I keep still.

But it's getting colder, and my body wants to move. I stretch my neck to peek out from my little burrow. The door
still stands ajar, making a pool of light on the floor that rises up with little motes of dust and straw swimming through. An open door makes sense. It gives the barn a chance to air out. And it will warm up again fast from the animals' body heat once they come back. But who knows how long that will be? The animals might graze on new spring shoots all day. The barn door might stay open till evening. And there's a wind again today. I hear it outside. It crisps my skin like hide held too close to the fire—like the vellum they make in the monastery at Dunkeld that Mel and I visited with Mother. The sweat that rolled off my forehead when the animals were here has dried and left me chilled.

I lick my hand—which won't cure it the way a cow's lick does, but at least soothes it—and look around. Nothing but straw over hard earth and open boxes built into the side walls—for feed in deepest winter, I'm sure. The walls are tree trunks split vertically and placed standing in the ground, each tight against the next with something shoved into the crevices to keep out the wind. I put my face to the damp wall behind me and sniff: dung. Not mixed with hazel wattles or heather or even grass—just plain dung. It can't be as good insulation as a proper mixture. These people don't know how to treat their animals.

I swallow and my ears pop and then buzz loudly, and I feel all dizzy for a moment.

Mel should have jumped. She should be here now, taking care of me.
Immalle
. Together. As Mother said. Sisters don't abandon each other.

But maybe Mel couldn't help it. Maybe someone grabbed her and stopped her. Maybe she's right now searching for a way to get back here, to find me. She'll do it. Mel can do things.

I snuffle back tears and get to my feet and immediately sink to my knees again. My feet are no use. I feel them with my good hand. They're ripped up on the bottom from going barefoot across the frozen ground last night. I imagine Mel scolding me. When Mother put us on the nag dressed as peasant boys, Mel insisted we keep our shoes. Princesses can't go barefoot.

But last night I had no choice. I had only one shoe, and I couldn't hop on that one foot with all the water inside turning to ice and stabbing my toes. I had to rip it off. Anyone would have done the same. Even Mel.

I crawl on my knees and my one good hand, till I'm against the wall beside the open door, and I lean sideways to see out.

A woman passes so close I hear the flap of her long undershift with each step. She could have reached out an arm and touched me, easily.

I fall back on my heels and scrabble away to the nearest
corner, pressing into the shadows. I don't know what to do. And I have little strength. I wait.

I'm hot again.

I lift my tunic clear and relieve myself and then move to the side, away from the wet.

I need a plan. I want Mel. I'm always the one who comes up with plans, but she's the one who knows which plan will work. My eyes feel like huge, hot balls. They keep closing. I have to think. But I can't keep my eyes open. My head falls to the side and hits the wall. I don't bother to lift it.

*  *  *

Scrape
.

I jerk awake.

The door has been closed. A person moves inside the barn and plunks something down on the ground with a heavy
thud
. Light comes dimly through cracks around the door, and I make out a form. The person lifts off a wide cloak and drops it. A man. He's wearing a huge floppy tunic over those funny baggy things the Norsemen in Dublin wore—trousers. Lord no, have I found myself among Norsemen? I swallow, and my ears ring now.

He lurches forward, and though his back is to me, I can tell he's sick. He groans in pain. He yanks wildly at the drawstring on his trousers, and now he's ripping them off.
He squats and he's stifling yells, I'm sure of it. His head writhes on his neck and the pain goes on and on. Misery like that can only come from a struggle with the devil. I hug myself hard and wish I could shrink to invisible.

At last he lets out a cry, just small and wavery, a pitiful cry, and seems to go all heavy and slack. He takes something from between his legs and throws it into the center of the room, the pig area. It lands with a
slop
. It was a large something. The smell makes my nose wrinkle. Stale eggs.

He reaches into that something on the floor beside him, and I hear splashing. It's a bucket and he's squatted over it now, washing his privates. He stands and stuffs something between his legs and pulls on his trousers and dumps the bucket and struggles into his giant cloak. He turns. But this time he spins toward me, not away.

Our eyes meet.

His mouth drops open, and his face crumples.

I stare back.

He says something. Quiet. Like he's trying to convince me. Like he's making a pact. His face is young and hairless. It shivers with fear at me seeing what he did. He won't tell on me, no he won't, because what he did was secret.

My heart beats so hard I hardly hear him, but I wouldn't understand anyway. I nod.

He opens the door wide and leaves.

I can't stay in this corner, that much is clear. And something's gone wrong with me; I can't crawl anymore. I wriggle and thrash my way along the wall, heading for my corner. When I pass level with the center, I stop a moment and listen hard.