The weather was kinder this time, though their route was not as direct. The wind played in shifting moods, sometimes favoring them, sometimes losing interest. Eoin didn’t seem to mind. He moved about the ship with an easy grace, finding pleasure in the snap of canvas, the sway of rigging, the salt spray on his face.

  Ingbord was having a less enjoyable time.

  She had never quite gained her sea legs, and though the stifling heat of their eastward voyage was gone, the gentle, unpredictable rolling of the ship did not agree with her. She spent long stretches at the rail, face pale, stomach unsettled.

  The more southerly sun was harsh on fair skin, burning her nose and lips, leaving them raw and dry. Salt and wind roughened her hair into a matted nest. And, to layer on discomforts, she had begun to sniffle. Just a bit. Then the congestion had set in.

  “What was that noise? That nasal misery you just made?” Eoin asked one morning. “Is it a new song?”

  Ingbord glared at him, sniffling again.

  He grinned. “Oh, marvelous. You’re dying.”

  She sighed, rubbing her temples. “It’s a cold, Eoin.”

  “Yes, well.” He studied her for a moment, then plucked something from his belt pouch and pressed it into her palm. A smooth, polished stone. “Here. You should have this.”

  She frowned. “Why?”

  “It’s a rock.” He nodded sagely. “if you die, I’ll need it to bury you at sea, and it’ll keep you from floating back up."

  She exhaled sharply through her mouth. “That was almost funny.”

  “I am almost funny.”

  While the ship was westward bound, while she was at her most miserable, Eoin was not entirely without pity. He undertook to distracted her with stories.

  First, he told the tale of Tilmur Spelkins.

  *******

  “Tilmur Spelkins was an honest spinner. He spun starlight into thread, mist into silk. He twisted the golden hush of dawn into skeins softer than a mother's love. The world was full of things waiting to be spun, if one only knew how to listen.

  “Tilmur listened well.

  “One night, a voice tore him from his work. A summoning. A binding. His true name, spoken by a stranger's tongue.

  “He had no choice but to slip through the veil to answer.

  “He arrived in a chamber of straw and stone. A girl—young, trembling—clutched his hands. A princess.

  “I must spin this straw into gold, or I will die,” she wept. “I have no payment for you, but if you help me, I will find you an apprentice. I swear it.”

  “Tilmur was weary. He had spun alone for too long. He had no children, no kin, no one to teach. The thought of passing his craft to another warmed his tired old heart.

  “So he spun. All through the night he spun, until at last the chamber glowed with gold.

  “The princess kissed his hands, promised him his due.

  “But when the sun rose, she was gone.

  “No apprentice. No payment at all.

  “The doors opened, and guards dragged him back to the veil, cast him out of their world as though he had never been there.

  “And so the tale they told was this:

  A wicked creature came unbidden into the princess’s chamber.

  A monster made a foolish bargain.

  A villain tried to steal what was not his.

  “But the truth was simpler.

  “She called him by his true name. And she lied.”

  “I think I’ve heard that tale before,” said Ingbord, pulling her blanket up to her chin. “Only, different in the details of the telling”.

  "Oh?" said Eoin. "And in your version, was the spinner still a gullible old fool?”

  "No,” said Ingbord thoughtfully. "A villain. Strange how stories shift in the telling. In one he is cheated. In another, he is the cheat."

  Eoin only laughed gently."Oh, my dear magician." he murmured. "That's not strange at all."

  ********

  The next evening, after brisk winds all day, the wind had settled. The ship moved steady beneath a darkening sky, sails full but unhurried. Ingbord sat wrapped in her cloak near the aft rail, her head resting against the curve of the hull, watching the stars begin to gather.

  Eoin settled beside her without a word, folding himself easily into the quiet. He waited until until the world had grown soft around the edges.

  Then, as if it had simply occurred to him he told her the Tale of the Clever Cabin Boy.

  ********

  “It was a bad night at sea.”

  “A ship, a good ship, had sailed into the teeth of a storm, and now she ran blind and afraid through the dark.

  “The wind howled through her rigging, snapping her sails like a beast tearing into flesh. The rain fell in sheets, so thick that the men could not see, and the lanterns on deck were only smudges of light. The deck heaved like a drunkard's stagger. Men worked their fingers to the bone, soaked to the skin, hoping against all hope that dawn would find them still afloat.

  “Somewhere in the middle of it all, a cabin boy watched and listened, his heart beating like a frightened bird in his chest. He was small, deft-handed and quick-footed and went mostly unnoticed. Which suited him fine. Unnoticed boys are free to learn. And he had already learned plenty about her.

  “He was only a boy, but he loved her.

  “He knew her almost better than her captain did. He knew how valiantly she pulledst against a headwind. He knew how sweetly she rocked in following wind.

  “He heard her.

  “The whisper of water sliding past her hull. The song of wind in her rigging. The tremor in her timbers when the waves pulled at her too hard.

  “That night, she was not whispering.

  “She was crying out.

  “But the crew didn't hear her. They only heard the storm.

  “The boy moved before he could second-guess himself, slipping through the chaos, darting past shouting men and flapping sails. He climbed—half-mad with fear - hand over hand - gripping tight againt the shudder of her mast.

  “Higher, higher, until he was above the spray, above the wind, high enough to see what no one else could.

  “She was running too fast, driven hard toward the waiting reef - a row of jagged black teeth hungry to tear her open.

  “There was no time to turn, no time to change course. No time for anything but ruin. Ship and crew together were lost.

  “They would not make it. Unless -

  “He wrapped his arms tight around her mainmast and dropped, shimmied and slid to the deck landing hard. He scrambled to the helm, darting between legs, slipping past curses, and grabbed the captain's arm with both hands. “

  "Captain! Captain! Cut the mainsail!” he cried.

  The first mate swore and cuffed him hard across the side of the head. “Get away from there, boy!”

  “But the captain—the captain hesitated. Maybe it was the terrible fear in the boy's eyes. Maybe it was because he knew the boy loved the ship, too.”

  "Do it." He ordered.

  “The knife came down.

  “The mainsail snapped free, the wind catching it like a giant’s hand, and the ship lurched. The stern swung wide, the bow lifted, and instead of driving headfirst into the reef—the storm carried them sideways, past the worst of the danger.

  “She scraped, but did not sink.

  “She groaned, but did not break.

  “And when the storm finally passed, when the sky blushed with dawn and the sea settled back into something almost gentle, the captain turned to the boy and said,

  “Well done, lad."

  “And the boy—aching, salt-stung, breathless—smiled. Because now, at last, he knew: the lady loved him back. “

  "Foolish cabin boy." Ingbord's voice was low and worn at the edges. She shifted, tucking her arm beneath her head.

  "If the ship loved him, then she always loved him. Storm or not."

  Eoin rolled his coin over his knuckles smooth and practiced. "That's the way of things, isn't it?" His smile flickered, sharp and effortless. "No one really listens when the weather is fair."

  *********

  The night after, the sea was still. Dark and heavy, as if holding its breath.

  Ingbord was quiet—bone-weary, but awake. She lay curled beneath a blanket, not watching Eoin, but not looking away either.

  He did not ask if she wanted another story.

  He just let his voice rise with the hush of the waves and told her the tale of the Beast with the Golden Heart.

  ********

  “Far, far to the West, beyond the reach of safe harbours, in the deepest blackest water where the old maps curl at the edges and the compass forgets its way, there lived a beast.

  “It was vast as the hunger of the deep, with a hide that had swallowed a thousand harpoons and never felt the bite. It had a mouth full of knives and eyes that glowed like coals beneath the waves.

  “When it surfaced—rarely, and only under a moon dark enough to swallow all light—it could capsize a ship with the mere roll of its back.

  “It had no name, because no sailor who had seen it had lived long enough to give it one.

  “And yet, despite warnings, despite the certainty of ruin, men still sought it.

  “Not to slay it.

  “Not for vengeance.

  “But because they swore the beast’s heart was made of gold.

  “That was the story, anyway.

  “Some said it had been born that way, its ribs lined with precious ore, its heart beating heavy with wealth beyond reckoning. Others swore it had swallowed a king’s treasure once—a lost hoard meant for an empire that never reached its shores, left to sit inside the beast’s chest, polished bright by the years.

  “Either way, the promise was the same: kill the beast, and its golden heart would be yours.

  “So the hunters came.

  “They came with harpoons weighted with lead, with nets woven from the hair of drowned men, with spells and salt and steel. They came with greed licking at their bones, with hunger sharper than any blade.

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  “And the beast—ancient, patient—watched them all.

  “It let the first ship get close.

  “Let them ready their harpoons, let them whisper their superstitions, let them think that they had the advantage.

  “And then it turned the sea against them.

  “The wind snapped their masts like twigs. The tide pulled them where it willed, dashed them against the jagged rocks that lay hidden beneath the surface.

  “By dawn, there was nothing left but wreckage.

  “The beast, they said, had no rage. No vengeance. It did not attack. It only lured.

  “It let men chase after it, thinking they were the hunters instead of the hunted.

  “And in the end, the beast remained, slipping back into the deep, its golden heart still beating, its secrets still untold.

  “Because in truth, the beast was never what it seemed.

  “Perhaps its heart was gold. Perhaps not.

  “Perhaps there was no treasure, only a story—one that made them ruin themselves before they ever got close enough to find out.

  “Or perhaps—perhaps the beast had learned, long ago, that no one ever would.

  “That men would always chase the promise of gold, never the thing itself.

  “And so the beast did not fight.

  “It did not flee. It only had to be wanted. And that was enough for the beast. Or at least—it should have been.”

  “A darker tale, that one,” said Ingbord her voice low and raspy.

  “Indeed,” replied Eoin.

  “No foolish cabin boy to save the day in that one?”

  “I think not,” said Eoin with a shake of his head

  “This beast,” began Ingbord “was his hide really proof against hooks and harpoons as you say?”

  Eoin shrugged. “You’d have to ask the beast.”

  Ingbord studied him, her gaze cool and steady.Then, after a pause, she said— “It was a good story. You told it well.”

  She let that sit between them before turning onto her side, settling into sleep.

  *********

  The cabin was dark, save for the sway of lamplight on the wall. Ingbord lay in the narrow bunk, fever fading but not gone, her breathing still thick and raspy.

  Eoin sat on the floor beside her, back to the wall, voice quiet in the hush between waves.

  “There was once a boy who couldn’t drown.”

  And he told her the story.

  “Once there was a boy who fell into the sea.

  No one saw it happen.

  No one heard him cry out.

  One moment he was there, perched laughing on the edge of the deck, wind in his hair, sun on his face, the world stretching wide and endless before him.

  “The next, the ship rolled, he slipped, and the blue swallowed him whole.

  “The sea should have taken him. It should have pulled him down into its belly, filled his lungs with salt, tangled him in its endless, reaching hands. He should have sunk, heavy and helpless, and that should have been the end of him.

  “But instead, the sea carried him through the dark, through the tides that knew his name, and left him where he had begun—on the shore, coughing salt, at his mother’s feet. She wrapped him in a blanket, gave him a cup of milk and put him to bed.

  “For a time, the boy stayed.

  “For a time, he was content with quiet things—the creak of the roof in the wind, the scent of fish and peat-smoke, the hush of the tide beyond the dunes.

  “And when the boy was old enough, the sea reached for him again.”

  “Again, there was a boy who fell into the sea.

  “A storm. A shipwreck. A night of screaming winds and splintered masts.

  The waves dragged him under. The cold swallowed him whole.

  “The sea should have taken him. It should have pulled him down into its belly, filled his lungs with salt, tangled him in its endless, reaching hands. He should have sunk, heavy and helpless, and that should have been the end of him.

  “But the sea did not take him.

  “It carried him to a city where the water ran between streets, where golden lanterns lined the docks and silk-clad merchants bartered beneath tiled rooftops.

  “He was no one there, at first. A hungry boy with no name, no coin, no home. But he had quick hands and a sharper tongue. He learned their words, learned their ways. Learned how to carve out a place for himself in a city that only asked what he could take and what he could trade.

  “For a time, the boy stayed.

  “For a time, he was content with silver coins in his pockets, a ship beneath his feet, the promise of a future not yet written.

  “Until the sea came for him again.”

  “Once more, there was a boy who fell into the sea.

  “This time, a beast rose from the deep, its body vast and writhing, unfurling suckered limbs to clutch at his very own ship and snap her to bits with its beak.

  “The fight raged from dusk until dawn, the sea rolling black and terrible beneath them. His ship's ribs cracked like splinters, his men cried out in fear, and the beast—ancient, patient—waited for him to falter.

  “He did not.

  “The boy stood on the deck of his ship, cutlass in his hand, salt in his blood, and met the monster in the waves. He leapt onto its back and drove his blade between its eyes. Boy and beast both vanished under the waves.

  “The sea should have taken him. It should have pulled him down into its belly, filled his lungs with salt, tangled him in its endless, reaching hands. He should have sunk, heavy and helpless, and that should have been the end of him.

  “But the sea did not claim him. She brought him to the side of his injured ship and battered but unbroken, salt stinging in his wounds, the taste of victory sweet on his tongue, he sailed home.

  For a time, he was content with the name he had made, the fear he had earned, the stories they told of him in dark-lit taverns.”

  “Until the sea whispered for him again.

  “And at last, there was a boy who fell into the sea.

  “He slipped from a rock.

  “The sea—watching, waiting—reached up and pulled him under.

  The water was cold, black, endless.

  He was lost in the dark, dragged by unseen currents, tumbled over rocks, broken and drowning, beaten down to the last breath, the last heartbeat.

  And then—

  He was dragged him from the deep, torn from the salt and the black and the quiet.

  The boy coughed, choked, gasped.

  He was lost, alone and nameless.”

  “And this time, he did not know if he had been saved, or if the sea had finally let him go.”

  When Ingbord finally spoke, her voice was quiet, measured. "Does the sea whisper to him still?"

  Eoin exhaled, slow and steady. He did not look at her.

  "What would happen if he fell again?"

  "He’d drown."

  She considered that. Then, softer—thoughtful— “Would he?”

  Eoin’s fingers curled against his palm.

  "The sea let him go, in the end," he said.

  She tilted her head. "Did she?"

  Then, quieter— "Or is she only waiting for him to come home?"

  ********

  By the next day, Ingbord was almost—just almost—starting to feel herself again. The fever had broken, the worst of the congestion faded. Her hair was still matted, her lips were still chapped, but she had eaten that morning and hadn’t snapped at Eoin once.

  They were standing on the sun-warmed deck, leaning against the rail. The wind was softer now, gentler—blowing them home. Eoin had been quiet for some time, gazing out over the water, his mood unreadable.

  Ingbord didn’t look at him when she spoke.

  “You said Torsten could make a bard weep, telling stories about me.”

  Her voice was still rough, but drier now. More sure of itself.

  “Do you remember any of what he said?”

  Ah.

  There it was. An echo, rolling over him like the tide. He sighed.

  "For Four years, I listened to Torsten’s ceaseless, lovesick monologues—drunk on affection, staggering under devotion. I dismissed them, endured them, ignored them when I could. But to listen that long, that often—well. It was like listening to the moon speak of the sun. A tide that would not be turned. A song with a thousand verses. Even if I wished to forget, his words linger—like salt in a sailor’s wound.

  "And now, you want me to relive them? To drag them kicking and screaming out of my reluctant heart and serve them up again?"

  He sighed, tilting his head back and staring at the sky. “You don’t actually want to hear them.”

  Ingbord turned her head, the angle just sharp enough to suggest yes, actually, I do.

  He groaned theatrically, rubbing his face, then waved a vague hand. “No. I can’t. It’s too awful. Too much.”

  He paused, and then with something like resignation, “I will instead tell you the tale of The Prince and His Shadow."

  *********

  "There was once a prince, young and untried, heavy with duty, who carried his kingdom on his back. And there was a shadow, bound to him, drawn in close, ever at his side. The shadow knew every line of the prince’s face, his secrets, the weight of his grief, and the sharp edges of his longing.

  "The shadow was no true man, only a thing that fetched and carried. It had no name of its own, only the one it had been given.

  "But still, it stayed. And it listened dutifully to all the prince’s stories."

  *********

  “He told me once," Eoin began, "about the first time he realized you were fierce.”

  Ingbord hummed faintly, the sound laced with amusement.

  “It was some training exercise—you were both, what, ten? Twelve? Torsten was bigger, faster, confident.” Eoin flicked a glance at her. “Overconfident, I think was the word he used.”

  “So, there you were, wooden swords, sparring. And he had you—pinned, winded, already gloating.” Eoin smirked. “And then, before he could react, you dropped your little wooden sword, grabbed the real knife at his belt, and had it against his throat before he could blink.”

  “Just like a hawk to the kill, he said.”

  She smiled faintly.

  *********

  "He told me about the time when a newly dug well had run dry and everyone stood around saying it must be cursed, or fouled, or dug in the wrong spot."

  "As they stood there arguing about digging a new one, you simply picked up a rock and threw it in.

  "When it landed with a splash instead of a thunk, you just crossed your arms and said, 'Then it’s not dry, is it?' and had them all dredging up buckets of mud and rocks within the hour.

  *********

  Eoin’s voice dipped lower, slower, as if recalling it from somewhere deeper.

  "There was one night—he was drunk, though he’d never admit it." He paused, considering. "And talking about you, of course."

  Another pause. Thoughtful. Measuring.

  "He told me about the day you’d rowed out together, stealing a few quiet hours on one of the uninhabited islands, lying among the dunes, watching birds wheel in the cliffs. Just the two of you, holding hands where no one could see."

  Eoin tilted his head, watching her.

  "He said you lingered behind when it was time to row back. And when he turned, he saw you—standing on the crest of a dune, arms folded, chin lifted just so."

  "You were only fifteen, he said. But he swore that in that moment you had the stance of a queen."

  *********

  Torsten, sprawled out across his bed had one arm thrown behind his head, the other gesturing vaguely in the air, was in the midst of yet another monologue.

  “Ingbord,” he declared, “is the most brilliant woman in the world.”

  Eoin exhaled slowly through his nose.

  “She sees things no one else does, you know. Not just magically, though obviously there’s that, but she knows things. About people. About me.”

  Eoin flicked his gaze to the ceiling.

  “And she’s practical,” Torsten went on, shifting against the furs. “Not like other girls who simper and bat their eyes and pretend at softness. Ingbord knows what she wants.”

  Eoin studied his knuckles.

  “She doesn’t play games. Or if she does, she’s good at them. I’d rather play against someone who’s clever enough to win than pretend at a fair fight with someone who’s already lost.”

  Eoin resisted the urge to close his eyes.

  “She’s fierce,” Torsten marveled, as if he hadn’t already said it half a dozen times. “Fierce like a hawk to the kill! "

  Eoin finally turned his head and fixed Torsten with a long, level stare and stood up, as if to leave.

  “I wonder,” he drawled. “If there's a tub of eels that needs gutting, or perhaps a pit that needs digging somewhere."

  Torsten stopped, mouth half-open, caught mid-praise. "You don't believe in romance?"

  Eoin sighed, sitting back down.

  “It's not that I don’t believe in romance, Torsten.” His voice was dry, but patient. “I am romance.” He gestured loosely with one hand, as if that fact should have been self-evident. “It sings in my blood. I have whispered poetry into the ears of princesses and pulled songs from the lips of beggars. I have been kissed by kings and made ruin of queens. I have written verse so beautifully it made battle-hardened warriors weep. I have walked in the gods’ own halls and taught them new ways to make love.” He let his hand fall back to the chair’s arm. “And yet, somehow, against all reason, against all the rules of nature, I have never heard a single soul praise another with quite as much relentless devotion as you.”

  Torsten smirked, shaking his head. “You exaggerate.”

  “I understate,” Eoin said, exasperated.

  Torsten laughed, full and unguarded, and for all his put-upon suffering, Eoin found himself leaning into the sound.

  They had been circling something, the two of them, ever since the cave. A fragile sort of balance, shifting between sharp words and quiet tolerances. It was not warmth—not quite—but it was not the cold of before, either.

  Eoin had carried loneliness in his bones for longer than Torsten had been alive. But there was something about this place—about this strange, determined, infuriating young man—that made the silence after laughter feel… different.

  Less empty.

  Eoin sighed, sitting up, rubbing a hand over his face. His gaze landed on the nautilus shell sitting on Torsten's desk.

  “Why don’t you tell me where you got your seashell?”

  "Well…" Torsten hesitated. "Ingbord found it for me."

  Eoin glanced sideways at him, already resigned to the fact that they were, yet again, talking about Ingbord.

  "She says it's dexterous."

  Eoin looked levelly at Torsten. "Did she perhaps say 'dextral'?"

  "Dextral?"

  "Dextral." Eoin made a spiraling motion with his finger in the air. "It means your shell coils the wrong way. It is a thing of rare beauty."

  Torsten brightened, nodding enthusiastically. "Just like Ingbord!"

  ********

  "Eoin," said Torsten. Then hesitated. "That day at the cave—when you told me about the cleft and the earthshake. And you…pulled me back from the edge?”

  Eoin turned; grey eyes as inscrutable as the sea. He said nothing, only waiting.

  "Could you have pushed me?”

  Eoin regarded him in silence, expression blank. After a long moment, he dropped his gaze. “No, princeling,” he said, quiet and certain. “I could not have.”

  Torsten exhaled, looking away—then back again. “Could you have taken us both over the edge...together?”

  Eoin’s eyes were flat as tide-worn obsidian.

  “Don’t,” he said, voice low, deliberate. “Gnaw that close to the bone.”

  *********

  "What are faerie women like?” Torsten asked.

  Eoin sighed, long-suffering. “Remind me again—when does this Ingbord of yours come home?”

  Torsten frowned, missing the point. “Not for a quite a while yet. Faerie women?”

  Eoin exhaled sharply, as if the conversation itself pained him. He sketched a vague shape in the air with his hands.

  “Willowy.”

  “Willowy?”

  Eoin sighed again, heavier this time. Ingbord couldn’t come home soon enough, as far as he was concerned.

  “A faerie woman’s kiss tastes like molten silver. It lingers on the tongue with a sweetness that refuses to be ignored. Her embrace feels like standing bare-skinned in the first full flush of summer sun. Being between a faerie woman’s thighs—” Eoin paused, then continued “—is like being caught up in the urgent surge of spring - the moment when the ice breaks and torrents of water crash down the mountain in an unstoppable rushing cataract.”

  Torsten swallowed. Hard.

  “Oh,” he said. “Willowy.”

  ********

  Much of the youthful softness of Torsten’s face had faded, leaving behind the hard angles of a man. His beard was neatly kept, dark against his skin, framing a jaw that had grown stronger over the years. He still carried himself like a young man, broad shoulders thrown back, one boot resting over his knee—but there was weight in him now, a kind of settled gravity where restlessness and uncertainty used to be.

  Eoin had stopped calling him princeling some time ago.

  He had also stopped expecting Torsten to blush when he spoke of Ingbord. Once, he could fluster him with a single well-placed remark. Now, Torsten only met those barbs with a steady look and a slight, knowing smirk. Torsten had long since outgrown embarrassment where she was concerned.

  “When you said, ‘I’ve been bedded by kings and kissed by queens,’” Torsten said, rubbing at the back of his neck, wincing as his new tattoo pulled at the movement, “what does that mean?"

  Eoin arched a brow. “Been bedded by kings and kissed by queens?” He echoed the words back, voice mild. His gaze went distant, mouth curving in memory of some distant pleasure. “I seem to recall I said kissed by kings and made ruin of queens.”

  He let the words hang there, let the moment stretch long enough for Torsten to sit in it.

  Torsten shifted, stretching one leg out, then pulling it back in. “I think… it means you’ve had lovers. Of all kinds.”

  Eoin hummed, neither confirming nor denying.

  Torsten glanced at him, then away. “So, among your people—” He stopped, shook his head. “No. Among you. Does it—does it matter?”

  Eoin finally looked up. “Matter?”

  Torsten cleared his throat, jaw tightening. “Man or woman.”

  Eoin turned his ring once more, slow and deliberate. “Should it?”

  Torsten didn’t answer.

  Eoin let the silence stretch. Then, dismissed it with a flick of his fingers. "You’re gnawing at something that won’t do you any favours there, Torsten.”

  He sighed, tipping his head back against the chair. “In memory of old times, why don't you tell me about your Ingbord again?

  Torsten took the shift in conversation without hesitation. “Oh,” he said, with an air of idle reminiscence, "Ingbord has supple ankles and pretty hands.” He waved his own fingers vaguely, mimicking the shape of delicate wrists. “Bright, shiny teeth. A laugh like a merry brook.”

  He glanced over at Eoin, who was still gazing out the window, unfocused, lips just slightly curled.

  Eoin asked idly “Does she sing like a lark, also?”

  Torsten hesitated. “Um. No.”

  Eoin turned his head slowly, deliberately.

  Torsten looked at the floor. “She doesn’t sing.” A long pause. “Hasn’t… got the knack.”

  Eoin pursed his lips. “Hasn’t got the knack?”

  Torsten shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to say anything unkind.

  “She knows all the words to songs,” he said at last. “Ballads. Sagas. Love songs. All of them. But she doesn’t… she isn’t… No. Ingbord doesn’t sing.”

  Eoin turned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She doesn’t sing because she can’t carry a tune?” He gestured broadly. “The mighty Ingbord—more supple of wrist, brighter of tooth, prettier of foot than all other women on this blasted island—” He broke off with a sudden laugh. “Croaks like a raven and refuses to sing because of it?”

  Torsten glared. “Supple ankles. Pretty hands. And there's a bone there, Eoin. Mind you don't gnaw too close to it”

  Eoin wheezed, pressing his knuckles against his lips. “Oh, Torsten,” he gasped heading toward the door. “This Ingbord of yours—she sounds wonderful.”

  **********

  She was quiet for a time.

  "A shadow. A shadow is just a flat reflection of something real. This prince of yours, whatever it is he holds, I'm not sure it was ever just a shadow."