I almost asked her to explain; almost gave her the opportunity to tell me how fortunate it was that I had not been slain, or worse, by the evil sorcerer whose lair I had foolishly stumbled into—Cillian would have brought back his own version of events, I was sure. But no, I would not ask Ita for anything. I had several things to say, and I would not let her stop me, not this time, not ever again.
“Where is my sister?” I heard the iron in my own voice. Within the house somewhere, the baby was still crying.
Ita moved to take my arm; to usher me into the kitchen that had once been Maraid’s pride and joy, the warm heart of our home. Forcing myself not to wrench away, I allowed her to seat me at the table.The chamber was no longer bright and welcoming. Maraid’s weavings, the flowers she used to set here and there in jugs, the strings of onions and bunches of dried herbs were absent. Yet Maraid was here; had been for some time. With a chill in my bones, I waited for Ita to answer my question.
“Maraid is resting. She’s been quite ill. The baby is sickly. She’s always crying, crying—it’s enough to try anyone’s patience to breaking point. But we took them in, your sister and the child, since Maraid had nowhere else to go. And now you’re here, Caitrin.”
“How burdensome for you,” I said grimly, holding on to calm. “A grieving widow, a crying baby and now a madwoman as well—it really is too much for you to shoulder. I think you and Cillian would be best to move back home.”
Her eyes darted to me then, and quickly away again. I saw her draw a deep breath and compose herself. “This is our home now, Caitrin, you know that; it came to Cillian on your father’s death. As for the burden, the obligations of kinship can be onerous, that is true, but we accept them. It is our duty.” She took a jug from a shelf, then stood holding it as if she had forgotten what she was doing. “I must call Cillian,” she said.
“If you wish.When you call him, please call Maraid as well.”
“I said she’s resting. If you’re home for good, Caitrin, and I take it that is so, you will have plenty of time to see her.” Ita had set the jug down.“You must be tired yourself after such a long journey. Cillian said you were far to the west, almost on the coast.” Her gaze sharpened suddenly.“Are you with child to this cripple you were lodged with? Is that what brings you back here? There are limits to our generosity, Caitrin—what Berach left will only stretch so far.”
“Call my sister,” I said. “And call Cillian. I have something to say to you and it won’t wait.”
Cillian had been out in the yard. At his mother’s call, he came to the doorway where he leaned, staring at me. For a moment the old panic gripped me. I felt his hands on me; my skin ached with the memory of bruise on bruise. His smell was in my nostrils, bringing the dark time sharply back. “Cripple throw you out, did he?” he queried, grinning.
And then, in the opposite doorway, the one that led into the sleeping quarters, there appeared a wan figure, her clothing disarranged, her complexion blotched, her eyes reddened. She was a shadow of herself, her generous curves shrunk to nothing. She raised a hand to brush her hair from her brow, and the wrist was all bones.
“Caitrin,” she whispered. “Is it really you?”
A moment later we were in each other’s arms, Ita and Cillian quite forgotten. “Maraid! I’ve missed you so much! I’m sorry, oh, I’m so sorry about Shea!”
Maraid said something, but her face was pressed against my shoulder, and I could not understand her. She was shaking with sobs. She felt so frail that she might break apart. My lovely sister, buxom, rosy and full of life, had been reduced to this. It was not solely down to grief, of that I was certain, for Maraid had always been strong, resilient, a survivor. As I helped her to sit at the table—she seemed too weak, or too distracted, to do even that by herself—a cold strength entered my heart. I turned to face the two people I had feared most in the world; the two who had almost destroyed me.
