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It was a formidable job to card and comb all that we had gathered. On my own, I would have lacked the patience for it, and so would my sister-maidens, but our Lady spoke gently to us. Bit by bit, we eased the tangles from the matted fibers, and the pile in the basket grew smaller.

Our Lady began to spin.

That night there was another feast, and revelry filled the hall. Diurán had found a lap harp, and he played and sang love songs for us. Listening to his rich voice, I felt as though I were floating, and I wished the moment might never end.

“Is this not better sport than vengeance, Máel Dúin?” the Lady asked him.

He smiled. “Truly,my Queen.”

So it was that night and the next, and when Diurán laid down his harp, I led him back to my chamber and lay down upon my pallet with him, holding him in my arms. After love, we sank into sleep and though his head was heavy on my shoulder, I welcomed its weight. Those moments, too, I wished would never end.

For many days, it was much the same. In the morning, the Lady went about her duties and we went about our chores. During the afternoon, we retired to her day chamber. Day by day, the basket dwindled toward empty; day by day, the length of silken-fine thread increased upon the wheel.

One day, as we worked, we heard footsteps in the corridor outside. They halted at the door to the Lady’s chamber. A strange hand tried the door and found it locked.

The other maidens and I glanced at once another. Any one of us would have knocked.We looked to the Lady, whose hands had gone still upon the wheel.

“Let them pass,” she said quietly. “It is of no concern.”

We sat quietly, and soon there were footsteps, going away.

That night in the hall, Diurán played the harp he had found, but he sang no love songs. Instead he sang a lament for the foster brothers of Máel Dúin, who had died on their voyage. And Máel Dúin’s men wept as they listened, but in Máel Dúin’s eyes there were no tears. He looked only at the Lady, taking pleasure in the sight of her.

When they had gone, and Diurán laid down his harp, I stood.

“No, Cébha.” There was sorrow in his voice. He gazed at my outstretched hand and shook his head gently. “We have tarried too long in this place. I will not be going with you tonight.”

“Why?” I whispered.

“Your Lady knows the reason,” he said. “If you do not, ask her.”

I fled the hall, weeping.

On the day that followed, Máel Dúin’s men were restless and muttered to one another, no longer content to idle in the dún playing games as they had done. Instead they tended to the curragh, dragging it farther up the shore and overturning it. A fire was built and the pitch pot set to heating until it smoked, so they might apply a fresh coating to the hide seams of the curragh.

When it was done, the curragh was sea-ready; but Máel Dúin had no interest in leaving, preferring to wait in the dún until the Lady returned to join him in the evening. And that night, Diurán did not sing love songs, but the song of their voyage. He sang of further wonders they had seen; of an island divided in twain by a brazen palisade, with white sheep on one side and black sheep on the other; of an island where golden apples grew and were eaten by swine with eyes of fire, where the ground was so hot it burned their feet; of an island with a miraculous fountain that yielded water and milk.

Máel Dúin’s men listened to his songs and said among themselves, yes, so it was. And they told the stories to each other; yes, here are the marks of scorching upon the sole of my shoe, yes, that was the isle where Máel Dúin flung a peeled white birch wand on the black side of the fence, and it turned black and we fled.

But such talk had no interest for Máel Dúin, who wished only to gaze at the Lady. And when I saw this, I remembered how she had made ready to receive him and how he had stared after the bothy where she had gone to bathe, and I understood that an enchantment had been laid upon him.

Once more, I slept alone and wept.

I listened the next morning as Máel Dúin’s men spoke to him of leaving.