Seer of Sevenwaters by Juliet Marillier

her, as if here in this isolated place, alone with the sea and the sky, she had relaxed her guard.
    “We’re going down there,” I murmured to Fang.
    As I rose, the dog ran ahead down the steep path toward the cove. I followed more slowly, for the long day spent alone had turned my mood from storm to calm. Sunlight brushed the ocean with a patina of silver; beside me the grasses bent before the breeze, and the sheep conversed on the cliffs in gentle bleats, the ewes grazing below their young on the treacherous slope. No one could be despondent on such a day.
    Svala was absorbed in whatever she was doing. The dog and I were on the pebbly beach before she realized she was no longer alone. Crouched in place, she lifted her head and looked toward me, her body suddenly still.
    “I mean no harm,” I said, stopping where I was. Instinct made me crouch as well, so I would not be looking down at her. There was a distance of twelve paces between us; I would go no closer unless she showed signs of trust. Fang had halted by my side. A growl rumbled through her small body. “Hush, Fang,” I murmured, but the dog did not obey. “Svala, may I talk to you?” Oh, for a few words of Norse! A simple greeting would go a long way. What was that laid out in the stones before her? Fish bones? I had heard of entrails used in augury, bones, too. Those looked too small and too disordered for such a purpose. Svala’s pose had shifted. Now she resembled a creature on guard over something precious, a nest, a treasure.
    When I had talked to the man in the infirmary, I had done so in the belief that he understood at least part of what I was saying. It was different with Svala. Either she had no Irish at all, or she was shutting out what she did not want to hear. I gestured toward her— you —then put my hands over my eyes as if weeping— sad . Then I cupped my hands together and placed them over my heart. I feel your sorrow.
    She was so still; she was like a lovely thing carved in pale stone. But her eyes were not blank now. They were wide and clear, gray as the ocean under cloud, and they were turned on me with some understanding.
    I gestured again. You—me —then arms stretched toward her and curled into an embrace— friends?
    Above us on the cliff top, a ewe bleated a warning call to her lamb. Fang was off up the pathway, a blur of white. I waited, watching the woman, looking again at the material over which she crouched so protectively. Bones, yes. A welter of them, the ribs of one sizeable catch and of several smaller ones, an assortment of other bones, gleaming white in the sunlight. Picked clean of flesh. It was not the debris of a human meal, for nobody on the island would leave scraps on the shore like this, and besides, there was no sign of a fire. Perhaps gulls had pecked away the shreds of meat. Why had Svala gathered the remnants together?
    You—those—augury? This last was hard to illustrate. I placed a hand to my brow, as if to show thought, then repeated a gesture I had used once before with her, stretching out my arms to the sides, palms upwards. She showed no sign of comprehension.
    “Never mind,” I said, rising to my feet. “Just know that I am a friend, and I would like to help you—”
    Svala had got up, too. She stretched out a hand toward me, with something on the palm. With the other hand she beckoned me closer. My heart lurched with surprise. Up on the cliff top, Fang was barking. I hoped she was not chasing sheep.
    “What is that?” I asked, taking slow steps toward Svala.
    No reply. As I came nearer, I saw that the small item she was holding out, offering me, was a morsel of fish. Raw fish. Be careful, Sibeal. This may be your only chance with her.
    Svala made a sound, not words, but a murmur of encouragement whose meaning I could guess. Take, share. This is for you .
    “Thank you,” I said, and accepted the fish. “Did you catch this yourself?” I tried to mime the meaning. There was no sign of