The young healer Braca and I rush forward at once to catch Auntie Freedom before she falls.

I sigh as a stream of curses flows from Saoirse's bluish lips. Just before she collapsed, there was a flash of her old self, the magnificently strong and beautiful warrior she once had been. Many times I have seen folks on the doorstep of their death suddenly recover their youth that way, as if they already have set one foot in TirNanOg.

Braca is indeed young. She cowers at the bitter stench reeking from Auntie Freedom's mouth. I take hold of the healer's arm and shake her to get her attention. "A strong brew of milk thistle, have you any? And set some ale to boil. Be quick!" I give the girl a push to speed her on her way. Then I ease my groaning aunt gently back onto her bed.

"I will do my best," I promise her.