The boat is far enough from the coast of Ulster that we cannot be seen, but we can still see the land. The Ulaidh have not always been the friendliest people in Eire. There is tension between Temhair and Emain Macha, a struggle that has existed long before I first moored upon Eire’s shore. The sail is now full and crimson with the reflection of nightfall. Another day is nearly gone. I prepare two salmon on a small, makeshift cook-fire, made from stones, tinder and dried grass I’d brought along for this purpose.

It’s a blessing to share the voyage with another. A journey of this scale can be difficult alone. There is little hardship for me with rigging or navigation, but the solitude has often driven a sailor quite mad. Today was spent sharing our life stories. Verica’s tale was told with the passion of a seannachie, but the sentiment behind it could not have been emulated by even the great Summer Isle, himself. The woman’s words have given me a new respect for the Cruithne people and a new loathing for the Cath Milidh. “Lucky you are to be done with him,” I joke. “I must return to Inver Colpa and continue to endure the lout!” Verica smiles halfheartedly, and I regret making the jab. Regardless of what the princess has decided, she must still have feelings for the brute, and it is not my place to speak ill of him.

“You are doing a great thing, Amlaidh,” she finally says after a long pause. I am surprised by the change of subject and even more ashamed for making the inappropriate comment. “Return to Inver Colpa if you must, but know that you will always be welcome at Cean Tir, when I am Queen.”

Verica and I share the last meal of the day together and discuss the differences between food preparation in Alba and Eire. The way she speaks of venison and pork makes my mouth water and gives me a good reason to get us to Cean Tir quickly! When the sun disappears, Eire becomes invisible against the horizon. I adjust the rigging for the night. The dotted firmament glistens above, and the moon is nothing but a sickle’s silver blade. I draw attention to the sequence of stars that make up my mother Geruith’s place in the heavens. “Your mother?” Verica asks incredulously. “I had better not tell you what it is to the Cruithne.” After some playful prodding from me, Verica finally tells: “Well, just keep in mind that this comes from the wisdom of our own starwatchers, who know nothing of the heroines of Lochlann. Anyway, Gorma calls the constellation Talorg’s Misshapen Foot. You see, the big toe is…well…where your mother’s head…well…” The princess is embarrassed and becomes silent. Jaw dropped, I stare up at the constellation, dispirited by the Cruithne’s view of my mother’s eternal position in the heavens. What would my mother have done had she been alive to hear such a thing? She would have laughed, to be sure. The thought does amuse me, and I snort out a stifled laugh. Verica echoes my amusement with an outburst of her own! It’s as though she had wanted to laugh this whole time but prevented herself until my unexpected invitation. The two of us have quite a chuckle over it, and the more I look up at the stars, the more I see Talorg’s Misshapen Foot! I am now laughing tears.

The night becomes very cold very quickly, and the salmon has put Verica into a very peaceful sleep. The seawater laps against the side of the Airgeadragan – the seafarer’s lullaby – and rocks us gently northward. Even with her brat wrapped tightly around her, Verica shivers where she sleeps, in the stern. Unwrapping my own brat from my shoulders, I throw it over the princess and tuck it in gently around her. I should keep warm enough while stowing away our supper paraphernalia.