Astrid stood there, feeling in the way, as most of the farmers returned to their work. Niall and his father seemed ready to do the same, but they were clearly unsure of the wisdom of walking away from her.
She smiled. “Then best get on with it.”
“My thanks.” The elder Niall repeated. His son said the same and then they both headed toward the hefty plow sitting unattended. They must have been breaking up the soil, readying it for spring next.
Making her way to the edge of the field, Astrid was surprised to find Faolán standing there, leaning against a shovel and watching her. He was covered with dirt. A shiver passed over her, but she planted a smile on her lips.
“Good day, Faolán,” she said, not pausing.
His grip on her arm made her stop.
“What is amiss?” Her heart leapt in her chest at his intent gaze. “Is it Aednat?”
“N-not A-Aednat.”
Astrid sighed. “Ye gave me a scare.”
He still had not released her arm.
“Then what has happened?”
“Y-ye tell me!”
She glanced around, trying to make sense of what he was asking, then shook her head. “Tell ye what?” She pulled on her arm until he released it. “What is wrong with ye?”
“What i-is it ye gave Niall?”
Astrid glanced across the field. Everyone had returned to their work.
“I gave him what his mother always gives him.” Healing plants were of little interest to her. She actually didn’t know any of the names, so she couldn’t have hoped to answer him.
“They tried that b-before they sent the lads for Maeve.” He shook his head, a determined movement. “I-It did not work this time.”
She would not reveal where she had gotten the tincture, not after she’d given Merewyn her word. “I do not know what ye want.”
“Did ye get i-it from A-Aednat?”
Faolán had spent some time with Aednat, enough to know she was a healer. Agreeing would protect Merewyn, and it certainly wouldn’t hurt Aednat.
“She showed me some of her tinctures when she first arrived.” Astrid’s face heated. She was a terrible liar, something Faolán knew. His gaze never faltered.
“Yer mother will not like that she i-is a healer.”
“My mother likes very little.”
“She likes Pádraig.”
Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing.
“But she doesn’t like M-Marcán,” he continued.
Astrid stilled, afraid to even breathe. His mentioning Marcán made no sense unless…
She snorted, feigning a lightheartedness to hide her fear. “And why are ye telling me what I know by now?”
“She w-wants w-what i-is best for her daughter.”
“Ye believe she knows what is best for me?”
