time

surely. It’s a great rest I’ll have now, and great sleeping in the long nights after Samhain, if it’s only a bit of wet flour we do have to eat, and maybe a fish that would be stinking.

She kneels down again, crossing herself, and saying prayers under her breath.

To an old man.—Maybe yourself and Eamon would make a coffin when the sun rises. We have fine white boards herself bought, God help her, thinking Michael would be found, and I have a new cake you can eat while you’ll be working.

Looking at the boards.—Are there nails with them?

There are not, Colum; we didn’t think of the nails.

It’s a great wonder she wouldn’t think of the nails, and all the coffins she’s seen made already.