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I whispered; my hand rose of its own accord to touch the naked hollow of my throat. There had been a diamond, once. Melisande had put it there. “That is, yes, my lady Sibeal, I have dreamed. I dreamed of Hyacinthe, no more.”
    “Hyacinthe.” She spoke his name with a Cruithne accent, a faint frown creasing the downy skin betwixt her brows. “Yes.”
    “They say,” Drustan mab Necthana said, “that a fortnight past, lightning flashed and the seas rose. So I have come to see.”
    “My lord!” The words came out sharply. “It is not fitting, that you should risk yourself in this fashion! Even now, the Queen awaits you in the City of Elua. Let us go , my lord. It is what was intended.”
    Evrilac Duré shifted behind me; at either side I had Joscelin and Ti-Philippe, who knew the risks and counted them full well. Drustan mab Necthana, the Cruarch of Alba, merely gazed at me. He had been there, when Hyacinthe paid the price of our freedom. If he could have paid it himself, he would have. He had not forgotten any more than I had.
    We had always understood one another, he and I.
    “Then let us go together, Phèdre,” he said quietly. “One last time. Sibeal has had a dream that is a riddle demanding an answer. This I must do.”
    Thus it was that I came to the island known as Third Sister for a second time, borne as I was the first, on the flagship of the Cruarch of Alba. Whether or not the Alban sailors were affrighted, I cannot say; they were men hand-picked by Drustan, their worth measured in the elaborate degree of tattooing that swirled their arms and faces, and they showed no fear as they hoisted sail. The D’Angelines onboard murmured amongst themselves as a sudden wind bellied our crimson sails, making the Black Boar surge and billow. Joscelin was pale, though whether with fear or seasickness, I do not know. Ti-Philippe’s features settled into unwontedly grim lines as he cast his eye on the steep, looming cliffs of Third Sister. Young Hugues shuffled from foot to foot in an excess of excitement. Drustan looked purposeful, and his sister Sibeal, serene. I felt sick.
    I had forgotten how the island rushed upon one, how the ingress was hidden by high, steep walls. ’Twas a mighty wave had brought us the first time. This time, it was the wind that picked us out like a child’s toy, bearing us into the cliff-flanked harbor. I had forgotten how the open temple sat atop the isle, the endless stone stair cascading down to a rocky promontory.
    Where a lone figure awaited us.
    Even at a distance, I recognized him. My mouth opened to admit an involuntary sound, squeezed out by the unexpected, painful contraction of my heart.
    Hyacinthe .
    He lifted one hand and the wind went still. Our ship drifted, born on bobbing wavelets toward the shore. He lowered both hands and a shuddering ripple arose in the scant yards that separated the ship’s planks from the rock shore, the water heaving and churning. And he stood there, very much alone, clad in breeches and doublet of a rusty black velvet, salt-stained lace at his breast and cuffs.
    I made a choked gasp and he gave a rueful smile, his eyes, Hyacinthe’s eyes, dark and aware in his familiar, beloved face, taut fingers outstretched at the churning waves. His hair still spilled in blue-black ringlets over his shoulders, longer than when I had left him. Tiny crow’s-feet were etched at the corners of his eyes, always wont to smile; his eyes, Elua, oh!
    “Hello, Phèdre,” Hyacinthe said softly. “It’s good to see you.”
    His eyes went deeper and darker than ever I had seen, his pupils twin abysses, blackness unending. And around them his irises constricted in rings, shadow-shifting, oceanic depths reflected in a thousand wavering lights. I heard Joscelin’s cracked exclamation, saw those unearthly eyes shift.
    “And you, Cassiline.” Hyacinthe bowed from the waist, ironically. “My lord Drustan.” His voice changed. “Sibeal.”
    “ Hyacinthe !” I breathed,