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to a marble-tiled hall built a century later that jutted off at an angle. Corridors never seemed to intersect at right angles, or several corridors would meet all at once in a strangely-shaped room, and a few of the halls they walked were so ancient that the feet of countless people had worn double hollows in the very stones. The entire population of the island could have lived here easily, with room left over for every last goat, sheep, and chicken.
    Meriel began to doubt that she would ever come to know this place. She also doubted that she would ever enjoy it.
    “This will be your room, Meriel,” Máister Kirwan said, “and—ah, good, you’re here—this is Faoil Caomhánach, who will be your roommate for now . . .” They had entered the dormitory wing, a dreary expanse of wide halls and spacious rooms. This particular room was undistinguished—a parlor with a peat fire burning in the grate, some dark utilitarian furniture, and two doors leading off to bedrooms. A young woman’s head lifted in the warm glow of a sconce of candles, glancing up from a roll of parchment spread out on a pine desk: Faoil. Hair the color of candlelight sparked from under a white wimple; large green eyes flecked with brown regarded Meriel first, then went to Máister Kirwan and Jenna. Faoil’s eyes widened even more, and a blush touched her cheeks. She rose, scattering papers in her rush, and curtsied.
    “Banrion MacEagan, Máister,” she said. Her voice was honeyed milk; the momentary fluster gone. She gestured to the chairs near the fire and spoke as if meeting the Banrion were something she did every day. “Please, come in. I was just studying; Siúr Meagher hinted that she might give us a small test tomorrow.”
    “Faoil has a great potential in the slow magics,” Máister Kirwan said, “if she continues to apply herself.”
    “And Máister Kirwan has made certain that all of the Bráthairs and Siúrs keep me working,” Faoil added with a smile. Meriel decided that Faoil was too smooth, too polished, too flattering. She’d seen the type before: the polite sycophants who prowled the halls of Dun Kiil, the width of their smiles a gauge of the relative rank of those they met. She wondered what the real Faoil was like.
    She had the distressing realization that she would undoubtedly find out.
    Her mam seemed to have the same curiosity. She was staring at Faoil as she might a meal set in front of her. “Caomhánach,” she said, pronouncing the name as if tasting the sound of it. “There are Caomhánachs in Tuath Infochla and Tuath Airgialla. And Tiarna Iosep O’hEagjra, who is on the Comhairle, has a sister who is married to Odhrán Caomhánach of Infochla ...”
    “That would be Aisling,” Faoil answered. “She’s my mam, and Odhrán Caomhánach my da,” Faoil answered. “We have land near Glenkille, though he’s often in Falcarragh.”
    “In the Rí Infochla’s court,” Jenna said. It was a statement rather than a question. Faoil nodded. “And your da holds a Cloch Mór.”
    “Aye,” Faoil said. “He does.” She paused a moment, glancing at Máister Kirwan again. “I ... was introduced to your mam once about a year ago, Banrion, by your half brother Doyle Mac Ard, at the Festival of Gheimhri in Dún Laoghaire. She was ...” Meriel couldn’t see her mam’s face, but she could see Faoil’s smile falter. The girl visibly blanched, as if realizing the gaffe she’d just made. Faoil blinked, obviously not wanting to finish the thought but thinking that it would be even more awkward to leave the sentence unfinished. “. . . a bit ill at the time, but she was very pleasant to me.”
    Meriel saw her mam’s hand drift toward where Lámh Shábhála rested on its chain. She could only imagine her face under the cowl of her clóca. “It’s good to have met you, Faoil,” Jenna said. “Mundy, I remember a courtyard at the end of this hall. Does it still have the statue of Peria? I’d like to take a look at it