Flann says the word

It had been a day out of the ordinary: the day of Lili’s funeral.

Liadan was still too young to travel and too young to be left behind, but even at home Flann had tried to keep her mind on sober matters. She had thought of Lili and of poor Cousin Egelric and his children; of her own father, whose death was still a raw wound; and even of little Eithne, whose fragile spirit seemed in still greater danger now that Flann could not watch over it.

Nevertheless, extraordinary circumstances had combined to give Flann something like an ordinary day. Cat and Paul, Finn, and Lasrua had all gone to the funeral; and the reeve at Nothelm had also attended, leaving his wife free to invite her friend Lena and little Benedict to spend the day and the night.

Only Osh and Flann had stayed behind. They had had an ordinary day: eaten together, cared for Liadan together, and sat together in the same rooms even when Osh painted and Flann silently sewed.

But all day long she had been overflooded by an intense awareness of his presence, and her sober thoughts had merely drifted past like bits of bark and leaves. And over and over, as if caught in an eddy, came the thought – or was it a dream? – that this was what it would be like to be married to him, and to live together alone.

It had been a peaceful, ordinary day, but there was still the night to live. Flann knew by their extraordinary gaiety at dinner. Flann knew by their extraordinary shyness at supper. Flann knew. She knew he knew.

She reached behind her back, blindly, and found his hand. She opened her lips and mouthed a single word. It might have been “Come”; it might have been “Go”. To Osh and his elven ears it was clear.