‘But Ruairi was alive. He would recover. Conor glanced over at him; he was now sleeping peacefully. Sorcha was leaning over him, speaking softly, her hair falling gently over her face like a curtain, enclosing herself and Ruairi in their own private space. It made him feel oddly jealous.
Then he heard her words, and they cut through him like a dagger.
“Rest well, gra mo chroi, love of my heart.”
The love he had felt in her was not for him. It was for Ruairi.’