"Under my cheek, Red’s shirt was wet with blood and tears. “It’s all right,” he said over and over. “It’s all right, Jenny, it’s all right.” Neither of us seemed able to move. Then, suddenly, I felt his arm tighten around my shoulders.
“Lay a finger on her,” he said very softly, “and I’ll kill you.”
“I’m her brother, you fool,"

"Perhaps you have tried spinning or weaving, with flax maybe, or fine wool. It takes a toll on the hands, as the combing and twisting rubs and blisters the fingers, as the movement of the spindle starts to wear a deep aching into the joints. You can tell a spinner by her hands. As they give beauty to their work, their hands grow gnarled and twisted and old. The noble ladies of the ancient tales, Etain and Sadb, who became a deer, and Niamh of the golden hair, whose name my mother had shared, they cannot have been spinners or weavers, for their hands are described as white and fair, decorated with silver rings, hands for a brave warrior to kiss when he returns victorious from battle. Hands suited to fine embroidery, or playing the harp. Slender fingers for masking a delicate yawn, or touching a lover’s cheek. The ladies in the old tales had never heard of starwort.

I have told of this plant before, how it seems soft like a pigeon’s feathers, with its gray-green foliage and delicate star-like flowers. How it buries its tiny needles deep in the flesh, to burn and burrow and torture like fire. How the flesh swells and reddens and throbs, how the pain remains until every trace of poison is removed. I barely knew where to start, for there was no way to protect my hands and still do it. I could use a knife to cut the stems, and I could catch them in a cloth. That was one thing. But I could not shred the stems and leaves and twist them into thread with my hands in gauntlets. Besides, I knew enough of magic to know there was no cheating allowed."

"I chatted with Dog and played a makeshift game of ringstones on the ground. It was not easy. We found the flattest stones we could, but they could not be made to balance properly, and we ended up near hysterical with laughter, both of us woeful losers. At length I scooped the stones into a little heap, my hands brushing away the neatly drawn circle and its network of intersecting lines. When I looked up, Dog was staring at me, serious again.

“Got a man back home, I hear,” he said.

“Not exactly,” I replied cautiously, “an offer. That’s as far as it goes.”

“You might think about another.” His tone was carefully offhand. “Offer, I mean. Got a lot saved. Been with the chief three, four years now. Got enough put away to buy a good piece of land, few cattle, build up a place, somewhere far enough away. Islands up north, maybe. Or a boat, sail off and start again. Never met a woman like you before. I’d look after you. May not be much to look at, but I’m strong, I can work. You’d be safe with me. What do you think?” He fingered one of the long claws hung around his neck, his yellow eyes hesitant as he watched my face."