"Yes. I wondered if you were awake."
"Anything wrong?"
"There's a girl...." O'Brien said, and fell silent. After what seemed a long time, he went on: "Remember you said once that I'd never find a girl perfect enough to love?"
"I remember."
"You were wrong. She's like Deirdre of the Tuatha Dé, like Freya, like Ran of the northern seas. She has red hair, red as dying suns are red, and she's a goddess like Deirdre, too. The Song of Solomon was made for her. 'Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee.... I sleep, but my heart waketh; it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh.' Steve," he said, and his voice broke sharply. "It wasn't a dream. I know it wasn't. She exists, somewhere." He stirred; Arnsen guessed that he was peering at the gray jewel.
There was nothing to say. The frosty brilliance of the stars gleamed through the laced branches above. A curious breath of the unearthly seemed to drop down from the vast abyss of the sky, chilling Arnsen's heart.
In that moment he knew that his friend was ensorcelled.
Superstition—foolishness! He shook the thought away. But all the blood of his Northern ancestors rose up in him, the Vikings who had believed in Queen Ran of Ocean, in trolls and warlocks and the water-maidens who guard sunken gold.
"You're dreaming," he said stubbornly, more loudly than he thought. "It's time we got back to the city. We've been here long enough."
To his surprise, O'Brien agreed. "I think so. I've an idea I want to work on." And the boy shut up like a clam, relaxing almost instantly into peaceful slumber.