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smiles at him and blushes, yet again.
    And asks, ‘Are there lots of girls at the university with you? And what do they do there?’
    â€˜Not so many,’ Gwydion says. ‘There should be more. There’s no reason why not. They’re as clever as us men, and usually work a lot harder.’
    The three of them laugh. Non wishes it could always be like this, free and easy, not having to consider what they say, not having to be fearful of straying into forbidden territory with a word or two if they drop their guard for a second.
    â€˜Is one of the girls your sweetheart?’ Meg asks.
    â€˜Meg!’ After Non’s gasp there is silence. Something clutches at her heart. Is it fear? Jealousy? Surprise? She has never thought of Gwydion in this way.
    Gwydion clears his throat and mumbles words Non does not catch.
    Meg’s eyes sparkle. ‘What’s her name?’ she says.
    â€˜Aoife.’ Gwydion says the name like a sigh, his face scarlet as the raspberries on the cake Non has waiting in the kitchen.
    â€˜That’s a strange name,’ Meg says. ‘Is it Breton or Irish or something?’
    â€˜Irish,’ Gwydion says. ‘She’s Irish.’
    â€˜And she’s at the university in Aberystwyth?’ Non has to know who this girl is who has suddenly turned Gwydion into this man, this stranger, another stranger that she cannot begin to know.
    â€˜No. Her father’s a lecturer over from Dublin, just for the year.He taught us Irish, and he had some of us round to his house for supper and the like. He’s very hospitable.’
    Non thinks again of the old stories her father used to tell her. Old, old stories. The Welsh and the Irish were always linked in them, as friends and foes. She thinks of the giant Brân who lived in the very place where Davey is working today, a brave and fearless leader who laid himself down across the sea to Ireland to make a bridge for his men to cross over when they went to rescue his sister Branwen from a cruel Irish king. She thinks, They are part of our history, the Irish, for better or worse, and we are part of theirs. Gwydion won’t be lost to us.
    â€˜Is she pretty?’ Meg says.
    â€˜She’s beautiful,’ Gwydion says. ‘She has skin like cream, and blue eyes that can change colour like the sea, and black curly hair.’
    Meg rubs the freckles over her nose. ‘Are you going to marry her?’ she asks, her voice suddenly shrill.
    Non rises from her chair. ‘That’s between Gwydion and . . .’ She stumbles over the name. ‘Aoife,’ she says, though she, too, would like to know the answer to Meg’s question. ‘Now, let’s clear up these plates to make room for Osian’s cake.’
    â€˜We’re just in time, it seems,’ says a voice behind her.
    Davey. She turns around and smiles at him and as usual he avoids her gaze and greets Gwydion with a firm hand on his shoulder and a handshake. Man to man.
    As Davey and Wil pull chairs up to the table, Non fetches the cake and places it in front of Osian. The child brings out his penknife, snaps it open and begins to mark out the top of the cake into portions.
    â€˜I’m not eating any of it,’ Meg says. ‘He’s spoilt it now. He uses that knife to cut up all sorts of things.’
    Non watches Osian’s face as he concentrates on his task and suddenly she sees what Maggie Ellis avoided saying outright to her this morning. She sees that Osian, this child that Davey had brought home for her, telling her his mother had died at birth and his father was unknown, this child is carved in her husband’s image.

7
    The town’s streets are the way Non prefers them – empty of people. They should be bustling this early on a Saturday afternoon, but the heat has driven almost everyone indoors. A lone boy rolls his hoop half-heartedly in Pentre’r Efail, coughing in the dust it raises. Non pulls her