“Perhaps not a physical threat,” Gabriel said. “But not all threats are physical.”

“Agreed, but I’m not any sort of threat to her.” He met Gabriel’s gaze. “I never will be.”

Gabriel shifted behind me, his hand still on my arm. “If you can’t help, then we’re going to leave.”

“I’d like to lie and say I know exactly why you’re asking, but I’ve lost my chance at that. Whatever is making you ask the question, though, clearly you believe the answer is connected to Cainsville. Tell me what’s going on. I can help.”

He was still speaking in that other voice, the soothing and serious one, but he wasn’t offering out of some sudden surge of altruism. He hated to be left in the dark as much as his son, and he always expected something in return. Quid pro quo. And I was all right with it. A fair exchange of services. That’s how a bòcan operates.

“Spina bifida is a severe congenital condition,” I said. “At least, the form I had was.”

“The form you had . . .”

“Up until the age of two. Then my parents murdered six people. And, miraculously, I was cured—of an incurable condition.”

“You were—?” he began, slowly.

“Olivia?” Gabriel cut in. “We should leave.”

“No, hold on.” Patrick walked to his bookshelf. He ran his fingers along a row of books, the spines so old the leather seemed to flake at his touch.

“Olivia?” Gabriel said. “I really would like—”

“No.” Patrick’s tone was sharp and the look in his eyes made Gabriel blink. “Please. I’m not trying to trick you. I don’t have a solution, but I can provide one answer.”

He pulled out a book, and as he did, the worn leather mended under his fingers, becoming whole and smooth. He set the book on the desk and flipped through it, too fast to see what was written, and when he did slow, the ink seemed to shift and slide, the words illegible. He skimmed back two pages and stopped. His forefinger zoomed down the page, and the words stopped moving, but that didn’t help—they were in Welsh.

He straightened and tapped a line. “There. It doesn’t say the name of the condition, but I’m sure it’s the right one. Spina bifida is a failure of embryonic completion, correct?” When I wasn’t fast enough answering, he said, with some impatience, “The fetus doesn’t fully form.”

“Right.” I moved up beside him and looked down at the page. It was handwriting, neat and precise. While the ink no longer moved, it seemed to shimmer, a kaleidoscope of color that drew me closer still, gaze fixed on the words.

“Which makes it one of a small host of conditions—” he began.