Once he is far enough away from Tóla’s house, he hums under his breath as he walks, and in his mind he is a small child, lying on the bed by an open window. A shaft of sunlight touching his mother’s embroideries on the walls, and a little breeze stirring them to odd life. A man riding a white horse. A woman playing the harp. A dog chasing a ball. Had there been a dog? Outside, the sound of his father’s saw, cutting wood. Closer at hand, his mother singing. Feather bright and feather fine, none shall harm this child of mine.

Chapter Fifteen: Blackthorn

15

~Blackthorn~

The episode with Cúan had unnerved me. The news of Mathuin had left me shaken and furious. I stamped about, starting a task and leaving it half-finished to pick up another, and generally getting in my own way as well as Grim’s. Waiting for him to tell me to calm down and stop being stupid, which he didn’t do. Instead, during a lull in the rain, he went outside with Ripple at his heels to chop more wood and stack it under cover. Not a word of reproach. I found myself wishing he would be angry, and hating myself for it.

When Cara was in one of her fidgety moods, which was quite often, I would tell her to choose one task and keep at it until she finished. Following my own good advice, I decided to prepare a reading lesson. I opened the wax tablet, ready to write. Found myself reading instead. Found myself writing something in my turn. Closed the tablet and put it away. A change of plan. No reading lesson; instead I would make a brew, set out a platter of bread and cheese and be honest with Grim about what was bothering me. I might only get one day before the rain cleared and he had to be back at Wolf Glen. It would be foolish to waste even a moment of that time.

‘Brew?’ I stood in the doorway, watching as Grim straightened and wiped the sweat from his brow. There was enough wood there to keep my hearth fire burning for many days. Until the weather warmed with the first breath of summer.

‘Sounds good. I’ll just put the axe away safe.’ His smile told me he knew I was making an effort, and was glad of it.

When we were sitting at the table, cups in hands, he said, ‘Worried, aren’t you? About Mathuin and this attack?’