Takes me a while. Get up to put wood on the fire a couple of times, stir the pot, shift the kettle to one side, think of the next part. Spelling won’t be right. Never mind that. Nobody’s going to read it but me. When I’m done I go over it a couple of times, listening to the wind howling outside and the rain still bucketing down. Wonder if what I’m doing is a sort of spell. That’d be a joke. She’s the wise woman. I’m just the big lump of a hanger-on, not a speck of magic in me. Wish there was some. I’d use it to keep her safe even when she’s far away and I can’t bring her back.

Quick as a flash Ripple’s up and at the door, ears pricked, body tight, listening. Then barking so loud it hurts my ears. I slam the cover shut on the wax tablet, no time to rub over what I’ve written. Let this not be someone with bad news. Let it be her. Let it be her.

I open up. The wind bellows into the house, bringing rain with it. And there she is on the doorstep, cloak clutched around her, hair in rat-tails, face ghost-white, eyes hollow. Far from all right. But home. She’s home.

I get her inside, push the door shut and shove the bolt across, tell Ripple to quiet down. Blackthorn just stands there, water running off her clothes onto the floor. Think I can hear her teeth chattering.

‘Fire,’ I say. ‘Sit.’ Steer her over to the bench and sit her down. Pour a cup of mead and put it in her hand. ‘Drink.’

She drinks, chokes, drinks again. ‘Morrigan’s curse,’ she mutters. ‘I could do with some of Father Tomas’s brew right now. But on second thoughts, maybe not.’

Father Tomas’s brew nearly got both of us killed when that traitor Flannan ambushed us by night. Doesn’t do to sleep too sound. Your enemy can creep up on you. ‘Get you some dry clothes?’ I ask.

‘Please. Don’t bother with the screen, you can just turn your back.’ Her voice is shaky. ‘You were home before the rain?’