Turns out all right. Branoc comes striding back from the house and gives me a bag of coppers. The weight tells me it’s more or less the right amount, but I shake the coins out and count them anyway. Then I get up on the cart and head off, knowing he’s going to watch me all the way down the hill, making sure I’m gone. Though why I’d be wanting to hang around I can’t imagine.

Down on the shore I get out the bread and cheese I’ve brought and when Storm and Sturdy have had a drink I give them their oats. We eat. I look out over the lake. If I lived in such a pretty spot I wouldn’t be bad-tempered like this baker. I’d be getting on with my work and thinking how lucky I was.

Horses make light work of the trip back. I drop the cart at Scannal’s and give him the payment, and he gives me my share and the half-bag of flour.

‘This yours?’ he asks me as I’m heading off, and he’s got Blackthorn’s red kerchief in his hand, all floury from the back of the cart where he’s picked it up from a corner. Must’ve got tangled up with something in the wash and ended up in my pocket, though I don’t recall it being there. Must’ve dropped it when I was unloading the flour bags.

I take it and stick it back in the pocket. Needs a good wash before she can wear it again, not that she does wear it much. I bid Scannal good day and walk home.

All this is in my head now while I cook the pie. I want to tell Blackthorn about my day. But she’s gone outside. She’s sitting in the garden, still as a stone, staring ahead of her. Wanting to be on her own. Wanting quiet. Needing to be left alone. So I keep on cooking, and later when she comes in we eat the pie without saying much. She’s had enough of folk cluttering up the house, fine ladies especially. She’s tired of chattering voices. And upset that a girl drowned and she couldn’t save her. Not that she says so, but I know anyway. So we sit by the fire awhile, and outside it gets dark so we go to bed, and somehow my tale never gets told.

12 Oran

12

~ORAN~

‘Give her time,’ Donagan said. ‘She’s young, she’s far from home, the circumstances of her arrival were unfortunate. This is a girl of eighteen, Oran, not a seasoned traveller.’