Not that I was looking forward to getting there. The cottage had sounded all right, but once folk knew there was a wise woman in residence again, it would be visitors all day whether I liked it or not. If I did my job adequately, as it seemed I still could, they’d keep coming no matter how snappish and contrary I might be. Conmael had trapped me neatly. I couldn’t even regret saying yes to him, since if I hadn’t, I’d have been dead and forgotten by now. And even when things had been at their darkest, when anger had been like a rat gnawing at my vitals, when grief had shut down my heart, I’d known death was not the answer. There’d always been vengeance to keep me going. There still was, provided I could find enough patience to last me seven years.

I practised on Grim. There was the day he found a fair like the one he’d spoken of, and went off with his bag of coppers in his pouch while I stayed away, sitting under a tree keeping myself to myself and half-wishing he’d never come back. But he did, a bit the worse for wear, having drunk a fair quantity of ale, and he brought me the kerchief he seemed to think I wanted. I thanked him and made myself wear the thing, which I guessed was the most eye-catching he’d been able to find in the whole encampment: bright poppy-red with a border of blue flowers done in wool embroidery. Just the thing for crossing country unnoticed.