Pocket’s whole body relaxed and Napper hopped free, striding out into the light without a care to rub against Moragh’s leg. She stepped into the cavernous chamber and set the lantern on the ground, rubbing between the cat’s ears in the same stoop. She was breathing heavily, her body and head wrapped in a heavy woolen shawl to guard against the chill in the stones. Pocket crawled out from under the wooden beams, his relief doing nothing to dispel his confusion. Why had she come? He never told anyone about his haven. Not even her. How had she known? But his questions fled when he saw the small clay pot in her hand, the aroma of stewed kale tickling the air between them. Pocket hurried forward and she handed the pot over without a word. There was a wooden spoon inside and Pocket tucked into the stew with a vengeance. It was barely warm now, but he did not care, it was painfully delicious. He looked up at her and smiled, trying to get words of thanks past his lips, but he was too busy with his first real meal in days, barely chewing before swallowing and shoving another spoonful into his mouth. Moragh watched him eat, her expression fixed, almost blank. The pot emptied quickly and Pocket raked the spoon around the edges for every last clump.

“Thank you,” he said at last. “I will help you back to the kitchens and scrub this out.” He went to grab her hand, but Moragh avoided him and took a half step back, blocking the tunnel. She tried to force a smile but it turned into a sad twitch across the palsied half of her face. His shoulders slumped, the brief respite from his isolation and despair fleeing him.

“It is still not safe.” He forced himself to say it aloud.

Moragh remained silent while Pocket stared at the broken floor. It was nigh on a week now. It should have passed. It always passed.

“When?” he asked. “When can I return?”

There was a pause and then her voice came in a broken whisper. “Never.”

His head shot up. “Never?”

She nodded in the dim light of the lantern, looking old and worn, her face a melted candle.

“Wh—but, why? I did not…I’ll stay out of sight. No one will…no one will know I’m there. They won’t stay angry forever. It passes. It always passes! I won’t come…I won’t, not to the kitchens and I’ll do all…all my chores, Master Bannoch will never have to wonder where I am…”

“He’s dead child.”

Pocket’s mouth snapped shut. Dead? The Mumbler? He stopped himself from saying it aloud. Moragh had not liked him to use that egregious title when the man was alive and Pocket knew she would not suffer it now that he was gone.

Gone.

Coalspur. Sir Tillory. And now the Mumbler. All dead. All gone. Maybe the castle was cursed.

But not by him!