“I’m used to getting wet,” says Blackthorn. “But thank you for the warning. We’ll need to wait for fair weather before we hold the ritual. The local folk won’t want to stand about getting soaked.”

“You’d best be on your way soon, Master Flannan,” says Geiléis, “if you want to stay dry. I hope Father Tomas and the brethren are treating you well. They must be pleased to have a scholarly guest at last. It’s been some time.”

“I’ve been well received, yes. And comfortably accommodated, by monastic standards. The place is at sixes and sevens right now. They know rain’s coming, and there’s a problem with leaking roofs. Damp weather and precious manuscripts are not a good combination.”

“What sort of roofs?” asks Blackthorn, though why she’d want to know this I can’t think.

“Thatch,” says Geiléis. “Reed thatch. There’s nobody in the district who can repair it properly. Folk fiddle about with it themselves, patch it up as best they can. But St. Olcan’s needs the thatching done again, on the scriptorium in particular. Father Tomas says the roof needs to be completely replaced.”

My belly churns; I feel sick again, like this morning. No prizes for guessing what Blackthorn’ll say now. She looks at me. I look down at my hands. Can’t warn her not to say it. Never did tell her my story, never told anyone, and now it’s too late.

“Grim is a thatcher.”

“This requires an expert,” Geiléis says. “Perhaps more than one.”

She doubts I’m good enough. No surprise there. Doesn’t bother me. I’m feeling too sick to care.

“Grim is an expert,” says Blackthorn. “If the monks have the materials, he can mend the roof. He’ll do a good job.”

That’s it. No room for argument. No room for much at all. Never mind that Midsummer Eve’s just around the corner. Never mind that I’m supposed to be helping Blackthorn deal with the monster and keeping her safe. Just got myself a job that’s going to mean I hardly see her from now till midsummer. It’ll mean I have to walk up to St. Olcan’s. All the way there. Go in the gate, talk to the monks, hear the singing . . .

“Grim?” Blackthorn’s just asked me something, could have been anything.

“Sorry, what?”

“You’ll do it, won’t you?”

Looking at her, looking at Flannan, it comes to me all of a sudden. Why she’d want me to go, I mean. She wants me away so she can spend time with him. She likes him. Likes him more than anyone. He makes her happy. Angry too, sometimes. But they’ve got that closeness, like Prince Oran and Lady Flidais. Always know what the other one’s thinking. Understand each other without needing to talk.

“Grim?”

“Can’t thatch in the wet.” Comes out as a grumble. Can’t help that. “Rain could last for days. Whole roof—that sounds like a big job. Take a while.”

“But afterward, when the weather clears. Considering everything that has happened here, these folk deserve some help.”