Can’t speak. Help? From me? If this Father Tomas and the rest of them knew my story, I’d be the last person they’d want inside their walls. Not to mention that I can’t get anywhere near the place without going half-crazy. I manage a sort of grunt. Which Lady Geiléis takes as a yes.

“Thank you,” she says, talking to Blackthorn, as if I was too much of a bonehead to understand anything. “Grim’s help would be most welcome, I’m sure. I believe the brothers have the necessary materials in storage—there was a thatcher here some time ago, but he left the district. Of course we would wait for fair weather.” She gives me a glance that says, That numbskull, an expert? “Master Flannan, you might let Father Tomas know about Grim. Best head off now or you’ll surely be caught in the rain.”

“A little rain won’t do me any harm,” Flannan says, but he gets up all the same. “Private word with you?” Meaning Blackthorn.

The two of them go off outside. I’m not keen to sit here on my own with Lady Geiléis, so I make my excuses and go to our quarters. Tidy the place up, not that there’s much to tidy. Bring in some water, boil the kettle, wash out the cups. Sweep the floor. Doesn’t take long. Hands are itching for work to do, anything to slow down the rushing things in my head. Can’t do what I’d do at home, chop wood, bake bread, dig the garden, fix something that needs fixing. I sit down on my bed and think how funny it is—the thing I could be doing, and doing well, is rethatching that roof up at St. Olcan’s, making it nice and watertight, like new, finishing it off with the creatures on top and all. Making, not breaking. Making folk glad, not sad. And that’s the thing I can’t do, because just thinking about it turns my insides to water, brings out a cold sweat, fills me up with black terror. Funny, hah! Funny what’s just under the surface, bubbling up when you don’t want it. Coward. Failure. Not strong enough. Not brave enough. Not man enough. That’s what the voices say, over and over in my head. Not enough. You were not enough. Another thing that’s funny. All those voices are my voice, all of them. I know that. But it doesn’t make me feel any better.

She doesn’t come back. Still talking to Flannan. Master Flannan. He’s right for her. Well made, even handsome, not that she’d care about that. Makes me wonder if Cass was a good-looking fellow too or a weedy scholarly kind. Not something I can ask. Flannan’s clever. Book-learned. Could find work anywhere. Could make a good home for her. Would she want that, if he offered? Does she like him enough? Can’t see it really, him and her in a cozy little house, perhaps with a child or two. But that might be because I don’t want to see it.