I stand on my hands, count up to fifty. Come down, take a breath, do it again. Sixty. Jump up and catch onto a roof beam, pull myself up a few times. Twenty. Thirty. Heart’s not in it. What I want to do is run. Run away quick, hide down deep.

She still doesn’t come. I chop herbs for a brew, leave them tidy on the board, wash the knife, dry it, put it away. Say the words under my breath. How long before I forget? How long before I jumble them up and don’t even know? Scuto circo . . . circum . . . circumdabit te . . . veritas eius non timebis a timore nocturne. Scuto, that’s a shield. Something about truth making a shield all around a man. A shield against the dark things that creep into his head in the night. It’s a lie. Truth can be the worst thing of all. Dark enough to blot out everything good. Funny, though; the words do help, a bit. It’s like if I pretend to believe, pretend hard enough, I can almost think that shield might be a real thing.

20

Geiléis

Dusk was near. Rain was falling steadily now, a soft blanket over the darkening forest. Not like that day of long ago, when it had come down as harsh as a flail. Nearly time to begin. The voice from the tower was cracked and broken, worn-out by exhaustion and despair. She wondered, often, if he knew how faithful she was; how hard she worked to keep her promise, to hold firm. “Not long until Midsummer Eve,” Geiléis whispered. “This time . . . oh, this time . . .”

It might fall into place. It might just work. If his skills as a thatcher were as good as Blackthorn seemed to believe, the man, Grim, would be easily got out of the way. Fixing the roof at St. Olcan’s would keep him busy until midsummer. Beyond midsummer, in fact, though he’d likely need silencing once the thing was done. Fortunate indeed that Blackthorn had failed to interpret fully the scratchings on the stone. She pictured him hurling it down. How desperate he must be growing, to try that! He could have killed Blackthorn, and with her another precious chance.

Gods, could she let herself believe this might at last be possible? Blackthorn was a strong individual. Clever. Sure of herself. Prepared to take risks. A better candidate than any who had come before. “Hope,” murmured Geiléis. “You must hold on to hope, or this cannot happen. Let hope go, and your battle is lost.”

She had thought Grim would be the problem when the day came. But the other fellow, the scholar, seemed altogether too interested in Blackthorn’s welfare. The two of them had spent a long time in intense conversation earlier, standing in the hallway together with heads bowed and voices lowered. Between the drumming rain and the monster’s cries, nobody would have heard a word. Still, she did not want the scholar interfering. With luck he would become absorbed in his studies and lose interest. If not, she would have to take steps.