“All right, I will try.” Ogham was not like, say, Irish or Latin. The letters could be used to spell words, but each had a range of other meanings too, according to the nature of that particular tree. A person did not write in ogham something like, Good morning, my friend! How are you, and what did you have for breakfast? It was more of a code; a language that gave you the essentials but left you to work out the bits in between. I recognized the last sign here: straif. Blackthorn. Some of the others too. But all the letters together did not spell out any word known to me.

The little healer reached out a bony finger to touch the double line of the first letter. Perhaps this had to be read for its deeper meaning. “Duir,” I said. “Oak.”

She nodded encouragement, gestured to indicate more was needed.

“Leader? Druid?”

She shook her head, then reached up as if to put on a hat. Or a crown.

“Queen?”

An encouraging wave of the hands suggesting I was almost there.

“King.”

A vigorous nod. And was that the very faintest trace of a smile? Morrigan’s curse, this wise woman bestowed her smiles no more readily than I did mine.

The little woman skipped to the end, pointing to straif—four diagonal strokes across the center line.

“Thorn,” I said.

Before I could start on the magical interpretations of the tree, she signaled yes. Thorn was all she wanted. And now, with first and last letters accounted for, I understood the word between.

“Imprisoned, shut in, captive. The king is captive in the thorn?” That sent a shiver through me. “Does this refer to the creature in the tower?”

She rolled her eyes again. No, stupid. She pointed to duir, then indicated a height somewhat similar to her own.

“Your king? The king of the . . . small folk?”

Her nod said I was right. The curl of her lip suggested my choice of words could have been better. It was perhaps just as well I had not mentioned clurichauns. I was working out what question to ask next when someone shouted my name, not far away.

“Mistress Blackthorn! Where are you?”

In a trice, my companion was gone into the depths of the forest. And only just in time, for here was Onchú, striding toward me between the trees.

“I’m here, quite safe, gathering herbs for the cleansing ritual.” I picked up my laden basket, making sure my skirt screened the ogham inscription. “Did Lady Geiléis send you? I did explain that I need to make most of my preparations alone.”

“She was concerned, Mistress Blackthorn. Let me escort you back to the house now.”

“Very well. Thank you.” I had what I needed, for the time being. And the little woman was not going to reappear while this formidable man-at-arms was with me; of that I was quite sure. His voice had made her blanch with fear.