“You poor bastard,” I mutter, in the silence while the monster grabs a breath. “You poor, poor bastard.” Wonder if I’m right? Wonder if the creature in the tower would yell out words if it could? Crazy idea, now I think about it. What would I know about anything anyway?

Make myself get up. Stand on the path. Feet, go. Go that way. Ahead for St. Olcan’s, you win the battle. Back for Geiléis’s house, you lose. You fail. I think about the burned man screaming. I think about the monster, and how lonely it must be up there, shut in with its hurts. How does it keep going? How does it stay alive? I think how lucky I am not to be them; how lucky I am that in the stink and filth and misery of Mathuin’s lockup I found Blackthorn. Why am I feeling sorry for myself? She asked me to do this, and I’m going to do it.

The feet walk on. I make myself take slow, deep breaths. Don’t want to turn up on these monks’ doorstep a weeping wreck. Need to tell them who I am, why I’ve come. Through another patch of woodland, pretty in the sun though I hardly see it. Keep going. Keep walking.

The monastery’s in sight; wattle and mud buildings with thatched roofs, all of it showing wear and tear. Straw dark with mold. Wind damage. Looks as if they need a man to lay drystone as well as a man who can thatch. I come closer. There’s a stone tower with a bell; there’s a pigeon loft near what looks like a barn. A yard with chickens scratching about. Hen coop down the end. Big vegetable garden, all very tidy. Looks as if the brothers work hard in it. Feel bile rising in my throat. Push back the memories, down deep into the dark. Got to keep walking on. Blackthorn. Doing this for Blackthorn.

I’m at the garden wall. Nobody about. All in the chapel. Singing coming from over at the far side, where the bell tower stands. Haven’t set foot in a chapel since the day it happened. What god would want me?

Walk on. Down the path. Hands itching for a spade or fork; nose twitching with all the smells: lavender, rosemary, mint, parsley, basil, the rich scent of compost that’s ready to go in the ground. I could do it. I could help them. I could give them more time for their praying and singing, their reading and writing, their bright paintings of creatures and saints and strange beings. I could do that. I’ve done it before. Wouldn’t ask, though. Couldn’t. What happened then might happen all over again. Could be I bring my own curse with me.

Want to turn back. Want to run away. Walk on. Try to unclench my teeth. Try to slow the galloping warhorse in my chest. Try to breathe. Here for the thatching, that’s all. Go and look at the roof. And wait.