The quiet of the woodland below her window was broken by the sound of horses’ hooves on paving stones, and of voices. That was Onchú speaking. And now a woman’s voice—Blackthorn. They were back, and if her ears did not deceive her, so was Grim; nobody else had such a deep voice. She would go down soon and greet them; she would express polite interest in what they had been doing. The ritual preparations; the roof of the scriptorium. But her mind would be full of one thing only. She wondered, sometimes, whether she should have told Blackthorn the truth from the start—not the full truth, but almost all. The woman was open to the strange and uncanny. She might have been prepared to accept it, saving Geiléis and her household the need for lies. It was too late now. Once she’d told that story at court, with Blackthorn and Grim present, there’d been no choice but to stick to it. Gods! It was almost midsummer. Let Blackthorn not find out she’d been lied to all along. If she learned of that betrayal—she’d see it as that—she’d surely walk away. Or try to. And Geiléis would have to silence her. The true story, the full story could not be allowed to go beyond these four walls. If it did, there might never be an end to this.

“Stop it!” she muttered. “Get ahold of yourself!” Less than a turning of the moon remained until Midsummer Eve. After so long, she must not stumble at the very end. She must walk on steadily, one step at a time. While her guests were tidying themselves up for supper, she would tell the next part of the tale—the part she feared and loathed, but must revisit over and over because the curse bound her to do so. If she told it now, tomorrow would be easier.

Geiléis drew a deep, steadying breath and took up her story once more.

Not long after this, Muiríol appeared at the gate, making urgent gestures, and Lily and Brión were obliged to return within the walls. He was whisked back off to bed, and she went to her chamber to think in solitude. What he had told her was terrible. To meddle with the fey . . . to lie with one of them . . . that had been beyond foolish. Had he never listened when his mother told him the old tales?

But they could not run away. She hoped that in the morning he would see how ridiculous that idea was. What did he think they would live on? Did he imagine their families would not move heaven and earth to find them? Each was an only child; each was of noble birth. They could not simply turn their backs on one life and start another with no resources save their love for each other. Of course, in the old tales, such things did happen. He might find work as a swineherd or a gardener, and she as a rather inept seamstress or washerwoman. And eventually, years later when they had a child of their own, they might be rediscovered by their families and brought home to a welcome attended by tears and joy. In those tales, anything could happen. And this felt just like such an ancient story, so unlikely it could hardly be believed. But it was real. She had seen the dazed expression in Brión’s eyes when she found him in the tower. She had seen the torn clothing and the injuries to his body. And she had seen, late at night after he had been rescued, a light in that high window, as if someone was walking around the tower room with a candle in her hand. As if someone was sad. Or angry. As if someone did indeed still have her eye on him.