The presence in the tower screamed through all the days of that first summer, and through all the days of the second, the summer in which he might be released, if only she could meet the terms of the curse. But Lily found nobody to attempt the task; she could not imagine that any woman would agree to do it. There was only one she could ask, one of her own. But that, in the end, was to no avail. So, on the second Midsummer Eve of the curse, Lily found herself on the island, attempting to hack a way through the bristling barrier, although the terms of the curse were clear: this was not a task for her to undertake. Her two guards were terribly wounded saving her from the thorns; one later died from his injuries. A hideous day, still vivid in the survivors’ minds. The scars had not faded, even after so long.

When autumn came, Bann fell quiet; folk thought the creature was gone. Around the tower, the thorns grew taller and taller, forming a guardian hedge only a fool would dare approach. Even when all was silent, folk stayed away.

She did not make the story known, save to the trusted folk who served her. Only at dusk did she tell the tale, in a whisper, to fulfill the requirement set out in the curse. If the truth had become known in the community, she would never have found a woman prepared to attempt the task. Only . . . only she had told, just once, in those early days when she’d been young and terrified and full of a sadness that had threatened to break her. She’d told her confidant, her kind friend of the merry eyes and charming Armorican accent: Brother Gwenneg. Made him swear never to tell anyone. Had he sworn? It was so long ago. Surely he had given his word. Yet the wretch had written it down, or so it seemed. Written it and hidden it away, to be unearthed at the worst time, just when at last, at last she had found someone who might perform the task in a willing spirit, unafraid. On Midsummer Eve, two hundred years would have passed since the curse was pronounced. Four times she’d tried and failed; four times the district of Bann had endured two summers of screaming, for the curse offered a chance only once in fifty years. One summer to prepare; the next summer to try her luck. It was remarkable how the magic endured; astonishing how the local folk forgot so quickly, over and over. This time she must succeed. But how? How could she make sure Blackthorn did not learn the contents of Brother Gwenneg’s wretched manuscript? How could she silence Flannan without making Blackthorn suspicious? How, how . . .

“Perhaps this document is not what you imagine, my lady,” said Donncha, who had accompanied her to St. Olcan’s and now walked beside her on the homeward journey. “It may be something quite harmless. Or Master Flannan may fail in the translation.”