Another followed, fifty years later. This woman woke on the morning of Midsummer Eve and decided she would not, after all, go through with it. There could be no forcing a person to act; the terms of the curse required that the task be undertaken willingly. Geiléis had wondered whether, if she let this woman go home after her failure, the magic would conveniently erase the memory from her mind, the way it made the local folk forget that the wailing monster came regularly every fifty years to bring two summers of sick animals, poor crops and deep, debilitating sadness. The way it caused them to forget that, while the rest of them aged and died, making way for their children and their children’s children, the Lady of Bann and her household grew only a little older year by year. Fear that it might not be so, that the woman who had failed the task might go home and spread the word of what had occurred, meant Geiléis did not put this to the test. One still lived in her own household, loyal and discreet. One lay in the tower, broken. One lay in the ground beneath the hedge. The last was buried in the woods; buried deep. Geiléis’s folk were thorough.

If Blackthorn failed, both she and Grim would have to disappear. Perhaps Master Flannan as well—he seemed fond of Blackthorn, though she hardly saw it. What was it about the healer? She was hardly the most comely of women, and her manner was the opposite of tender. Yet there she was with the two of them hovering around her. And she was completely blind to it. Not that it mattered. Whatever happened, Blackthorn would be out of the way by Midsummer Day. If she failed, Onchú and the others would ensure neither she nor her companions lived to tell the tale. If she succeeded, this would all be over. Then Grim and Flannan could take whatever action they pleased; tell the tale to the whole world if they wanted to. Chances were nobody would believe them anyway.

There was a flaw, of course. This was the first time she’d used a woman from beyond the district. The curse had seen to it that those others were soon forgotten; that their kinsfolk did not come asking awkward questions. It would not be like that with Blackthorn. She’d been resident at the Dalriadan court; the prince and his lady were expecting her back. They wouldn’t let her and her companions simply vanish without explanation. And hadn’t someone said she had a whole community depending on her back home? It would be necessary to invent a story, a convincing one. The three of them might have headed off somewhere together, somewhere as far away from Dalriada as possible. No need to say why; only that they had packed up and left suddenly. Prince Oran would not send folk out searching for a village healer. And Flannan was a traveler anyway, not the prince’s concern.