Lily crouched down beside Ash. Or what had a few moments ago been Ash. She could not see him clearly in the fitful light, but what she did see was . . . cruel. Monstrous. Vile. His mouth . . . his hands . . . She swallowed acid bile. She made herself reach out and touch, with the same gentleness she had used when he was a man, and as handsome as a prince in a tale. “I love you,” she whispered, stroking his hideous face. “Remember that, Ash. I will always love you. I will save you. I promise.”

“One thing more,” said the fell voice from behind her. “He’ll get lonely in here. He’s young. He’ll get bored.”

A reprieve, oh gods! She would be able to visit, to bring him what he needed, to read to him, sing to him, help him endure.

“You’ll tell him the story of how this happened,” the fey woman said. “At dusk each night, over the seasons when he is awake, you will tell it one part at a time. That way you’ll be in no danger of forgetting the price of your offense. He was mine. My plaything. You took him. You should not have done that.”

“Are you saying—do you mean I can come here to the tower and see him every day?” Ash had quieted under the touch of her hand; he had lifted one great scaly paw to rest it against her cheek.

The woman laughed again, her scorn echoing through the stone chamber. “Did you not hear me mention a hedge of thorn? You will not come to the tower; no one will come save the small folk, to bring him food and water. You will tell the tale wherever you are. You will tell it whether he can hear you or not. But do not forget. If you miss a day, he will believe you faithless. He will lose hope. And you wouldn’t want that, would you, since his predicament is entirely of your own making? Go now. Who knows? If you prove resourceful, you may free him next summer and walk hand in hand into the life you hoped for. I said go!”

That last touch, thought Geiléis, that very last touch of his misshapen hand had broken her heart. He’d tried to say something, Lily, perhaps, though the odd shape of his mouth turned the word into an agonized grunt. No gag could have disabled his speech more effectively than that vile distortion of lips and teeth. She’d bent to kiss his poor face; his skin was as rough as pine bark against her lips. “Good-bye, Ash,” she’d whispered. “Wait for me.”

Then down the stair, across the island, into the boat, back to shore, home through the woods. To find that the nightmare was there before her.

29

Grim

Days go by, and Flannan still doesn’t work out the code for this document of his, the one he said he’d start on straightaway. Took a while for the archivist to say yes to him making a copy. But he did in the end. Don’t know much about these things, but you’d think by now Flannan would have the job half done, at least. Time’s passing quick as quick and nothing at all from him. Not even a visit to tell us how far he’s got. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him, and I’m at St. Olcan’s all day. Seen Brother Ríordán a few times—that’s the archivist. Tall fellow, pale and a bit bent over, though he’s not an old man. Comes out of the infirmary sometimes, stands in the garden looking at us, goes back in. Doesn’t walk over and say, Good morning. How’s the work going? the way some of the others do. Just stares. Likes books more than folk; that’d be my guess.