Back at Geiléis’s, Blackthorn’s on edge. Stamping around the place, chopping herbs like she wants to kill them, cursing under her breath. Upset because there are too many secrets in this place—the wee folk taking food to the tower, Geiléis’s people maybe helping them, the messages they’re leaving. And Blackthorn can’t ask about any of that because she’s promised the wee folk not to. Then there’s Caisín and those scars that nobody said anything about, not even when Geiléis was telling the story about what happened last midsummer. Blackthorn did ask Geiléis about that, and Geiléis said she was sure she’d mentioned it, hadn’t she? The curse must be making Blackthorn forget, she said. Hah! Not likely. My guess is, Geiléis left that bit out so Blackthorn wouldn’t get cold feet about the whole thing. One look at those scars and any woman in her right mind would be saying no thanks, I’m not doing it.

Geiléis is even worse, nervous as a caged ferret. Easy to understand. This bit of writing could be the end of all her worries with the monster. That’s if Flannan’s right and it does say how to drive the creature away. Me, I’m not so keen to hear the translation. Suit me if Flannan never did translate the thing, if it meant we could just go home instead. Thing is, though, that’s hard on the monster. Sad old life, up there on its own. If we can help it, we should.

At least I’ve got something to keep me busy. There’s the roof to get finished, and only me and Tadhg to do it. Pity I can’t make myself stay up here, work at night too. But I can’t. Like walking right into your worst nightmare, that’d be. Turn me into a gibbering wreck, not fit to do up my own shoes, let alone thatch a roof.

• • •

When Blackthorn does the ritual, I take the day off thatching. We all go to this spot she’s chosen, big open field with a nice view of the river. Long walk up there; Onchú did ask if we should ride, and Blackthorn said no, walking would give us time to put our thoughts in order. And not set us above the local folk. Quite a few of them are there waiting when we arrive, some with horses or donkeys. There’s a dog or two. More folk than she expected. No monks, of course. And no Flannan.

Opens my eyes, watching her do this. Shows a whole new side of her. Makes me wish I’d known her when we were younger. She’s borrowed a gown from Caisín, color of a stormy sky, looks nice. Fancy shawl around her shoulders, green like shadows under trees. Her hair’s long enough now to make a little plait at the back. She looks solemn. She looks beautiful. Not that she needs borrowed clothes and done-up hair for that.

She calls all the people in. Tells them what we’re going to do. Four folk are helping her, one of which is me. She gets everyone lined up and leads us into a circle. Big iron pot in the middle. We’ve carried that all the way from Geiléis’s house, hanging from a pole, man at each end. Small fire burning in the pot, meaning it’s not only heavy and awkward but baking hot too.