“Helpful,” he says, sounding as if he doesn’t understand the word.

“With the translating. Thought you might have been waiting for expert help.” The man keeps staring at the parchment, almost as if he’s lost his wits. “Getting anxious, down at the house. Blackthorn and Lady Geiléis both. Only five days to go.”

“Yes.” He slips the parchment into his pouch. “Yes, it will be very helpful. I hope to have the translation finished by tomorrow evening, all being well. Please tell Lady Geiléis that.”

Am I imagining things? I’m tired, no doubt of that. And strung-up about Blackthorn and the monster, and not knowing what’s coming. Could be it’s all in my head. But Flannan’s not his friendly self. Something odd about him today. Funny look in his eye; can’t read it.

“And Blackthorn,” I say.

“What?” He’s been miles away. “What’s that?”

“I’ll tell Blackthorn too. That you’ll be down with the translation tomorrow.”

Flannan smiles. He doesn’t look happy, though. He looks like a man who’s standing on the edge of a cliff, deciding whether to jump. “Thank you, Grim,” he says. “I think I owe Blackthorn an apology. It’s been some time . . . lack of news . . .”

“She’s been worried, yes.” I keep it light. Something’s bothering him; can’t guess what. None of my business anyway. “Good luck.”

“Luck? With what?”

“Ah,” I say, can’t help myself. “More a matter of skill, isn’t it? Never mind the luck, then.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it. He goes off toward the infirmary building, and I finish washing, shake myself dryish and set out back to Geiléis’s, not sure if I’ve got good news or not. News, at least. That should be welcome.

30

Blackthorn

News at last! By evening we would know the contents of Flannan’s mysterious document. I’d been thinking I would have to go up the tower blind, so to speak, trusting in my instincts or in the nature of curses to ensure I would know what to do when I reached the top. That might still happen, of course. But if Flannan’s hunch about the manuscript was right, I would climb the tower armed not only with a weapon but also with knowledge, which I’d long considered the sharpest of knives.

The house was quiet. Grim was long gone up to St. Olcan’s, ready to tackle the last section of his roofing. Not happy, exactly—he’d been looking gloomy and distant ever since he’d started the work—but pleased the job was nearly finished. Pleased we would soon be going home. Only I wouldn’t be going. The knowledge of that, the immensity of it, was a cold weight in my stomach. I knew I should be honest with him. I should tell him straight-out what I was intending to do. But then he’d insist on coming with me, and something bad would happen to him, and . . . that would be a waste. A waste of a man who, whatever he might think, was good through and through. A man who, someday, might make some woman a fine husband, strong and gentle, faithful and generous, and in his own way wise. A man who would be a loving, patient father. I wasn’t going to let that man fall victim to Mathuin’s thugs again, not when he’d got me out of that foul place and stood by me ever since, even when I’d told him to go away and leave me alone. No, he would go back to court, and then to Winterfalls, and I would go south to face Mathuin. That was how it would be.