Senach came as close to a smile as he ever did. “Yes, Dau has been plying his skills, and there are fresh loaves in the house. If you wish, take one or two with you.”

I trailed after him into the kitchen, where Dau was packing a small bag with various foodstuffs. I could not help noticing a willow basket on the bench, with a pattern of ivy leaves woven into the side. “Do the men ever take food out to folk who need it?” I asked. “Isolated cottages? Sick or old people?”

Senach tensed beside me; I did not think I imagined it. But Dau went on fitting items neatly into the bag, unruffled. “Not often, Mistress Blackthorn. The brothers go out sometimes. From St. Olcan’s. They’re better placed to offer fresh food than we are here.”

“Oh,” I said. “I did wonder . . . This will seem an odd question, maybe . . . But what about the creature in the tower? It must eat and drink to survive. Where does it get its food from? How could anything be taken up to that high chamber when the whole tower is surrounded by thorns?”

Dau looked at me calmly. “Birds?”

“It would need to be rather a large bird,” I said, eyeing the willow basket. Would Dau be filling that next? “And who would be sending them?”

“I can’t think, Mistress Blackthorn. If the creature’s fey, maybe it doesn’t need to eat.”

I had the sense of being toyed with, and I did not like it. “It’s just . . . I thought I saw someone walking in the woods near the river. With a basket. It was very like that one.”

“When was this?” asked Senach from behind me.

Curse it, I’d made a trap for myself. “A few days before the ritual. I went out by myself for a little. I’m not accustomed to all these restrictions; they make me restless.”

“Was this someone a man or a woman? One of the monks? A farmworker?”

I regretted my half-lie already; nobody here was going to tell me what I needed to know. They were a practiced team of players in a game whose rules I did not understand. “A man. I didn’t see him clearly—he was too far away.”

“It was probably Cronan,” said Senach. “He sometimes takes supplies to an old fellow who lives over the far side of the river. A hermit, more or less. On baking day we send fresh bread, if the water’s low enough.”

I tried to remember if that had been a baking day. “An old fellow,” I echoed. “Maybe I should be going to talk to him, not to these folk who live an hour’s ride away.”

“There would be no point,” Senach said. “The hermit is stone deaf and ill-tempered to boot. He wouldn’t give you the time of day. Besides, with Midsummer Eve so close, I am certain Lady Geiléis would not want you to risk the ford. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and speak to Donncha . . .”