“You mean here at St. Olcan’s? Very few. The two of us. Father Tomas. Brother Eoan who looks after the pigeons. I believe that’s all.” Ríordán looks at Fergal.

“We thought it best kept to a small number,” Fergal says, “since it was plain you did not want to share it. We knew the story of St. Erc’s, of course; it was one of the cruelest raids.”

“Does Flannan know about me?” If he does, then Blackthorn’s going to find out soon enough. Don’t want anyone else telling her the story. Only me.

“Master Flannan?” Ríordán half smiles. “We would not share your story outside our own brotherhood, Conall. Besides, Flannan has been so absorbed in his work that I doubt he would have taken in the tale even if we had told it. He seems a man on a mission, blind to all else.”

Never seemed like that to me. But I’m guessing they mean this translation Flannan’s doing. True, I’ve hardly seen him since he got started on it, so maybe he’s putting in long hours. And he was a bit odd when he crossed my path yesterday. “Thank you,” I say. “For not spreading it around. I’ll tell Blackthorn in my own time. Not anyone else. And best if you don’t call me Conall. That name’s gone. Done.”

They look at each other. Fergal pours more ale. “As to that,” says Ríordán, “it might not be gone and done. Not unless that’s what you want. You could resume your novitiate here. Father Tomas has said so. Not only because your practical skills would be a great asset to our community, but because we believe you have all the qualities required. We would welcome you as one of us, Grim.”

I’m gob-smacked. This is too much. A second chance, a home, a community, the stories, the pictures, the singing . . . All that I lost, given back so easily. “I’d bring down ill luck,” I say. “Be a blight on you, like that sad creature in the tower. Soon as you let me in, soon as I get comfortable, something bad will happen. Always does.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment,” Ríordán says. “How could you be in any way responsible for the raid on St. Erc’s? Nobody in his right mind would have expected one man, however big and strong, however remarkably brave, to fight off thirty armed Norsemen.”

Maybe nobody expected that. Thing is, though, I expected it. Or that I’d go on fighting until someone killed me. Should have died protecting them. Then I’d have done my best. But I’m here, and they’re dead.

“What would Brother Galen want you to do?” asks Ríordán.

Big question. Too big to answer. To Brother Galen I was good. Whole. No missing parts, no wrong parts, no bad parts. He taught me to love learning. If I told Brother Galen I didn’t believe in God anymore, he wouldn’t be shocked. He’d talk through it, listen to what I had to say, offer his own ideas. While we talked he’d paint his little pictures, so magical. Something about those pictures . . .