“That book, he loved it as much as he loved Bathsheba,” I say at the end. Feeling wrung out, like an old cloth that’s been pounded and pummeled and washed half to shreds. “Makes me sad to think of the little pictures all shriveling up in the fire.”

“I understand,” says Ríordán. “It is sad. But there are other scribes, those to whom he taught his craft, those who teach others in their turn. And there are other books.”

“Maybe,” I say, thinking of the odd things he put in his drawings, the magic of them. “But not the same.”

Ríordán looks at Fergal. Fergal looks at Ríordán. What I see is, Do we tell him?

“What?”

Ríordán clears his throat. “We have one of Brother Galen’s books in our collection, Grim. The original, not a copy. A book of saints, which one might expect to be illustrated in quite a conventional manner, but . . . Galen was Galen.”

Again, I’m dumbstruck. Not like he was alive again, but . . . feels that way, all the same. Wish I could see it. Love to see it. Can’t ask.

“It’s locked away, of course,” Ríordán says. “We consider it very precious. After the raid on St. Erc’s, I made a copy. We sent that south to St. Brigid’s in Laois, which as you’ll know is the monastic foundation closest to the site of St. Erc’s. It will be well looked after there. I lacked the skill to reproduce Galen’s paintings perfectly; I did my best.” He smiles. “Would you like to see the original?”

“Me?” Can’t believe he’s offering.

“Provided you do so under my supervision, in the scriptorium, and wear gloves to turn the pages, I don’t see why not.”

Fergal chuckles. “Now you’ve really surprised me, Ríordán. I think this may be a first.” He turns to me. “Our head archivist here is famous for his reluctance to let anyone near his precious collection. Your friend Flannan only got a look at his mysterious document because nobody else had a word of Armorican, if indeed that’s what the language is. Count yourself a scholar for the day.”

I say nothing at all. Next to this I’m small. This is so big you can’t measure it. If I could write, if I could draw, if I could ever make my own book, I’d have a picture of a monk and a cat, and a story to go with it.

“Now, if you wish.”

The two of them are standing, waiting for me, and I’ve been off in a dream. I get up and follow them out. Still in my borrowed clothes. Then I see where the sun’s got to. Shadows creeping; cows coming into the barn. Day’s all but gone while I’ve been talking away.

“Need to get back to Lady Geiléis’s house,” I say, feeling bad. Want to see the book more than anything. Might be the only chance; they might not ask again. But Flannan was going to finish the translation and come down to tell us the story, and by the looks of it, he’ll be doing that soon. Blackthorn will be wanting to hear what this document says straightaway. She’ll want me there too, listening. Means I need to go back when Flannan does. “Promised I’d be back to hear the story.”