Flannan smiled. “Even less than you want from me, Lady Geiléis. Oddly enough, it seems we have a common purpose. What I require is this: firstly, that you do not divulge the last lines of the curse to anyone. Secondly, that you do not speak of this meeting with a living soul. Blackthorn in particular.”

“And?” This could not be all. The man must surely have some devious purpose. Would he dare try to trick her, with armed guards at the door? She found it hard to breathe.

“No more than that. If you can promise me your silence, I will ensure the document is destroyed. But not until Midsummer Day.”

“By Midsummer Day,” said Geiléis, her mouth twisting, “none of it will matter anymore.”

• • •

Her men-at-arms did not even need to draw their weapons. Instead, they stood aside to let Dau lead the visitor through to the dining chamber, where Flannan was provided with food and drink while he waited for Blackthorn’s return. The remainder of the afternoon passed, and it was nearly dusk. Geiléis called Senach to keep watch outside her bedchamber door, then climbed the steps to the high window. The sky was all clouds; rain had fallen over the forest and the air was cool and damp. She hugged her shawl around her. His cries were dying down now; the long day was almost over. Only three more to endure. Only three, and then . . .

• • •

. . . Midsummer Eve, and the sun rose over the forest of Bann, bright with hope. There had been rain, but this day was clear, a day of promise and of new beginnings. When it was time, the wise woman armed herself with a sharp ax, and for good measure a knife at her belt. She did not go alone to the tower; Lily herself accompanied her, along with two faithful guards.

The river was low; unusually so, considering the rain. They waded over without difficulty, and halted at the foot of the tower. Blackthorn hacked at the thorns with her ax, and they fell apart under its blade as if they were straw, leaving a pathway straight to the tower door. The woman climbed the steps with courage and purpose. There she was in the high chamber, and there he was. The monster. And then . . .

• • •

She could not imagine it; could not see it clear. Her mind shrank from it. But . . . but somehow she would be in the doorway watching. She would witness the breaking of the curse. How could she not?

• • •

Then the deed was done, and at last, at long last Ash was restored to himself. Lily ran to him. She wrapped her arms around him—he was so thin, so pale—and whispered his name. His lips moved against her hair; his fingers brushed her cheek, as gentle as a butterfly’s wing. “My love,” he said, and his voice was no longer a monster’s, but a man’s. “My faithful love.” The long nightmare was over.