It seemed too late to complain that the trip was going to take all afternoon; much longer than I’d been told. I could hardly ask to turn around and head back right now. My life being what it was—full of bad surprises—that would probably mean I lost the one real chance I had to gather some useful information. “You do understand that I need to be back when Flannan comes this evening?”

“Senach told me, Mistress Blackthorn. Shall we head on?”

• • •

The rain ceased and the sun came out as we rode across the fields. We reached our destination around midafternoon. First impressions of the place were unpromising. The dwelling was so run-down it was hard to believe anyone lived there. I could imagine Grim looking it over and making a long list in his mind of what needed doing: mend the broken shutters, fix the crumbling walls, dig over the neglected vegetable patch. Then he would roll up his sleeves and get on with it. There was a trough half-full of greenish, foul-smelling water, from which we could not let our horses drink. The door was closed.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” I asked my companion as he tethered the horses. “There’s no sign of life.” Not even a solitary duck or chicken.

Before he could answer, the door crept open an inch, two inches, and in the narrow gap I glimpsed a pale face, a pair of shadowed eyes.

“This is the place,” Donncha said. He unfastened his saddlebag and took out the bundle Dau had packed. My saddlebag held the two loaves of fresh bread, wrapped in a cloth.

“This household has suffered more than most from the effects of the curse,” said Donncha as I got the bread out. “The folk here may not be able to help you a great deal. But I believe you will be able to help them.”

Before I could utter a word, he called out, “Friend, Ana! It’s Donncha. I’ve brought someone to talk to you. A wise woman; a healer.” The change in his tone was remarkable. It might have been a different man speaking, no authoritative guard but a far gentler soul.

The door opened just a little wider. I heard a thin wailing from within; the cry of a sick child. Joined, almost immediately, by an old man’s voice, calling in querulous tones, “Ana! Where are you?”

The woman retreated into the house, leaving the door open. I followed Donncha as he went in.

Someone had tried to maintain order here; that was plain. An attempt had been made to sweep the hearth, but the fire was down to ashes and the wood basket held only a scattering of twigs and dead leaves. From a sagging length of cord tied between the rafters hung an assortment of worn garments: a woman’s, a man’s, a child’s. Dishes that might have been from breakfast were stacked at one end of the table, still bearing smears of what looked to be porridge. The house was cold. It felt damp, and there was a smell of mold.