“How would I know?” Blackthorn sounds snappish. Who’d blame her? She’s the one who’s going to be risking her life, not Geiléis or Flannan or Senach or anyone else. Not even me, though if I could do it for her, I’d put my hand up without a second thought. She knows that.

“I’m sorry.” Geiléis is sounding a bit steadier. “This is all quite distressing; I hope only that you will go ahead with this, even knowing the confronting nature of the task. Most women would lack the courage to undertake such a quest. But you, I believe, are brave enough.”

“Brave enough,” mutters Blackthorn. “Or stupid enough. Maybe both.”

“We are fortunate, I think, that you are prepared to believe this tale,” Geiléis says. “A person of less imagination would simply dismiss it as impossible, for it is full of oddities. These small folk, whom I have never once set eyes on, apparently living in these woods and bound to serve the creature or see their captive king injured. And such a rare chance; only once in fifty years. How remarkable that this document has come to light just in time. No wonder I made so little impact on the thorns last summer. I knew nothing.”

Not quite true. She knew about it having to be a woman, and on Midsummer Eve, and about it happening before. Makes me wonder. If this document’s been hidden away for two hundred years, and it’s in a foreign tongue and coded as well, who told her those things? How did anyone know anything, when the curse has that bit about people forgetting? I don’t say any of that. It’ll keep for when Blackthorn and me are on our own. She’s holding questions in too. See it on her face.

“I suppose I’ll need a weapon,” she says. “I’ll speak to Onchú in the morning.”

She’s going ahead with this. Made up her mind. That turns my bones to ice. Can’t go with her. Can’t stand beside her and protect her. Helpless. Useless. One thing I can do, though. Make sure she’s as ready as she can be. Means St. Olcan’s will have to do without me for now. Might not get to finish off the creatures for the roof. Might not get a look at Brother Galen’s book, not before midsummer, at least. I was looking forward to that. But she comes first, always. “I’ll talk to Onchú,” I say. “You don’t just need the right weapon; you need training.”

“Training?” Blackthorn makes a face at me.

“Not like cutting bread,” I say. “If you’re going to do it, you’ve got to do it right. Three days isn’t long. Start tomorrow, mm?”

“If you say so. I suspect all the training in the world won’t make any difference. If the curse is meant to be broken, it will be broken. And if not, not.”

“Still,” I tell her, “makes sense not to go in unprepared. Practice your skills; sharpen your tools; do the best job you can.”