“What are you suggesting? That I tell Geiléis, I’m sorry; I’ve changed my mind, and head off home? She’s counting on this. They all are. Even the creature in the tower. This is his only chance in fifty years to become a man again. And the little folk—I’ll be setting them free, letting their king out of the thorns. They helped me. I should do it even if it’s just for them.” The idea of turning tail and fleeing back to Cahercorcan was all too appealing right now, not only because of the thing in the tower, but also because of Mathuin of Laois, and the perilous mission that would take me south tomorrow, far away from all this. Far from Dalriada, and from Lady Flidais, who was expecting me back. Far from the cottage at Winterfalls and young Emer who was such a good learner. Far from Grim.

“Thing is,” he said, using his knife to trim a few stray ends of reed from the little fox, “what the wee folk said to me was go home. Both of us go home.”

I stared at him. “They did? When was this? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Back a while. That day when you told the clurichaun story. Thought it might be all in my head. The curse, you know, making me crazy.”

For a while we didn’t talk. I made a brew; he set his handiwork aside and cleared up, sweeping the remnant reeds into a neat pile and tipping them into the kindling basket. He wiped down the table, then went outside to wash his hands. I caught a glimpse of the sky when he came back in. I didn’t think I was imagining the first faint traces of day.

“Too late now,” Grim said, sitting down on the bench. “To ask the wee folk about it. I know that. One says go. One says stay. Could be they’re like clurichauns, can’t agree about anything.”

“Or one choice might be better for us, and the other one better for them. Grim, I don’t want to talk about this anymore. By the end of today it’ll be all over, one way or another.”

“Be a lot happier if I could come up the tower with you.”

“We know you can’t, so there’s no point worrying about it.”

Interesting, how silence can sometimes say so much more than words. He sat there with his elbows on his knees, looking at the floor. I tried not to think about the fact that after today’s breakfast I would never see him again. Ordered myself sharply not to let tears fall.

“I’ll go and find us some food,” I said. “Where’s that candle?”

But when I tiptoed through the house and gently pushed open the kitchen door, it was to find the room lit by lamps and all the household serving folk gathered there, sitting or standing with cups of mead in their hands. The remains of a modest meal were on the table, with a neat stack of used platters. They’d been talking in hushed voices, but the conversation ceased as I went in.