Nothing comes back to me, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there, looking and listening. I get an idea, something that would be good to do. There’s bread and cheese in my bag, in case I get peckish on the job. I get it out, break it up, lay a good share on a flat stone by the path. “For you,” I say to the empty air, feeling a bit stupid. “Thanks for what you’ve done. Can’t have been easy.” Blackthorn’s told me about the basket going up the tower and the wee man she saw on the island. If Flannan’s document is right, they’ve been looking after that fellow, Ash, ever since he first got trapped up there. All these years.

Enough of that; need to get on. I’m shouldering the one bag and bending to pick up the other when I spot something on the path up ahead. Not one of them; something smaller. Something hurt. A bird, lying on its side, fluttering a wing, trying to get on its feet. A pigeon.

I go close, kneel down, take a good look. Bird’s terrified. Eyes wild. Struggling and struggling, can’t get up. I push down memories, move slow, take my time. Little leather tube fastened to its leg. One of Brother Eoan’s messenger birds. That leg looks all right; other leg looks all right. Could be the bird’s fallen foul of a hawk or owl. Been dropped for some reason, still alive. Can’t see any blood. I reach down, gentle as I can, and slip one hand underneath. Other hand on top, lift nice and slow. Looks like it’s the wing. Broken feathers. Handled the birds often enough at St. Erc’s. Not the kind of hurt where the only thing to do is wring the creature’s neck and end the pain. This one could be patched up. Might only need some peace and quiet, a bit of a rest. Brother Eoan will know what to do with the wing.

“Come on, then,” I say. “Let’s get you home.”

Can’t carry everything with the bird in my hands, so I leave the bag with fox and cat by the side of the track. Plan is, take the pigeon to St. Olcan’s, then run back down and fetch the bag. Won’t take long.

• • •

I’m in luck. Brother Eoan’s not in the chapel; he’s in the pigeon loft filling up the containers with water and seed. Birds are clustering around, wanting their food, making those little soft sounds they do. Wonder what they’re saying to each other?

“Found this one in the woods,” I tell him. “Broken wing, I think.”

He comes to take the bird quick, carries it through to a smaller room with pegs to hang things from and shelves to store things on. Everything to look after the birds, and stuff for the messages too, those leather carriers, so small and neat, just room enough to fit a scrap of parchment rolled tight as tight. First thing Eoan does is lay the bird on a table, on a cloth, while he has a good look at it.