I run. See the brothers coming out of the chapel, can’t see Flannan, head straight for the scriptorium. Message feels like it’s burning my hand. Stupid Bonehead, why couldn’t you learn to read? I’m there. Hammer on the door. Yell, “Flannan! You in there?” Tell myself not to kill the bastard until he’s had a chance to speak. Can’t help Blackthorn if I don’t know what’s going on.

Door opens. One of the brothers, Ríordán’s assistant. Turns a bit white when he sees me. I look in past him. No Flannan. Only Brother Ríordán, working on a manuscript. He puts down his quill and stands up. “Flannan is not here,” he says. “Grim, what has happened?”

Before I can think, I’m in there and spilling out what I know. Words falling over each other. That someone wants to harm Blackthorn and that I think Flannan’s up to no good. That I need to find the truth fast, because today’s the day she’s going up the tower, and I know deep in my bones that it’s all linked up somehow.

“Dathal,” says Ríordán to his assistant, calm as calm, “go and find Flannan, will you? Bring him straight here.”

Dathal heads off, and it’s just the two of us.

“Now,” says Ríordán, “take a deep breath and tell me again, slowly.”

“But—”

“I know it’s urgent. But it can be wise to allow yourself time to breathe. When was Mistress Blackthorn going to the tower?”

“Later. Dusk. Have to tell her—have to warn her—”

“And we will,” says Ríordán.

That “we” calms me a bit. I go through the story again. Leave out some things, like Blackthorn and me being locked up together. Have to say Mathuin’s name or it wouldn’t make sense. That feels risky. But the thing is, I trust Ríordán. Not just because he’s a monk, but because he was kind to me when a lot of folk wouldn’t be. By the time I get through it all, Dathal’s back.

“Flannan’s gone,” he says. “Packed up his things and left, sometime between last night’s supper and this morning. Nobody saw him go.”

Shit. Now I’ll never catch up with the bastard. Gone where?

Ríordán’s looking over at the shelves, where there’s a row of little chests like the one I found in the wall. “He hasn’t taken his documents. This place was locked all night, and I have the key.” He’s got a thinking look.

“What would be in his box?” I ask.

“Anything he was working on: transcriptions, letters, notes. Possibly correspondence he had received. You want to look?”

“Thing is, I can’t read. You know that.” Now he’s going to say it’s private property and he can’t show me.

“I will read this one,” Ríordán says, looking at the message that bird was carrying. “And then make a decision.” One thing he’s not, and that’s hasty. But he can help me, so I keep quiet, just bite my nails and try to stop shaking. I’m scared—that’s the truth. Scared and angry. Like something’s ripping me up inside.