Halfway down to Geiléis’s house and something happens. It’s like the air shivers and everything changes, faster than the blink of an eye. And the thing in the tower goes silent. That’s when I know she’s told me the wrong time of day. She’s not waiting for dusk; she’s there now, hacking through that hedge, climbing those steps, walking into that room ready to cut off its head. With wretched Flannan in Mathuin’s pay, grabbing some kind of chance to finish her off. Can’t move for a moment. Eyes all tears, stupid fool, what help’s that going to be? Might not be too late. Might not be. Let it not be.

Faster, faster. Wish I could fly. Why can’t I fly? Why can’t I be there now, now, when she needs me? Run right past Geiléis’s house, don’t bother to stop, run all the way to the river. Water’s low. Can’t see anyone on the island. No noise from the tower, but the thorns—there’s a gap in the thorns, a big one. She’s gone up. She’s gone up, and now the wailing starts again. Only it’s different. It’s someone else’s voice. It’s—no. Oh, no.

I shout the foulest oath I can think of. Plunge straight into the river. Who cares how deep it is? If my hunch is right, pretty soon drowning’s going to look like a good choice. Wet up to the chest. Haul myself out on the island, run for the tower. But the thorns are closing—they’re creaking and clinging like claws, and the gap’s too narrow now to let a man through. I want to hurl myself at them, bite and rip and fight them. How dare they, how dare they! Something stops me. Could be Brother Galen, smiling over his little pictures, stroking Bathsheba on his knee. Could be that I’ve remembered something important. I reach into my pouch—sodden from the dunking—and fish out the whistle the wee folk gave me. Lift it to my lips and blow as hard as I can. If this isn’t the last resort, I don’t know what is.

“Ah,” says a wee gray prickly man by my knee. Wasn’t there a moment earlier. Looks like he stepped out of the thorns. “Needing a bit of help, were you?”

“Please! Let me through! Quick, quick, before it’s too late!”

The wee man clicks his fingers, and the thorns part again, slowly. Like they don’t really want to. Like they might snap together at any moment if they don’t fancy the look of me.

“Go,” says the little one, though the gap still looks too narrow, only big enough for an ordinary-sized man. “Quick.”

I do as I’m told. Charge through, snagging my tunic, ripping my trousers, scratching my hands. My hair catches and I just keep on. Leave a clump of it behind on the thorns. And I’m at the door, and running up the stairs, hearing those cries all the way. And I’m in the high chamber at the top. Not knowing what I’ll see. Not knowing what I’ll do. Full of fear and fury and a sadness that goes so deep it’s got no bottom to it. Because I do know. I knew the moment I heard that voice. The curse has come round in a circle, only this time it’s not Lily and Ash; it’s us. It’s me and Blackthorn.