“As a plan, it’s not the best you’ve ever thought up.”

“I know that! I know he’s probably on the way back to Laois and out of our reach already!” I hammered my clenched fist on the table for emphasis. It hurt. Gods, I hated being weak.

“Supper,” said Grim. “Now.”

43

Grim

Midsummer Day and no proper plan worked out yet. Only me doing the roof this morning, and her coming with me and talking nicely to Father Tomas while I’m working. Means I’ll know she’s safe. Won’t hurt to sweeten Father Tomas a bit either. The lay brothers stay at Geiléis’s house, in case Flannan comes back, though what I’ve told them is, in case anyone calls by and needs telling what’s happened. And that if he makes an appearance one of them should come straight up and fetch me.

Blackthorn’s a lot better today. Not herself yet, but stronger. Manages the walk pretty well. Brother Fergal comes to the gate and lets her into the guest area, which is the only spot where women are allowed. I fetch my bits and pieces and go off to finish the roof.

Thought I’d have to make cat and fox all over again, but no. When I go for my things, there’s not just the one bag, there’s two. First one, raven and dove. Second one, not a mess of broken reed but cat and fox, perfect. Know I fell over them running down to warn Blackthorn. Felt them break. Someone’s fetched them back and fixed them. Fixed them with little weavings and knots and twisty bits. Other things too, row of white stones threaded in, and hairs, long ones, white, gray, golden, black. Scraps of green ribbon. Work’s too fine for human hands. What I’m thinking is, better get these up quick before the good brothers know they’re getting fey work on their roof.

I don’t say anything to Tadhg or Fergal or Ríordán, though they’re all there when I get the creatures out of the bags. Don’t feel like saying much at all, just doing the job the best I can.

Fergal holds the ladder steady. Tadhg is at the top handing things up to me. I’m on the ridge tying the creatures down, doing the knots right, making sure they’ll hold fast in winter gales. Look down once or twice and see a lot of monks out in the garden, or on the paths, watching me. Part of me wishes I could stay here. Another part can’t wait to go home. Funny old time it’s been.

Midmorning and we’re done. Climb down, thank the fellows for helping, pack everything away. No sign of Blackthorn. She can’t still be talking to Father Tomas. But she promised not to go back without me. Maybe she’s tearing strips off him for not doing more to help.

Brother Ríordán says to wash my hands and come with him. And here we are at the scriptorium door again. Like yesterday when I came barging in not even thinking about being scared. Only not like that, because now I tell them I’m sorry I did that, and then I say maybe I should be making sure Blackthorn’s all right.