Ríordán gives a funny sort of smile and says Brother Marcán’s just been over to check. Things were a bit frosty to start with. Then Father Tomas found out she knew about mead. So they’re sampling his brews and exchanging secrets. There’s also been some discussion of other matters. “We knew you’d be worried,” Ríordán says. “But we didn’t want you to leave without seeing the book.”

They’ve got it ready for me. Brother Galen’s little book, laid out on a lectern. Open at a page with an owl. There’s an ache in my belly, and that ache is me wanting to understand not just the pictures but the words too. To be able to read. Magic, that’d be, to know just what his hand set down there. Sometime. Maybe. Never been much good at that sort of thing.

I know how to turn the pages without hurting them. Brother Galen showed me, at St. Erc’s. There’s hare and salmon and prickly hedgehog. There’s sleek otter and secret badger and a moth all swirly patterns, flying across the full moon. A long-tailed mouse. A shrew, a salamander, a dragonfly. Pretty colors. Little touches of gold. Like an old tale with a surprise at every turn.

Thought I might be crying by the time I got to the last picture, but no. I’m smiling, not on my face, but deep down. Learned something this summer. When I leave here, when I give back the book and Ríordán locks it away for safekeeping, I’ll still have those pictures. I’ll still have Brother Galen with his fluffy white hair and his gentle eyes and his scholar’s cat. Just like I’ll always have what these fellows have given me. Kindness. Forgiveness. The hand of friendship. Faith in God, not so much. A bit more faith in myself, though.

I close the covers and get to my feet. I want to say thank you. I want to say I’m different because of them. But the words won’t come out. I dip my head a bit, that’s all. Sometimes what a man’s thinking is too big to put in words.

• • •

Blackthorn’s quiet on the way down to Geiléis’s. So quiet I ask her if she’s all right.

“Mm,” she says, not hearing me. Something’s got her thinking. After a while she asks, “Who’s Brother Conall?”

Shocks me a bit. “Why do you ask?” Didn’t think they’d tell her. Didn’t think they’d tell anyone.

“Just once, Father Tomas used that name, and it sounded as if he meant you. Marcán corrected him. Hard to believe there’s any monk who looks like you.”

“Long story. Some other time.”

“Mm-hm.”

She won’t ask again. She’ll wait till I’m ready to tell. That’s the way we do it, her and me. “Did he say anything about Flannan? Where they think he might have gone?”

“Not much. They were surprised he left his documents behind. I think they were taken aback that he left so abruptly, without thanks or explanation. He’s not on horseback, unless he got a mount from somewhere else. Either he was so sure of himself that he saw no reason to wait out Midsummer Eve, or something bothered him and he bolted.”