“Man on the road,” I say, under my breath. “Looking at you.”

She straightens. Shields her eyes, gives the man a look back. I see a smile break out on his face. Looks like he knows her, and that can only be bad.

“Saorla!” he calls out. “Is it you?”

Blackthorn makes a word with her lips, only she doesn’t say it—the fellow’s name?—and then she’s walking forward, and he’s opening his arms, and she’s running to him before I can say watch out, be careful. They throw their arms around each other; he’s got his hand on her hair; she’s crying. Dog’s jumping around them barking its head off. I’m shocked. Can’t think straight. This is not Blackthorn’s way at all. It’s like she’s turned into a different woman.

For a crazy moment I wonder if it’s her husband, Cass, somehow not dead after all. Who else would she hold on to like that? Who else’s shoulder would she cry on? Makes me feel odd, all mixed up inside. Then I’m next to the two of them, putting a hand down for the dog to sniff, waiting for them to notice me. Blackthorn moves back but keeps hold of the fellow’s hands. She’s staring at him with her face all tears. Looks like she hardly believes what she sees. “But how is it you’re here?” she’s saying. “I thought you were dead with the others; how did you escape? Where have you been all this time?”

“I might ask you the same,” says the fellow. Looks a bit shaken up himself. “Where are you living? Close by here?”

“At the Dalriadan court, for now. It’s a long story.” Blackthorn remembers me suddenly. “Grim, this is Flannan, a very old friend. From back in the . . . A friend of Cass’s and mine.” She turns back to the newcomer. “Grim is my—traveling companion.”

“Greetings, Grim,” Flannan says, smiling. “Any friend of this lady’s is a friend of mine.”

“Fine hound you have here,” I say. “Good company for the road.”

“This can’t be Tempest,” puts in Blackthorn. “She’d be ancient by now.”

“Tempest’s long gone. This one’s Ripple, from the same bloodline. She’s a fine friend; she’s walked a long way with me. My work takes me from one house of prayer and learning to another, Grim. I’m a traveling scribe and scholar. That is how Saorla knows me.”

“I don’t use that name now,” she says, quick sharp. “You should call me Blackthorn.” Flannan’s a well-made fellow, tallish, maybe five-and-thirty, got some muscle on him, not what you’d expect for a scholar. A friend of Cass’s, she said. She’s hardly spoken her husband’s name since the day our cottage was set on fire. That night she told me the story of how Cass and her son were burned to death when Mathuin’s men torched her house. So Flannan’s from the south and he knows her story, some of it anyway. Enough to put her in danger, most likely. But here she is, clutching his hands and smiling, face all wet with tears. I fish a handkerchief from my pouch and hold it out to her. She doesn’t even see me.