“Where are you heading?” she asks him.

“West, toward Tirconnell.”

“In a hurry?”

Flannan smiles. “Monastic business is generally not conducted in great haste. I’m intending to study some manuscripts; I’m writing a book of tales, and they may provide good material. I’ll tell you more later. For now, if you think the court of Dalriada would accommodate me for a night or two, I’ll come with you. If that was what you were about to suggest.”

“I was,” says Blackthorn. “The king’s away. Prince Oran is presiding at court. He’s something of a scholar, and very fond of tales. His wife’s the same. My guess is, you’ll be welcome to stay there as long as it suits you.”

The three of us walk back together, me carrying Blackthorn’s basket with the herbs, which she’s forgotten all about. The hound, Ripple, pads along beside us. Flannan’s trained her well. He only has to move a finger or murmur a word and she does what she’s meant to. Nice to watch, that. Makes me think how good it would be to have my own dog, a proper one, I mean.

Nobody talks much on the way back. Flannan hadn’t expected to walk into his old friend here in the north, and she’s shocked to see him. There’s a story behind this. For some reason she thought he was dead, and he isn’t. But they don’t talk about the past now. I’m guessing Flannan doesn’t know yet if he can trust me. Doesn’t want to talk with me around, which is fair enough. As for Blackthorn, she still hasn’t got her head straight. But one thing’s plain: she’s happy. Happy deep down, like I’ve never seen before.

6

Geiléis

When would word come from the druid? Midsummer Eve was drawing ever closer. She cursed herself for agreeing to wait; she should have dismissed that idea straightaway. Now precious time was being wasted, and for no good reason. She didn’t want a druid. She wanted a woman. More precisely, she wanted Mistress Blackthorn, who had made it quite clear she was not interested. The wise woman was the prince’s friend. Moreover, she was clever and cautious. Not to be coerced, that one. What argument would influence her? What was it this healer wanted most in the world? Could it be that curiosity alone might draw Blackthorn west? Geiléis spent her days pacing as she thought up one unlikely approach after another and discarded them as quickly. At night, in her dreams, the thorns closed around her in a piercing, bloody embrace. Perhaps time would weigh her down until she went entirely mad.

Each evening, at dusk, she told the story. Over and over she told it: the young woman in the forest, the mysterious tower, the precious day of discovery . . .

He stirred, his dark lashes fluttering, his slow, steady breathing becoming a sudden gasp. Lily shrank back. The young man might have the appearance of a handsome prince, but that did not mean he was a good person. It did not mean he would not hurt her. It came to her, rather too late, that she was alone in the tower with a complete stranger, that she had told nobody where she was going, and that she had no weapon with which to defend herself. The tiny ferryman was unlikely to be much help if this man decided to attack her.