“Anyway,” Grim went on, “it’s closer to six years now.”

“Why doesn’t that make me feel any better? It doesn’t seem to matter how busy I am, how worn-out I am after a day of applying salves and dispensing drafts and giving advice to every fool who thinks he wants it. Every night I dream about the same thing: what Mathuin of Laois did to me, and what I’ll do to him. And the fact that Conmael’s stupid rules are stopping me from getting on with it.”

“I dream about that place,” Grim said. “The stink. The dark. The screams. I dream about nearly losing hope. And when I wake up, I look around and . . .” He shrugged. “The last thing I’d be wanting is to go back. Different for you, I know.”

I wanted to challenge him; to ask if there weren’t folk who’d wronged him, folk he might care to teach a lesson to. Or folk who’d once loved him, who might still be missing him and needing him to come home. But I held my tongue. We didn’t ask each other about the past, the time before we’d found ourselves in Mathuin’s lockup, staring at each other across the walkway between the iron bars. A whole year we’d kept each other going, a year of utter hell, and we’d never shared our stories. Grim knew some of mine now, since I’d blurted it out on the day fire destroyed our cottage. How Mathuin of Laois had punished my man for his part in a plot against injustice. How he’d burned Cass and our baby alive, how he’d ordered his guards to hold me back so I couldn’t reach them. Grim knew the dark thing I carried within me, the furious need to see justice done. And Conmael knew. Conmael knew far more than anyone rightly should.

“Pea soup?” Grim’s voice broke into my thoughts.

“What? Oh. Seems a shame to cook them—they taste much better raw. But yes, soup would stretch them out a bit. I’ll make it.”

“Onion, chopped small,” he suggested. “Garlic. Maybe a touch of mint.”

“Trying to distract me from unwise thoughts?” I turned my gaze on him, but he was busy with his gardening again.

“Nah,” said Grim. “Just hungry. Looks like we might have company in a bit.”

A rider was approaching from the direction of Winterfalls. From this distance I couldn’t tell who it was, but the green clothing suggested Prince Oran’s household.

“Donagan,” said Grim.

The prince’s body servant; a man with whom we shared a secret or two. “How can you tell?”

“The horse. The white marking on her head. Only one like that in these parts. Star, she’s called.”

“You think the prince’s man will be happy to eat my pea soup?”

“Why not? I always am. Need to start cooking soon, though, or he won’t get the chance.” Grim laid aside his pitchfork and straightened up, a big bear of a man. “I’ll do it if you want.”