“I’ll need to pay the place a visit before I make that decision,” Blackthorn said.

“Senach,” Geiléis said, not turning her head, “have a word to Onchú about this, will you?” Her folk were well aware of the risks; they would take adequate precautions. They knew what Blackthorn could be allowed to see and what must remain hidden.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Another thing,” said Blackthorn. “I’ll be wanting to talk to the local folk, find out if anyone remembers more than those snippets you mentioned. About this being a job for a woman, and about Midsummer Eve being the time to drive the monster away, I mean. There has to be a whole story there; I can’t believe it’s completely lost.”

“I fear you will be disappointed,” Geiléis said.

“Perhaps we could offer refreshments after the ritual, either here in the house or in the courtyard,” Blackthorn went on, as if Geiléis had not spoken. “That would provide a good opportunity to talk to people. I want to meet the old folk especially.”

Gods, the woman was brimming with plans. It would be a challenge to keep her under control until it was time to give her the truth. As much of the truth, that was, as she would need to perform the task. “I have asked the local people about this already,” Geiléis said. “You know that. Nobody remembers anything. They are all weighed down by the monster’s presence, its constant crying. To press them further on this matter would be . . . burdensome. And fruitless.”

Blackthorn subjected her to a level gaze; Geiléis could almost see the wise woman thinking.

“I know old folk can be forgetful,” Blackthorn said. “And when a person cannot remember, for instance, how to make porridge or tie up their apron strings or play a tune on the whistle, you might assume they will never be able to do those things again. But that is not necessarily so. One day that old man or old woman will hear a lark singing, or smell dried lavender, or see a fair-haired rider on a white horse, and suddenly the old skill is back, for a short while at least. The memory of youth returns. The tale is remembered by the hands, if not fully by the mind.”

“A pleasing theory,” Geiléis said. “But in this case, not apt. I am quite certain nobody in the district can remember this particular tale.”

“Thing is,” put in Grim, “tales get old. So old you don’t hear them around the fire anymore. Sad, that is. But even then, there’s always someone who knows parts of the story. A bit here, a bit there. Something about pigs. Something about a ladder or a kerchief. Seems nonsense—then you start putting the bits together and . . .”

“And suddenly you’ve got the answer you were looking for,” said Blackthorn, giving one of her rare, brief smiles. Most times, her mood ranged between touchy and somber; Geiléis had observed already that her guest was not the warmest of souls. If the healer ever wed and had children—Geiléis judged Blackthorn not yet too old for that—heaven help them. That would be a loveless hearth.