‘How was it?’ Tom whispered.

Kit checked the kitchen door was shut and came closer to Tom. He spoke in a low voice. ‘Master says the wards be strong enough.’

Tom nodded. ‘I think I know where the beglamoured object is. But how to get it … that’s going to be hard.’

‘We maun do it, Tom. We maun.’ Once more Tom was blasted by the pain and sorrow in Kit’s eyes. Tom wondered when was the last time anyone had held Kit, and so he took the silver-haired boy into his arms, and soon Kit began to sob.

He wept for a long time, and when he had finished, he looked up, grateful.

‘I did love him once. Master. But then he desired the Samdhya … it was more’n I could bear. It ain’t right. It ain’t natural. I ain’t natural. I should’a been dead, in the earth, my soul wi’ my God, my flesh eaten by worms.’

Leana too came to offer her sympathy and pressed her wet nose into Kit’s hand.

‘We’ll get him, Kit. I promise you.’

‘Upon thy honour?’ Once more that ancient voice was coming back through, the ancient words, the glimpses of what Kit had been, so long ago.

‘On my honour.’ Tom squeezed Kit’s hand. ‘And on my mother and father.’

This seemed to satisfy Kit, and the boy stood. There was a look of gratitude in his eyes, and he straightened himself, returning to his tasks, leaving Tom alone in the kitchen, his mind spinning with plans.

Chapter 15

Our minds break through the ramparts of the universe.

— From the Sayings of the Samdhya, transcribed by Margaret Ravenswood

When Kit had gone, Tom paced around the kitchen, making endless cups of tea and tearing at crusts of bread with his teeth, hardly bothering to spread them with butter. The afternoon light was clear, and the woods and fields outside seemed still; the horse was quietly grazing in the home field, and the water in the moat was mirror-like.

Tanenwod had told Tom not to sound the flute again. Even so, he carried it around with him in his pocket, liking the feel of its simplicity, the care that had gone into its making, liking the fact that it connected him to her. He wondered if she had used it, if some of her breath had gone into it; perhaps she had made it herself, those beautiful fingers shaping and carving the wood.

Zita appeared in the kitchen at dinner time. She seemed worn, black shadows under her eyes. Yet she still retained her impish spark, her eyes darting at Tom.

‘He’s asked me to make more healing draughts,’ she said, nibbling at a boiled potato with a delicacy which only she was capable of. ‘I think he might be worried about this attack.’