Heart's Blood

“If he wants me, I will stay,” I said, but as the time drew out I wondered whether it might be better if Anluan sent back a message that I wasn’t up to the job. Magnus would probably escort me down the hill if I asked him to. Tomas had said the village would shelter me. How likely was it, really, that Cillian would come so far west in his efforts to track me down?

I tried to weigh up Whistling Tor with all its peculiarities, including the curse Tomas and Orna had mentioned, and the situation I had run from. People in Market Cross had believed it fortunate that Ita and Cillian were there to tend to me in the helpless fog of grief that had followed my father’s death. Ita liked to make sure folk understood. Someone had come to the house asking for me; perhaps several people. I’d not been myself at the time, and I couldn’t remember clearly. I did recall Ita’s voice, sharp and confident. You can’t see her. She can’t see anyone. You know how highly strung Caitrin always was. Losing her father has turned her wits. She’s in no fit state to make her own decisions, nor is she likely to be for some time to come. I will nurse her and provide for her, of course; my son and I will be staying in this house to ensure Caitrin is properly looked after. And I’ll set my mark to any legal papers on her behalf. Poor Caitrin! She was such an accomplished girl. If people couldn’t see me, they couldn’t see the bruises. If people couldn’t hear me, it didn’t matter if I spoke sense or nonsense. Anyway, I wouldn’t have had the courage to speak up. Because the worst thing wasn’t Cillian’s fists or Ita’s cruel tongue. It was me. It was the way the two of them turned me into a helpless child, full of self-loathing and timidity. It would be a mistake to think I’d be safe in the village with Tomas and Orna. Cillian would pursue me. Ita was determined that he and I would marry. It’s best for you, Caitrin, she’d said, and I’d been too sad, too confused to ask for a proper explanation. It couldn’t be about worldly goods. Father had left Maraid and me almost nothing.

“A scribe,” said Muirne, turning to fix her large eyes on my face.“How did you learn to be a scribe?”

“My father taught me.” I had no intention of confiding in her; not before I found out if I was staying or going. “He was a master craftsman, much in demand around the region of Market Cross.”

“There are many papers. It’s dusty. Dirty. Hard work. Not a lady’s work.”

My smile was probably more of a grimace.“In this particular field, I am a very hard worker. I hope I will get the opportunity to prove it to you.”

Her neat brows lifted, and a little smile curved her lips.A moment later, she was gone as silently as she had arrived.

“Come with me. I’ll show you where you can put your things.” Magnus spoke from the other doorway.

I jumped to my feet. “Does that mean I’ve got the job?”

“A trial period. I’m to show you what needs to be done—you may change your mind once you see it—and you can work on it for a few days. He’ll assess your progress and decide if you’re up to completing the work by the end of summer. There’s a chamber on the upper floor where you can sleep.”

I hurried after him, questions tumbling over one another in my mind. “What exactly is it I’ll be working on?” I asked.

“Records. Family history. They’ve all been scholars after their own fashion, from Anluan’s great-grandfather down to him. He’s got all manner of documents in there, some of them not in the best condition. Needs sorting out, putting straight. It’s a mess, I warn you. Enough to dishearten the most orderly of scribes, in my opinion. But what do I know of such matters?”

As he talked, the steward led me along a hallway and up a precipitous flight of heavily worn steps to an upper floor, where several chambers opened off a long gallery. Large spiders tenanted each corner and crevice of the stonework. Leaves had blown in through the openings where the gallery overlooked the garden to gather in damp piles against the walls.There was a forlorn smell, the scent of decay.

“Here,” said Magnus, ushering me through a doorway.

The chamber was bare, cold and unwelcoming, just like the downstairs rooms I had seen. It was furnished with a narrow shelf bed and an old storage chest. I did not think anyone had slept here for a very long time. “I’ll bring you up some blankets,” my companion said.“It gets cold here at nights. There’s a pump outside the kitchen door; we use that for washing. And you’ll need a candle.”

“Has this door a bolt?”