As we entered the courtyard, I remembered Cathaír, left on guard outside my bedchamber door all this time. Hurriedly I made my excuses and went up to the gallery.
The young warrior still stood at his post, his features stern. His eyes, as ever, moved with restless unease.At a slight distance sat the little girl in her pale garment, cross-legged on the gallery floor, making a pile of dead leaves.
“Thank you, Cathaír,” I said.“I regret that my errand took so long. Has anyone been here while I was gone?”
“None will pass while I stand guard, lady.”
“Can you come back tomorrow, in the morning?”
“If you have need, I will be here.”
“I am grateful.You have leave to go until then.”
With a solemn inclination of the head he departed, not fading this time, but marching along the gallery and down the stairs as a flesh and blood man might do. I watched him cross the garden towards the trees. Just before he entered their shade he turned to look up at me, raising his hand in a hesitant farewell. I returned the gesture, half wave, half salute, and then he was gone.
The child had moved to stand right beside me.The moment I opened my door she slipped through. Standing in the middle of the chamber, she said, “Baby’s gone.”
I had to think for a moment before I remembered the ruined gown, Muirne, my mending efforts.“Róise’s downstairs, in the kitchen,” I said.“I had to mend her; she was hurt.”
The little girl stood very still with her hands clasped behind her back and her eyes on the floor. She said nothing.
“I don’t want her hurt again,” I said quietly.“When my things are damaged, it makes me sad. That’s why I had a guard on the door.” This child did not seem capable of doing the damage. She looked like something fashioned from twigs and cobwebs. “I don’t mind if people touch Róise very gently, as long as they ask permission first.”
For a moment she simply stood there; then she sank onto the floor next to the bed, put her head down on her folded arms and began to weep. It was not the full-throated crying of a child who has scraped a knee or lost a battle with a brother or sister, but a forlorn whimper. Without allowing myself to think too much, I picked her up, then sat on the bed with her chilly form in my arms. Her sobs grew wilder, racking through her.
“It’s not your fault,” I murmured, stroking the wispy white hair and wondering if I was being utterly foolish.
After a little the weeping died down. The child nestled against me, sending cold deep into my bones. If she could have slept, perhaps she would have. But like all the folk of the hill, she could not enjoy the peace of slumber.What was her story? How could she, so young, have died with guilt on her soul?
“I’m going downstairs in a moment,” I told her. It was almost dark; I must fetch a candle.
“Your bed is soft,” she said.The statement had a question in it. I imagined sharing my pallet with that chilly little body. I thought of lying awake, wondering when she would creep out and start shredding my possessions.
“Caitrin?”
I started, looking up.Anluan stood in the doorway, a candle in his hand, the unsealed scroll tucked awkwardly under his arm. The light turned his features into a flickering, deceptive mask.
“I need you to translate this,” he said. “I would prefer to do it in private.”
I should have realized the message might be in Latin. “Of course.” I rose to my feet, displacing the child, who curled up with her head on my pillow. I hesitated.Anluan seemed to be alone, and it was clear he expected me to do the translation right away. Perhaps he was not worldly enough to realize that a young woman did not invite a man into her bedchamber.
“I need to know what is in this,” he said.
“Of course.” I moved to the doorway. “If you hold the candle steady, I may be able to see it well enough.”
Steady. It is hard to be steady when you hear ill news. We stood close together, not quite in the bedchamber, not quite out of it, and the ghost girl watched us from the pallet. Drafts from the gallery stirred the candle flame; Anluan brought his weak arm up awkwardly to shield it.
The message was scribed in a bold, decorative hand on the single parchment sheet. It was not very long. “Do you want a word-for-word translation?” I asked him, my voice cracking.
“Just tell me what it says.”
