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sanctuary.
    I put my bundle and writing box on the bench and walked slowly around the path, liking the methodical way the garden had been laid out. Its untidiness did not trouble me; it was only in the practice of my craft that my mind required complete order. This haven had been planted by a skilled herbalist. There was everything here for a wide range of uses, both culinary and medicinal. Belladonna for fever, sorrel for the liver. Figwort, meadowsweet, heart-of-the-earth. And over there . . .
    Heart’s blood. In an unobtrusive corner, half hidden beneath the spreading silvery-gray leaves of a gigantic comfrey plant, grew a clump of this rarest of herbs. I’d never seen the real thing before, but I knew it from an illustrated treatise on inks and dyes.
    I moved closer, crouching down to examine the leaves—they grew in characteristic groups of five, with neat serrations along each delicate edge—and the stem with its unusual mottled pattern. No buds yet; this rarity bloomed only in autumn, and then briefly. It was the flowers that made it an herb beyond price, for their crushed petals, when mixed in specific proportions with vinegar and oak ash, produced an ink of rich hue, a splendid deep purple favored by kings and princes for their most regal decrees and beloved of bishops for the illustrated capitals in missals and breviaries.The capacity to produce a supply of heart’s blood ink could make a man’s fortune. I brushed my fingers gently against the foliage.
    “Don’t touch that!” roared a deep voice from behind me. I leaped to my feet, my heart thudding in fright.
    A man stood on the pathway not three arms’ lengths from me, glaring. He had come from nowhere, and he looked not only angry, but somehow . . . wrong .
    “I wasn’t—I was just—” Suddenly I was back in Market Cross, with Cillian’s cruel hands gripping my shoulders as he shook me, and Cillian’s abusive words ringing in my ears.“I—I—” Pull yourself together, Caitrin. Say something. I stood frozen, my stomach tying itself in knots.
    The stranger stood over me, fist clenched in fury, eyes glowering. “What are you doing here? This place is forbidden!”
    I struggled to find the words I had prepared. “I’m a ... I’ve come to . . .” Get a grip on yourself, Caitrin.You are not going back to that dark place . “I’m a . . . a ...” I forced the memory down, making myself look up at the man. His appearance was unsettling, for although his features were above the commonplace in beauty, they were at the same time somehow skewed, as if the two sides of his face were not a perfect match for each other. I noted the red hair, as ill tended and overgrown as his garden, and the fair complexion, flushed by anger. His eyes were of an intense dark blue and as inimical as his voice.
    “You’re a what?” he snarled. “A thief? Why else would you be here? Nobody comes here!”
    “I wasn’t trying to steal the heart’s blood plant,” I managed. “I’m here about the work. The position. Reading. Scribing. Latin.” I faltered to a halt, backing away. I could feel his rage quivering in the air of the peaceful garden.
    He stood there a moment, staring at me as if I were the oddity and everything else here completely normal.Then he lurched towards me, one arm outstretched as if to seize hold of me.The cold fear washed through me again. “It doesn’t matter,” I squeaked. “I must have made a mistake . . .”
    I backed further, then fled for the archway. Curse it! Curse this place, and curse Ita and her son, and most of all, a pox on me for daring to hope that I might have found sanctuary and for being wrong. And now I had to go all the way through that wretched forest again.
    “Wait.” The man’s tone had changed. “You can read Latin?”
    I halted with my back to him, my stomach churning. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. My lips refused to form the simple word yes , but I managed a nod.
    “Magnus!” the man roared behind