Conall’s prediction regarding the storm was correct. By early afternoon, the flakes had begun to fall, and by the time evening traded the steely sky for a darker blanket of nightfall, a fresh layer of white covered the clearing, with fat, wet flakes falling as fast and hard as rain and showing no sign of slowing. The temperature had fallen almost as fast as the snow, setting an icy crust about everything beyond the hut’s rickety wooden door. The wind called to them in whistling whispers through the cracks and crevices, as if coaxing them to venture out of doors into the midst of the wicked storm. Even the grays were silent.
Inside Ronan’s hut, though, ’twas peaceful and warm. The peat fire smoldered happily and a small oil lamp produced from Conall’s pack lent a mellow glow to the primitive walls and shaggy ceiling. The great black wolf—Conall was almost accustomed to the beast having a proper name—had taken up position lying in front of the sheep’s small pen in the lower part of the house, her long, sleek back pressed against the slats. Conall’s sheep mirrored the wolf’s pose beyond the gate, the two animals back to back.
’Twas one of the queerest things Conall had ever witnessed.
Conall himself sat on the low stool near the fire, twisting thin, springy branches into a trap. The stew he’d made earlier would last the hut’s occupants a full day, mayhap two, but he would need to be about catching fresh meat straightaway after the storm lifted.
In the box bed to his right, Eve slept on. Looking at her lying so peacefully caused an uncomfortable sensation in Conall’s gut—’twas reminiscent of caring for Nonna those last months of her life, when she was so weak—and so he tried to keep his mind on the task at hand: bending twigs, twisting twine. ’Twas repetitive, meditative work. He needed a smaller blade to twist a particularly short section of twine and knotted whip together and remembered Eve’s sorry, broken dagger.
Setting the nearly finished trap on the floor, he rose from the stool quietly and moved to the shelf. He found the blade lying where she’d left it, but his fingers stopped short of the handle as Conall noticed the rough saddle bag hanging limp beneath the shelf. Conall would have thought it empty save for the pointy corner pushing out the rough material below the flap.
He glanced over his shoulder toward the bed—Eve still slept, with her back to the room.
He lifted the pack from the peg and returned to the stool. Reaching inside, he found a smooth leather surface, square, and of a thickness of his palms stacked together. He pulled the object out carefully.
’Twas indeed a square of richly prepared leather, a thin thong holding the two edges together, an intricate tangle of grapevines burnt into the tanned skin. Conall undid the tie and the fine skin opened easily, revealing its content of bound pages of thick vellum. Conall’s eyebrows rose at the costly piece and his gaze caressed the fanciful squiggles and colorful decoration of the topmost sheet. He turned the page and was rewarded with more illustration—the entire page was covered over with beautiful swirls and tight, black writing. Conall was fascinated. He let his fingertips skim over the page.
“’Tis quite rude to go through a person’s belongings without their leave.”
Eve’s quiet voice startled Conall so that he jumped and the weighty package of vellum and leather slipped from his hands.
The woman gasped and stretched out an arm as if to catch the piece before it hit the floor, but of course she was too far away.
“Sir!” Eve chastised. “Would that you take greater care with that manuscript! ’Tis costly, not to mention holy.”
Conall felt his face heat as he carefully retrieved the…manuscript, was it?
“I thought you were sleeping,” he barked, embarrassed at being caught admiring the item, and of dropping it.
“Obviously.”
“What is it?” Conall asked, turning the manuscript over in his hands.
“A book of the Bible.” She paused. “Do you know what the Bible is?”
Conall rolled his eyes. “O’ course I know what the Bible is, woman. We have a priest come to our town once a year, regular. We’re nae savages.”
“Oh.” Eve sat up in bed. “I beg your pardon, then.” She sounded much better to Conall. “If you don’t mind, please put it back in the satchel. ’Tis most delicate.”
Conall made no move to replace the manuscript. He pulled the covers apart once more and continued to study it. “Where did you get it?”
“The priory where I was interred,” Eve said brusquely. “’Twas the work of the monks to produce the books for the priests.”
“’Tis the Gospel?” Conall ran his fingertips over a page again, enchanted.
“The Song of Solomon. Now, please—”
“The monksgavethis to you?”
Eve did not reply right away and so Conall turned his head to look at her. Eve’s mouth was pressed into a thin line and her cheeks were pink.
“Well, not actually. I, er…”
“Youstoleit!” Conall grinned. “Tsk-tsk, Sister Eve.”
“Do not call me that,” Eve snapped. “I was…studying itwhen I received word that my father was dying. It accompanied me on my journey quite accidentally. I simply never returned to the priory after my father’s death, so…” She shrugged and looked away. “I didn’tstealit.”
“Ah. Of course nae.” Conall knew his grin remained. “Can you read it?”
