“How can you be so sure?” Hanna lifted her head. “How can you be so sure?”

She sighed deeply, without opening her eyes. She left the city of memory behind, left the jeweled rose and Da’s words. “Because he knows Da had secrets and he thinks I know them all. Because he knows I have the book. He’ll never give me up. It doesn’t matter, Hanna. Hugh is to be invested as abbot, as Father, at Firsebarg. We will leave as soon as it is possible to travel south.” She opened her eyes and leaned down, whispering, although there was no one to hear them. “You must take the book. You must take it away from here. Because he’ll get it from me if I have it. Please, Hanna. Then if I’m ever free of him, I’ll find you.”

“Liath—”

But she would never be free of him. He knew. Of course he knew.

She let go of Hanna’s hands and stood. Hanna scrambled to her feet and turned just as Hugh opened the door.

“Get out,” he said coldly. Hanna glanced once at Liath. “Out!”

He held the door until Hanna left. Then he shut it firmly behind her. “I do not like you having visitors.” He crossed to Liath and took her chin in his left hand; his fingers cupped her jaw. He stared down at her. The deep azure dye of his tunic brought out the penetrating blue of his eyes. “You will no longer entertain any visitors, Liath.”

She wrenched her face out of his grasp. “I’ll see whom I wish!”

He slapped her. She slapped him back, hard.

He went white, except where her fingers had left their red imprint on his fine skin. He pinned her back onto the table, pressing her wrists painfully against the hard wood surface, and held her there. He was pale with anger, and his breath came ragged as he glared at her.

“You will not—” he began. His gaze shifted over her shoulder. He caught in a breath. He dragged her off the table and shoved her away. Whatever will had momentarily possessed her was already sapped. She stood numbly and watched as he brushed his palm over the tabletop. He inscribed his hand in a circle, narrowing, spiraling in, to trace the outline of a rose burned lightly into the burnished wood grain. His expression was rapt, avid. Finally he turned.

“What have you done?”

“I’ve done nothing.”

He grabbed one of her hands and tugged her forward, placed her hand over the table where she had to see, although the outline was almost invisible. The lines felt like fire along her skin.

“The Rose of Healing,” he said. “You have burned its shape into the table. How did you do this?”

She tried to pull her hand out of his, but his grip was too strong. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I didn’t mean to.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders, shook her. “You don’t know?” If anything, he looked more furious than when she had slapped him. “You will tell me!”

“I don’t know.”

He struck her backhanded. His heavy rings scored her cheek. He struck her again. He was diving into a rare fury. “How many years have I studied to find the key to the Rose of Healing, and you don’t know? Where is your father’s book? What did he teach you?”

“No,” she said, while blood trickled down her cheek.

He lifted her up bodily and carried her out of the room and into his own cell. There, he dropped her onto the bed. There she lay, staring up at him. He studied her, and all the while his left hand opened and shut to a rhythm known only to him.

Finally he knelt on the bed beside her. He wiped the thin film of blood off her skin. His touch was gentle.

“Liath.” His voice was coaxing, persuasive. “What use is knowledge if it is not shared? Have we not learned well together this past winter? Can we not learn more?” He kissed her cheek, where the rings had cut it open, then her throat, then her mouth, lingering, insistent.

But the fire had woken in her, however damped down it might burn. Ever since she had drawn the rose, a thin edge of sensation burned inside her where before she had felt nothing. Fire melts ice. Each time he kissed her she shuddered away from him.

“No,” she said softly, and braced herself for the blow.

“Liath,” he sighed. He ran a hand along the curve of her body. His breathing came in unsteady bursts, more ragged even than it had been when he was angry. “I have never treated you ill, in my bed.”

“No,” she said, compelled to answer with the truth.

“You could have pleasure. But you must trust me. I have seen how quickly you learn. How much you want to learn. That you want to learn more.” He laid his full weight on her. Even through their clothing, she felt the heat of his skin, burning off, enveloping her. “You know very well, my beauty, there is no one else you can ask. No one else you can turn to. I am the only one. There were rumors about your Da, dear old Master Bernard, but these villagers let it alone, let him alone, because they liked him. Because the biscop of Freelas has worse things to worry about than one stray sorcerer who sets hex spells to keep foxes out of henhouses.”