Chapter 36

Roy followed Ffion up to the school’s third-floor sitting room. She stayed at the school overnight sometimes, and this was her room. Cardell’s office and the dormitory for homeless pupils were next door, but at the moment they were empty.

Ffion opened the door and led him inside. The room looked much more worn than it had from the outside: plaster cracking in places, black mold freckling the walls. The furniture was spare—a table with a few chairs, a wall clock, a full-length mirror, a wooden bed draped in a rough blanket. Against the far wall sat a large, brown trunk.

She unlocked the trunk and lifted out a stack of crumpled, yellowed pages. From the pile she selected a smaller stack and spread them on the table.

“Read through these entries,” she said, “and you’ll begin to understand how I feel.”

Roy nodded and began to read in silence. Ffion sat beside him, a thread of nervousness in her expression; every so often she pointed out words he’d just learned. The handwriting was thin and at times elegant, but the quill and ink were poor. Ink blotted and stuck the letters together, leaving ugly black smears, but the entries were legible.

May 12, 1256 Today the drunk turned the house inside out. Not a single Crown to be found so he could not buy drink, and the tavernkeeper refused him credit. For once he was sober for a day, and that rotten conscience, long soaked in ale, seemed to have woken a little. It felt like a dream. The four of us sat in our damp, dark shack and shared one smoked fish to mark my poor mother’s birthday. Merciful Lebioda, grant us your pity, and let us have such a birthday again next year.

Four people? Roy rubbed his eyes. Was he reading it wrong? Ffion, her drunk father, her unsteady-minded mother, and—

“Did you have a guest that day?” Roy asked. “Or could that be a slip of the pen?”