Then the woman they called Linnet brought me alms of goat’s liver and bread, and tripes for Flynn. She sat me in the sun against the wattled wall of her hut, bade me chew slowly, and returned inside.
‘The boy Griffin!’ ‘Yes.’
‘He is the younger brother of my husband, Connor. He was barrow boy in the mines. He loaded the bodges.’
Thus she whispered to me through the cracks, unseen.
‘Griffin had the gift of foresight. When Black Jacob’s horse was stolen the boy described a meadow five miles from here, where the horse was found — that was the sort of thing. He was a dreamer, but the gift never set him apart from our people.’