The Abbot enters the house where

“That’s not good enough!” the blind elf howled.

Aengus had been speaking with his customary soft tone, and the Abbot had not heard what was not supposed to be good enough.

“Good morning, gentleman,” Aelfden said with his customary gravity.

Aengus’s eyebrows went up like a pleading child’s, but the elf did not give him a chance to speak.

“How long did it take you to get there?” he demanded.

Aelfden began, “I came as soon as I—”

“Not you!” the elf wailed without turning round. “How long did it take you to get there?” he asked Aengus.

“My room is downstairs…” Aengus murmured.

“How long? A minute? Two minutes? Do you know what can happen in a minute?”

“Friend,” Aelfden began again.

“Do you know what can happen before a girl even wakes to scream?” The elf sobbed, “Cat!” and began smacking his own temples with his hands.

Dunstan followed Aelfden into the hall. “Friend,” he said. “The Abbot is here to help you.”

Aelfden had not seen much of the young lord since he had gone to live at the abbey and Dunstan had taken up residence at Dunellen castle. Aelfden was ashamed to admit the boy had grown far more in authority than Aelfden himself in that time. Whether from the blood or from study, Dunstan had his father’s trick of making his soft voice and small body into thunder on a mountain when he chose—or so it seemed since his father’s shadow had been lifted from him in the past days.

Even the elf stopped his wailing and turned to him.

“I don’t need help,” he whined. “I need to help Cat.”

“We all want to help Cat,” Dunstan said. “That is why we are here.” There was nothing soothing or consolatory in his voice, but the calm dignity of it was reassuring all the same.

Aelfden wished he could simply let Dunstan handle the matter. Dunstan, he supposed, had at least slept during the night. Dunstan, he supposed, was not fasting.

But Dunstan was not a priest.

“What happened here?” Aelfden murmured.

“What happened?” the elf cried, growing hysterical again. “What happened?”

“What happened?” Dunstan asked calmly.

“I don’t know what happened! A stinking elf got into Cat’s room—which should be difficult enough—and he tried to hurt her, and when Aengus tried to fight him, he disappeared into the air! No elf can do that—not even Vash!”

It was, in a way, worse than Aelfden had feared. Father Brandt had all but pitched his volumes of Saint Augustine into the fire, for he despaired of ever understanding the place of magic and miracles in a valley where magic could save lives and miracles could destroy churches. But Aelfden continued in his struggles to reconcile both with the theology that had come down from men wiser than he and inspired by God.

It was harder than ever now, for he struggled alone. Father Brude was gone, and he, as one who had been part of the household of Pope Gregory for years, seemed to sanctify any idea of Aelfden’s he agreed with. Even the Duke was away now, so Aelfden could not so much as speak with a man whose mind was on a level with his own, blasphemous though the Duke might occasionally be.

But this was worse even than the duel between elven magic and Christian miracle. If an elf said that this magic was beyond the capabilities of elves…

“May I see the room?” Aelfden croaked.

Aengus said, “Of course. Follow me.”