“He’s altered, he knows; he’s brewing an infection of the spirit. These days, when he goes poking around the Plateau in search of anything remotely edible – the last of the bitter spoonwort, campion, dock, stonecrop, spurrey, tree mallow, even flakes of orange lichen, in hopes their colour might carry some vigour – in the back of his mind, Cormac is picking a fight. As he and the Prior keep adding to the walls of the chapel – almost roof-height now – his fury rises too.”
