Heather shrugged. “I reckon you did that, Mr. Reave. What would you like to talk about today?”

“I thought of another story to tell you. It’s another one your mother liked. Would you like to hear it?”

Heather paused. “I do want to talk about my mother. And Fiddler’s Mill. I’d love to know what she was like when she was there—and what the commune was like, too.”

Reave looked away, staring at the door. His hands, she noticed, were covered in little white scars; the hands of someone who worked outdoors, who worked with knives.

“I’ll tell you a little about that place,” he said eventually. “If you listen to my story.”

“All right then.” DC Turner hadn’t offered her a cup of tea, or anything to drink, and she felt she had nowhere to put her hands. Self-consciously she rested them on the table. “Tell me a story.”

“Once upon a time,” there was a flash of that boyish grin again, “there was a king, who had a beautiful daughter. The princess sought a husband, but she insisted that any man who married her must love her so much that on the event of her death, he must agree to be buried alive in her tomb—”

“They told these stories to kids?”

Reave was still smiling, but there was a coldness to his eyes, and she suspected he did not appreciate being interrupted.

“These stories were told around the fire, at night. They told people how to live right, how to see the dangers in the forest.” He sat up a little straighter and continued. “The king was rich, and the princess was beautiful, but all her suitors had been scared off by the terms of the marriage. Eventually though, a young soldier in the King’s army, known for his bravery and strength, met the princess and fell deeply in love. He declared that he was not afraid of her conditions, and they married. For a while, they were very happy. The whole kingdom was happy.”

“Well, that’s good. I don’t suppose they all lived happily ever after?”

“After a few years, the princess grew gravely ill, and after lingering a while, she died. The soldier, now a prince, remembered with horror what he had agreed to and thought of fleeing the castle, but the king put guards on every door and window, and had the soldier watched every moment of every day. When the day of the funeral came, the soldier could do nothing but be marched to the princess’s tomb, and he was sealed in there with her corpse.”

“So, the princess is a loon, clearly, but it sounds to me as if the whole family was nuts. Surely the sensible thing to do would have been for the king to say, all right, she had her funny ways, we will miss her terribly, and now let’s never speak of it again.” Heather watched his face closely, interested to see if she could provoke a reaction—a man who cut women into pieces would surely have a temper, she reasoned—but Michael Reave just nodded slightly, as if he agreed with her, and carried on.