All of this happened under the direction of a middle-aged woman with a cheerful face and untidy hair, whose blue apron was trimmed with silver, setting her apart from the others. She nodded to Clariel and said, ‘I’m your cousin Else … Elseniel, that is, but no one calls me that. I’m the keeper of the house, so if you want anything within these walls, come to me. Salleniel here has some clothes that will probably fit with a bit of a tuck or adjustment, so take your pick. Yan said to have you ready within the hour, so pop in the bath right away. The water cools quickly anyhow, so get the best of it. Off you go now!’

‘Uh, yes,’ said Clariel. ‘Um, thank you, cousins.’

They might be cousins, but there were too many of them crowded around, in too small a room. Clariel fled into the antechamber, and drew the newly placed curtain shut. She could hear general milling around and bedmaking noises going on, but mercifully no one followed her in.

The bathwater was still very hot, but it was welcome. Clariel hadn’t realised quite how dirty she had become in the prison cell, a state that had not been helped by a night under a tree. There was new soap on the bath rim, good soap scented only slightly with lime. She used a lot of it, and turned the bathwater the colour of a mud puddle, before she climbed out feeling much cleaner and considerably more refreshed.

Salleniel the seamstress was the only person still in the other rooms. She hardly spoke, her mouth full of pins already, but she had a very good eye as proved by her choices of linen undergarments and a leather hunting tunic that turned out to be very near a perfect fit. The knee-length leggings of doeskin were slightly long, but still only needed a quick turn and a rapidly stitched hem.

‘Are hunting clothes suitable?’ asked Clariel. ‘I mean, I saw there is to be a feast in the hall …’

‘Hunting clothes are always suitable around here,’ mumbled Salleniel through her mouthful of pins. ‘Himself never wears anything else, and what he wears is what we all wear. You’ll need some boots made, cousin, but there’s soft slippers here, which I can pinch in at the toe if needed. Just slip your foot in, there … Hmmm … Not so bad. Stay still!’

Salleniel made no comment when Clariel, fully dressed and ready to go, put the short knife Kargrin had given her through her belt. Almost as she did so, there was a perfunctory knock at the door and Yannael – or Yan, as it seemed most of the Abhorsens called her – came in. She was bathed too, but not so much changed as simply wearing clean versions of her previous hunting leathers.

‘He’s in the message-hawk mews,’ said Yan, without preamble. ‘Come on.’