“This is not easy for you, is it?” he commented. “You could decide to talk to me, of course. That would be helpful. But I see in your expression that you will not.”

I cannot.

“Tell me something,” he said, regarding me closely. “If you wished, could you speak to me now? Could you talk to me of my brother, and what became of him?”

I have never been able to lie. I nodded miserably, not wanting him to pursue this.

“Why not tell me?” he said, quite softly. “I would let you go, you know. Whatever happened to Simon, it cannot have been your doing. You are only a child. I would let you go. But I must know first. If he is dead, then I can tell my mother, and so his shadow is laid to rest, and let that be an end of it. This feud is not mine, and I will not pursue it. I have no wish to meet blood with blood. If he lives, he can be found, and I will find him. Would you not wish to know, if this were your own brother?” I gave a nod and then turned abruptly away, so that he would not see my face. There was a long silence. I did not feel I could walk on; but his words had made me deeply uneasy. I did not understand why he would ask me this, when he had kept what he knew of me to himself, telling neither his mother nor, it seemed, his closest friends. Perhaps, I thought, the Fair Folk really did put a spell on him that night. Perhaps he was called to protect me while I complete my task, and so he acts against his true will. If not for that, surely he would make me give him the information, surely he would force it out. He had no need for kindness, no need for patience. But even if I could have spoken, I had no real answers for him. When I looked back at him, he had closed the book and put away his pen and ink.

“I should keep this leg moving,” he said, getting up. “Walk up this way, I want to show you something.” He still limped, and so I managed to keep pace, despite his long legs. We followed the path around the lichen-covered orchard wall and up a hill beneath young oaks still bearing the last of their russet leaves. Alys plodded gallantly behind.

“I was five or six years old when my father and I planted these,” he said. “He had a great respect for trees. When you felled, you planted. An oak takes a lifetime to grow. Like his father before him, he saw a long way ahead.” The path went on upward, and the trees stretched out on either side in orderly rows. Alys grew weary and lagged behind, and we waited for her to catch up. She was too old to go further, but refused to be carried. In the end, I convinced her by gesture and expression that she was to wait for me, and she settled, grumbling, in the fallen leaves by the path. Her liquid eyes followed us reproachfully as we continued to climb. There was a crisp dawn breeze; looking back, I saw the first curls of smoke from newly kindled fires in house and cottage. The folk were beginning to stir.