It might have been a dream, or something else. I thought my eyes were open. But I saw it clear and bright as an image painted in some great book. At first I believed I was remembering a time long ago, a time when I sat with my brothers on the smooth rocks by the lake’s edge, watching the silver shining bodies of the fish as they slid by in the water. But these children were not the children of Sevenwaters. There was a girl, tall and sturdily built, with rosy cheeks and a fall of bright hair like a sheet of flame. There was a dark-haired boy who lay flat on the stones and looked up, up into the sky with eyes like clear water, that saw far, so far. “The swans are coming, Niamh,” he said, not moving. “They’re coming today.” The girl lay down beside him, on her stomach, and trailed her fingers in the icy lake water. “How can you be so sure?” she said. “You’re always so sure.” It seemed to me there was another child there, on the edge of the picture, but I could not make out this figure clearly. Then the image blurred and was gone. Your children, the little voice said. And was silent.

My children, that might have been, I thought, as my hand crept up to hold the ring that hung around my neck, and the pierced stone with its runic markings. My son, my daughter. The little stone was carved with the secret sign Nion, for ash tree. But it was also N for Niamh, which was my mother’s name. Niamh, my daughter, with hair like a bright beacon, flame on the water. Then I could not stop the tears from flowing, and I wept and wept until my face was swollen and my head ached, and the light through the tall windows began to fade and die. The day was almost over.

By the time they came for me, I was empty of tears. And so I walked, blank faced, between guards out to the courtyard, as someone beat slowly on a drum, and one after the other, torches on poles flamed on either side all the way to the pyre. A big crowd had gathered, and I heard snatches of their words as I walked by…holds her head high…not quite human, that’s what I heard…me, I’d be screaming…wait till the flame catches…then you’ll hear her sing right enough…

Once, I looked back, and saw a man carrying my basket and another bearing distaff, spindle, and handloom, and everything else that had been mine. Even my old walking boots were there. It seemed all were to burn. There would be no trace of me left here to poison the household of Harrowfield. Please, I begged silently. Please put the shirts where I can reach them. Please don’t bind my hands. The guards were grim-faced. I sensed they took no pleasure in their duties, but were bound to obey. They were good men, I supposed; after the fire, they would go home to their wives, and kiss their children goodnight, and maybe reflect for a moment or two on what they had done. It was a measure of the power Richard wielded, that all would obey his orders without question.