I made no comment. The maidservant was rolling up ribbons, her lips thin. Behind me, the seamstress from the village still worked on the fall of the skirt. It was a graceful gown; some other girl might have worn it with pride.

“Conor disapproves of me, I think,” said Oonagh. “He seems to throw himself into the affairs of the household with a single-mindedness unusual in one so young. Do you think perhaps he is jealous that his twin shines so? Does he really wish to be a warrior and excel in his father’s eyes?”

I stared at her. She saw so much, and yet so little. “Conor? Hardly. He follows a path of his own choice, always.”

“And what is that path, Sorcha? Does a virile young man really wish for a life as a scribe, as a manager of his father’s household? A glorified steward? What boy wouldn’t rather ride and fight, and live his life to the full?”

Her eyes met mine in the mirror; and the bronze creatures gained power from her gaze, and fixed their baleful glare on me. I was unable to stay silent.

“There is an inner life,” I whispered. “What you see is Conor’s surface, a tiny part of what is there. You’ll never know Conor if you only look at what he does. You need to find out what he is.”

There was a short silence, broken only by the rustle of Oonagh’s gown as she moved about behind me.

“Interesting. You’re an odd girl, Sorcha. Sometimes you seem such a child, and then you’ll come out with something that makes you sound like an old crone.”

“I—can I go now? Is this done?” I was suddenly wretched. What else would she make me say? Why could I not control my tongue before her? Her last words had reminded me of Simon, and I could not allow her to tap into my thoughts of him, for if she learned the truth she would not hesitate to tell Father, and then it would not just be Simon, but Finbar, and I, and Conor as well that would be at risk.

It seemed the fitting was over. The seamstress began to undo the pins, one by one. There were a lot of pins.

“I’ve seen very little of your youngest brother,” said Oonagh, smiling. She had retreated to perch on the end of the bed, swinging one foot slightly. In her white dress with her hair falling about her shoulders, she seemed about sixteen years old. Until you looked into her eyes. “Always away off doing things, is Padriac. You’d almost think he was trying to avoid me. What is it keeps him away from crack of dawn till after suppertime?”

This seemed safe enough.

“He loves creatures, and mending things,” I said. The seamstress eased the bodice down. It was cold in the chamber, despite the fire. “He keeps them in the old barn. If there’s ever a bird whose wing is broken, or a hound suffers an injury, Padriac will fix it. And he can build just about anything.”