She waited, not moving, as Alba came closer. When the maidservant was almost at the heartwood house the wild man started, turning his head. He had seen Alba, but she, walking steadily forward, had not seen him.

‘Alba!’ Cara called. ‘Go back! Fetch Gormán!’

Alba halted, stared, then turned and fled. And now the wild man’s attention was all on Cara. If she had thought herself well concealed she’d been wrong. He was staring at her as if he wanted to eat her up. In the filthy, neglected ruin of his face his eyes were burning coals, hungry and desperate. Ice spread through her. Her heart hammered so hard she thought she might lose her balance and come crashing down at his feet. Gormán’s coming, she told herself, gripping the branch so tightly her fingers hurt. Gormán’s coming and he’s big and strong and it will be all right. Just stay up here and don’t move. What if the wild man could climb? Don’t think about it, Cara. Breathe. Wait.

An endless time, then, while he stared, stock-still, and Cara stared back, thinking that the moment she took her eyes off him he would be up the tree like a squirrel and it would be all over for her. In that time she heard a dog barking somewhere on the farm, and birds moving about in the foliage, and the wind stirring the leaves, and she hoped she could hear the voice of the oak, saying, You will be safe. You are one of ours. How could that man keep so still? Nobody could be so still. Could he be one of the fey, a being with magical powers? Cara had never been sure if they were real or just a thing in stories. She’d wanted them to be real, but that wasn’t the same. If this man was one, he was unlike any description of fey folk in any tale she’d heard. Weren’t they supposed to be elegant and beautiful? This man looked – and smelled – as if he’d been rolling in the midden.

She was shivering. Her fingers didn’t want to hold on any longer. Spots danced before her eyes; she went from freezing cold to burning hot. Don’t faint, Cara. If she fell from this height the wild man would be the least of her problems.

And then there was another voice: Gormán’s. ‘Cara? Where are you?’ He strode into view with Conn behind him. Gormán had the big axe over his shoulder; Conn carried an iron bar.

‘Up here,’ she called, feeling more foolish than frightened now.

The wild man moved, backing away from the oak as if to give her room. Perhaps he really was only a wanderer in need of a good feed and a corner of the barn to sleep in.