Blackthorn wouldn’t say it. Blackthorn would tell her to put her shoes by the fire to dry out, and give her a cloth to wrap around her hair, and suggest it might be a good idea to tuck up her skirt next time she went paddling in mud puddles. She wouldn’t tell Cara to hang up her own cloak, she’d just expect it. And if Blackthorn was too busy to listen, she’d say so straight out. But she’d promise to find time later, and she’d keep the promise.

Today the rain was coming down in sheets and the fields between Winterfalls and Dreamer’s Wood were dotted with little lakes. And Prince Oran’s household was bustling with activity, with the prince and Lady Flidais about to head off for court, some folk going with them, some folk staying home to look after the house and the farm, lots of guards on duty, more than usual, as if a war far to the south might come all the way here, which was just silly. Nobody noticed when Cara put on her cloak and headed out along one of the farm tracks. There were good climbing trees up the rise; she knew most of them now. This old yew was a friend, ready to accept her hands and feet on its massive twisted trunk, welcoming her with its many spots to sit and think. Secret spots. The yew was full of surprises. She took off her shoes and climbed barefoot to a high perch. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, laying her cheek against the yew’s trunk.