‘Climb down, Cara.’ Gormán spoke calmly, but there was a note in his voice that scared her. He had his eye on the stranger, every moment. Even when she jumped down the last bit to land more or less beside him, he did not look at her. ‘Conn will walk back to the house with you. Do as I ask, please. Conn, make sure Alba has delivered the message. Now go.’

Cara risked a quick glance at the wild man, and he made a sound. Perhaps he was trying to talk, but what came out was a grunting, moaning noise, so sad and terrible that tears sprang to her eyes.

‘Come, Cara,’ Conn said. ‘Quickly.’

She turned and followed him. He was walking fast; she had to scurry to keep up. But she still heard what Gormán said, behind her.

‘In the name of all the gods. You’re alive.’

Later that same day, Father sent for her. It would be a lecture on behaving like a lady. If he started that conversation about suitors, perhaps telling her young men of good breeding would not be interested in a person with twigs in her hair and her skirts hitched up to an unseemly height, she’d only have herself to blame. Cara wondered if he would say anything about the wild man. How was it that Gormán knew him? And where was he now?

She changed into a gown she knew her father liked, in soft wool dyed violet-blue. There was no sign of Alba, so she plaited her own hair and pinned it up as neatly as she could. It was somewhat wild at the best of times, with a tendency to curl when there was the slightest trace of damp. Aunt Della had been known to refer to it as a bird’s nest. Cara quite liked the notion of walking around with a clutch of peeping owlets snuggled up there. Her hair was the right colour for a nest, being of many shades of brown – lichen, oak bark, pebble, vole, autumn beech. Plaited, the colours blended into an innocuous muddy hue.

‘Father?’ She tapped on the open door of the council chamber.

‘Come in, Cara.’ He was sitting at his work table with documents spread out before him. Cara had thought Aunt Della might be with him, but he was alone. ‘Close the door, if you will.’

There was a flask of mead on the table, with a pair of goblets. At his gesture, she poured a small measure for herself, a more generous one for him.

‘Well now, Daughter.’ Father gazed at her as if thinking hard. She could not tell if he was sad – he was often sad – or merely thoughtful.