Behind Bardán, the door to the hut’s open. Place looks like a nice shelter for spiders and birds and field mice, not much more. But it’s been a home once. Bits and pieces of furniture still in there, a bed, a table, one or two crocks and cups. Like he just walked off and left the lot, all those years ago. And nobody’s come near since.

Want to ask him what he’s doing here, and doesn’t he know he’ll be in big trouble with Tóla. But there’s no time. ‘Could you help?’ I ask instead. ‘The calamint. Need it in a hurry. Don’t know where to start looking.’

Bardán’s not hearing me. Tears still coming fast. ‘Every birdling in the wood,’ he murmurs. ‘Feather bright and feather fine . . .’

He’s in no fit state to help. He’s the one who needs help, but I’ve got to find this herb and go, quick as I can. There’s wormwood by the old wall, breaking free of the long grass. Yarrow. Lavender. Row of spiky thistles on guard. I head over there, squat down, start pulling out grass, hunting for calamint. Fresh green leaves, smallish; strong smell when you crush them. Grey flowers. What if that woman dies, and the child, all because I’m not up to the job Blackthorn’s trusted me with?

‘Woman,’ says Bardán, making me jump. He’s right behind me. Didn’t hear him move. ‘What woman?’

‘The one in labour? Fann, her name is. Her man works on the barges.’ All the time I keep hunting through the grass and weeds. ‘Brother called Osgar. He’s the one came to get us. Me and Blackthorn.’ Why can’t I find what I want? ‘Must’ve been your garden once,’ I say. ‘Herbs, flowers, vegetables for your family.’

‘I helped him,’ Bardán said. ‘Dad. Made the rows straight. Like a builder. He showed me. Mama sat on the steps and sewed her pictures. Singing, always singing. Feather bright and feather fine, none –’ He stops, just like that. Like there’s a wall there, stopping him from saying the next bit, whatever it is. ‘See?’ he says instead, and holds out the rag he’s been clutching. ‘She made this.’