Seems like nothing much. But I remember Blackthorn’s red kerchief and how that ended up being a lot more than it looked like. So I take the thing from Bardán’s hands and spread it out. Full of holes, fraying away, faded and tired. But beautiful; like a lovely dream. Finest thing I’ve seen in a long while. Before it got old this was a picture of birds done in bright wools. A piece you’d be proud of if you were the maker. Big enough to hang on the wall; pretty enough to fill up the little house with happiness. All different sorts of birds on it, perfect down to the last feather. Small, big, in between, from a little snippet of a wren to a swan with its wings spread wide. You wouldn’t think an ordinary woman like Bardán’s mother could make such a thing. For work like that you’d need a touch of the uncanny in your hands. But then, if that story he told was the true tale of his parents, she was part-fey. His mother. Ran away from the Otherworld in company with a boy who was switched for a changeling.

‘The last one,’ Bardán says, stroking the embroidery with a crooked finger. ‘Fading away.’

‘Someone with clever hands could mend this,’ I tell him. Wish I could comfort the fellow, but this is a deep-down grief. Those tears, they’re not over his mother’s embroidery, or not only that. He’s crying for the past, for the lost, for what couldn’t be. Know that feeling well. Know how it eats out your insides, so kind words don’t help anymore. ‘There’s one or two of the women at Winterfalls, Lady Flidais’s handmaids, who do fine work like this.’

Bardán snatches the ragged cloth from me, holds it to his chest like it’s a treasure. Which in a way it is.

‘It’s all right.’ Keep my voice soft; try not to rush things. ‘I wouldn’t take it from you. Bardán, I need the herb. Calamint. If you can remember where it is, please help me.’

‘Kind,’ Bardán says, coming out from wherever he was for long enough to see me properly. ‘Grim. Kind. Over there, at the corner.’

And there it is, half-hidden under a giant comfrey plant. Surprised it’s been getting enough sun. There’re enough fresh leaves on it for a brew. Hope so, anyway. I bend to pick, and there’s Blackthorn’s voice in my head: Take what you need, but leave enough – make sure you don’t kill the plant. Remember to say thank you.