It was a long, long fall. Time enough for her to think, When I land I’ll die. And a bit later, If the landing doesn’t kill me, I’ll be so broken I’ll die anyway. And then, Why is it so far? No cave is as deep as this. And at the end, It’s not a cave, it’s –

She was down. Sore, but not broken. In the dark, on her own. In her mind Aunt Della was saying, Girls who insist on ignoring perfectly sensible rules are sure to find themselves in trouble. And her father . . . her father would be beside himself with worry. Even if this was his fault, at least partly. If he hadn’t sent her away, if he hadn’t left her at Winterfalls and never come to visit, if he hadn’t refused to explain . . . But she was the one who’d run off without telling anyone. She was the one who hadn’t been prepared to wait.

And now here she was, in some shadowy place deep underground, too far down to climb out of, too dark to make a way through, and nobody knew where she was, nobody at all. Not even Blackthorn. Who was ever going to think of looking for her here? She had nothing useful with her except a small sharp knife. She was hardly going to cut foot and hand holds in the solid rock, then climb out of what had felt like the deepest well in the whole world.

‘This way,’ someone said in the darkness, making her heart leap in fright. ‘Warm fire, pretty lights, a feast just for you. Friends, music, dancing.’

Cara made herself still. She made herself as still as a frozen pond; as still as a caterpillar in a cocoon, waiting for its moment of transformation; as still as the deep roots of an oak. Don’t hear me, she willed whoever it was. Don’t hear me breathing.

The voice came again. ‘Cold out there. And getting colder. Damp. Long walk. Rest weary feet.’

There were tales. Gormán told them sometimes. And Mistress Blackthorn told them. There were those stories Prince Oran and Lady Flidais read after supper, full of all kinds of oddities, including fey folk of different sizes and shapes. Some were dangerous, monstrous, giants or trolls or dragons. Some were little and friendly, needing nothing more than that bowl of milk and crust of bread on the back step. But all of them were tricky. And someone who lived so deep underground that the place couldn’t be a cave was surely dangerous. Even if that someone had a sweet voice and a nice manner about him. Or her. She couldn’t guess which.