‘He got the heartwood house half-built,’ Gormán says. ‘Quicker than anyone expected. Not all on his own, of course. There were a couple of older foresters working here then, and they helped find the different woods and lent a hand with the heavy lifting. And some of the farm lads shared the work. We got a couple of fellows in to cut the stone. All the same, Bardán did a remarkable job. Used to come down here and see his daughter at the end of the day, when work was all done. Went on building right through the autumn. And then . . . Well, something went wrong in his mind. And he did something bad. Something so bad you wouldn’t believe it.’

All of a sudden I’m not wanting to hear this story anymore. Thoughts have jumped ahead to what this could be and I don’t like it. But I have to listen. I’m the one who started all this. ‘Go on,’ I say.

‘He’d been muttering all day about the child, crazy things, old rhymes and the like. Came down to the house after dark, told the man at the door he was going to sing his daughter a lullaby. The fool let him in. Bardán snatched the child from her cradle while the nursemaid was still half-asleep and ran off into the forest with her. He was out of sight before anyone could stop him. And he knew his way around the woods, even in the dark. Impossible to track. Though we tried.’

Morrigan’s curse! No wonder Tóla was so strung up when his daughter went missing. No wonder he sent the whole household out after her. I ask another question I don’t want the answer to. ‘Did you find them?’

Another knock on the door. The sound makes me jump, I’ve been so caught up in the story. A serving woman comes in with a tray, sets it on the table, goes out.

‘Eat,’ says Tóla. ‘I don’t imagine you’ve had breakfast, either of you.’

Not long ago I was hungry. Not sure I am anymore. Gormán passes me bread and cold mutton. I hold it in my hand, not eating, waiting for the story.