It was like a slap in the face. A slap, and feeling the ground wobble under her feet at the same time. Cara wished she could roll up like a hedgehog, behind her defensive prickles, and forget the rest of the world. Nobody listened to her. Not even Blackthorn. Nobody cared. She didn’t fit at home and she didn’t fit here. She was a . . . In her mind, the voices chanted their cruel ditty. You’re a pretender, pretender, pretender.

‘Cara?’

Her lips closed themselves together. Her words sank down deep.

‘Cara, I wasn’t laughing at you. I respect your offer of help. But there’s a lot of my story that you don’t know; things almost nobody knows. Things that are too dark and evil to tell anyone, let alone a young woman like yourself. I’m ill-tempered and out of sorts today, and I’m sorry. Even at good times I’m not the kindest and gentlest of folk. You know that already.’

It was possible to nod. To take a sip of the ale. Not to speak; not yet.

‘I’ll consider moving over here for a bit,’ Blackthorn said. ‘I don’t enjoy living among a lot of folk, but I can do my work from this household, and if one of the farm cottages is empty, I’ll ask Aedan if I can have that. I draw the line at sleeping in the women’s quarters. You could stay with me or here in the main house. Provided Aedan agrees. I imagine he and Fíona are in charge of all the arrangements until the prince gets home.’

‘Yes,’ Cara managed. Her voice came out as a croak, but that was better than nothing. She took another mouthful of ale, thinking up the right words for a question she had to ask. ‘Mistress Blackthorn?’

‘Mm?’

‘I’m sure there’s something more going on. Not just what Father said, about the men doing the building. Something complicated. Something old.’ She waited for Blackthorn to snort again, or laugh, or dismiss the idea.

‘Go on,’ Blackthorn said.

‘Only I can’t do anything about it. Not if I’m stuck here. But – Mistress Blackthorn – those voices I heard in that underground place – whatever those creatures were, they seemed to know all sorts of things. It’s as if they’ve been watching for ages, years and years. Not just all my life, but before that. Maybe not only watching but . . . meddling.’

‘I can only agree with you,’ Blackthorn said. She was eating her cake now; a good sign, Cara thought. ‘But even if you were still at Wolf Glen, you’d be ill advised to search for them again. They sound like a particularly unpleasant branch of the fey. Malign, almost. But since, as you say, you’re going to be stuck in this house for a while, there is one thing you could do.’

‘What?’