‘Got to be done by the rules, Grim. Every part by the rules.’

‘So what are the rules for the thatch? Apart from needing to be straw.’ Hoping it’s not something that’ll make the job stretch out into autumn after all. Hoping it’ll be quick and simple.

‘Never mind that,’ Bardán says. ‘Wait till the master’s got his straw, then I’ll tell you.’ He laughs again, and someone, Gormán or Conn, calls out ‘Shut it!’ from next door.

‘Thing is,’ I say, ‘I don’t want to wait and then find out it’s a job that’s too hard for one thatcher and a couple of helpers, or a job that’ll take all year. Better if you can tell me about it now.’

Silence. He’s not going to oblige. Then he says, ‘Grim?’ Not laughing now. All serious.

‘What?’

‘Where’s my daughter? My little Brígh, my lovely one? Where did she go?’

Morrigan’s curse. My guts tell me the time for I don’t know is over. Never heard him say his daughter’s name before. ‘You know I wasn’t here then. When you came to work for Tóla the first time. So all I know is what they told me. Tóla and Gormán.’

‘What? What?’ He’s up in a flash, crouching down by my pallet, trying to grab me only he can’t with his crooked hands. I sit up, take hold of his arms, wish I was somewhere else.

‘Calm down. It’s only a story. But it’s a sad story. Bad news. I’ll tell it if you want, but you won’t like it.’

‘What?’ His whole body’s tight.

‘Sit down, then.’

He sits where he is, right next to me.

‘There’s no good way to break the news, brother. They told me your daughter died. Long ago, when she was only a baby.’

There’s a heartbeat of quiet, then he says, ‘No.’ It’s a deep, sad sound, sad enough to bring tears to the eyes. Like an animal in pain. ‘No,’ he says again, ‘no. She can’t be dead. My Brígh, my baby . . .’

Me, I’ve got the Red Giant story in my head again. A sorrowful tale. But this one’s worse by far. The Red Giant story’s got a good future in it, for some at least. This one’s got no hope at all. You can’t say to a broken man, Go out, make a new life, find a new woman, father another child. Things aren’t so easy. What about Blackthorn, her terrible story? No, I mustn’t think of that. Can’t let myself.