‘She’s going through all the books in Oran’s library, looking for the story of the heartwood house. My idea, not hers, and maybe it wasn’t such a good one. Grim, about that night when you rescued her, did she tell you . . .’ She stops again. Drops her voice to a murmur. ‘Did she tell you about the voices she heard down in that place? Did she say anything about birds?’

‘Had a crow with her when she climbed up. And other birds flying around. Odd. Daytime birds. Should have been asleep at that hour. About voices . . .’ I think back. ‘She said something about being offered things. Someone trying to make her stay. Or go further in. Wasn’t making much sense at the time.’

‘She told me. A secret. But you need to know.’ Blackthorn’s whispering now. Keeps looking over her shoulder. ‘Fey voices, all the time she was down there, trying to coax her in. And when she wouldn’t do what they wanted, they started tormenting her. Saying her father was a liar. Saying her life had been a lie since the day she was born. Cara thinks it may be tied up with the heartwood house story. That if she finds it, it might explain everything. Only . . .’

‘Drink your brew. You look like you’re seeing ghosts.’

She takes a mouthful. ‘I was the one who started Cara looking. Only the more I think about it, the more I think this may be one of those times when it’s better that the truth never comes out.’

‘There’s a sad story about the first time. First time it was being built, I mean.’ I tell her about Bardán and his baby girl. Tell her the terrible thing that happened, the tale Tóla and Gormán told me. ‘He says she didn’t die. Couldn’t have. All wrapped up warm and safe. Keeps telling me that. The way he says it, it sounds like the truth. Wondering now if I was lied to earlier. Bardán asked me to help him find her, you know. His daughter. I feel sorry for him, whatever he’s done. Poor sod never had a chance. Down that hole and off to the Otherworld for fifteen years. Came out crippled and crazy.’

‘Morrigan’s curse,’ breathes Blackthorn. Thinking, most likely, the same thing I’m thinking. Only it’s impossible. ‘There’s a few ways you could tell that story and I don’t like any of them. The one that’s supposed to be true is as bad as the others.’

‘Thing is,’ I say, ‘once folk have made up their minds that a man’s lost his wits, it doesn’t matter what he says. Doesn’t matter what tale he tells – truth, lies, something in between. Folk don’t listen. Doesn’t make a difference how loud he shouts, or how clever his words are. Nobody hears.’