At least I saw her, I tell myself as we get back to work on the heartwood house. At least she came here. And even if Bonehead didn’t say any of the things he wanted to say, maybe there was no need to. Her and me, often enough we don’t need words. Though words can mean a lot. Strength in his hands, I think. Truth in his eyes. Love in his heart. Honour in his spirit.

And I wonder if a tiny baby, so new it hardly knows what world it’s come into, can listen to a lullaby and remember it deep down. I wonder if that baby, years later when she’s a girl of fifteen, can speak the words without knowing where she got them from. If she’s got a drop or two of fey blood, maybe she can. I wonder if there was only ever one baby girl at Wolf Glen.

Chapter Twenty-nine: Blackthorn

29

~Blackthorn~

‘I hope Cara is well,’ said Gormán as we rode down to Longwater. ‘Is she recovered from her ordeal?’

‘An experience like that must make its mark on a person,’ I said. ‘Especially a young person. But yes, she is well. Happier now than when she first came to Winterfalls.’

‘We miss her.’

‘She misses you,’ I said. ‘She speaks very fondly of you, Gormán; as if you were family. You taught her wood carving, didn’t you? She’s remarkably skilful.’ When he glanced across at me, I added, ‘We let her borrow Grim’s tools. It was obvious from the first that she knew what she was doing.’ Should I take a risk, step into the dangerous territory of old secrets? ‘Gormán, there’s something I’d like to ask you.’

‘Yes?’

‘What is the old tale about a heartwood house? Where did Master Tóla get the idea from?’

‘Why would you want to know that, Mistress Blackthorn?’

‘I’m intrigued. As a wise woman I know a lot of tales, and I’m always interested in hearing more. I’ve never come across a heartwood house before.’

‘I don’t know where he got the story. From a druid, perhaps. A heartwood house is considered lucky. Each type of wood contributes a particular blessing. Oak for strength and endurance. Beech for ancient knowledge. Fir for clarity. Blackthorn for facing reversals with determination. And so on.’ There was good humour in his smile. Had the situation been different, I could have liked this man.

‘You sound half-druid yourself, Gormán.’

‘I’m a forester. A forester knows trees.’

‘Cara’s favourite tree at Winterfalls is an ancient yew.’

‘I know the one,’ said Gormán. ‘New growth and old side by side. The younger wood glowing pink when the sun catches it. A remarkable tree. Its spirit born again, one might say.’

Half-druid indeed. ‘What blessing would yew bring to the heartwood house?’ I asked.