She hadn’t intended to go back to the library. A whole morning spent poring over those manuscripts was more than enough. But she’d left her warm shawl there and it was getting cold outside. There might be rain. As she walked toward the library Cara thought of the trees sucking up moisture, breathing the damp air, stretching and easing themselves in the slow way they had. It would be interesting to be a tree. A long, gradual sort of life, with many visitors. A tree could observe the passing of time in a way no man or woman ever could. A tree could see generations of birds and squirrels and humankind be born and live and die, it could see wars fought, it could see flood and fire and disease ravage the countryside. It could see saplings grow from its own seed, ready to take its place when it finally succumbed to age and decay or the axe of the forester.

Oh, she missed Gormán! His wise words, his little jokes, his sideways smile, as if he and she shared secrets nobody else knew. It was so long since she’d seen him. That night didn’t count, the night he’d helped rescue her. By the time she’d started to get over her shock, she’d been all tucked up in bed with Aunt Della fussing over her. And the next morning, when she’d asked if she could say goodbye, Father had said no. Just like that. Which meant there was something really odd going on, not just what Father had said about the workers but something else.

Cara pushed open the library door. She took a step inside and stopped in her tracks. The three men who were standing by the table turned to stare at her. Three of those men, the Swan Island warriors.

‘Oh,’ she whispered, backing away. ‘Sorry.’

‘Wait,’ said a male voice behind her.

Cara froze.

‘You were going in, weren’t you?’ It was the young one, Cúan. He stepped around her and motioned forward. ‘We’d like a word, anyway.’

A birch in a spring storm must feel like this, Cara thought. Trembling all through. As if the wind might topple her. But a birch has roots in the ground, strong roots. They held her steady. She walked forward. If she tried hard enough, maybe she could make her voice work.

‘Sit down,’ said one of the others, the man who looked like a hawk. ‘My name is Ségán.’

‘Art,’ said a broad-shouldered, dark-bearded man.

‘I’m Caolchú.’ This one looked friendly enough, with an amiable face and a shock of wheaten-fair hair. A warrior, though; his muscles were like knotted ropes.

‘And you know my name,’ Cúan said. ‘No need to be alarmed.’