‘I just . . .’ Her voice was a timid mouse’s, a secret vole’s, a spider’s, a wren’s. She cleared her throat. ‘I just wanted my shawl.’ What were they doing here?

‘Please,’ said Ségán. ‘Be seated. We have a few questions for you.’

‘I can’t . . . I have to . . .’ She moved forward anyway and sat on the bench he was indicating. Seated, it might be easier to hide the shivering. Be like Blackthorn, she told herself. Be brave. Be strong.

Ségán sat down opposite her. ‘You’ve been spending your mornings here with Mistress Blackthorn, is that right?’

That one was easy. A nod was enough.

‘Doing what, exactly?’

Cara could hear Mistress Blackthorn answering, None of your business! But the words wouldn’t come out at all. Not those words. Not any words, now. The walls felt very close suddenly. She could hear the beating of her own heart. She shook her head.

‘Tell us, Cara.’ The man called Art was standing behind Ségán with his brawny arms folded. Caolchú was turning the pages of a book, not looking at her. If that was supposed to reassure her, it wasn’t working. Cúan was over by the door now. On guard? Against what?

What is this, an inquisition? Blackthorn would say. Or, Since when did fighting men have an interest in scholarship? Or, I refuse to say a word without witnesses present. Cara opened her mouth. Tried to speak.

‘This might be more successful if you let Cara write her answers down for us,’ Cúan suggested.

Ségán frowned. ‘Fetch some materials, Caolchú.’

Cara breathed. This would be over soon, whatever it was. Quill, ink pot and scrap of parchment were duly set in front of her.

‘Is she unable to talk?’ Ségán was looking at Cúan. Asking the question over her head, as if she were not there. Or as if she were a half-wit.

‘She can talk. But not always easily.’

‘This will be slow. Never mind, I’ll keep the questions simple.’

Wonderful. He did think she was a half-wit. Maybe she could scribble all over the page, or make a drawing of a tree. Or a row of little men with patterns on their faces.

‘Write down what work you’ve been doing in the library, all these mornings.’

Reading books of old tales, she wrote. Then drew a tiny book, open. That made her feel calmer. No need to tell him any more than exactly what he asked for.

‘Has Mistress Blackthorn been doing the same work?’

She helps me sometimes. She drew Mistress Blackthorn, chin in hand, frowning over a great tome. Looked up to see Art, Caolchú and Cúan watching with grins on their faces. Ségán looked as grim and intent as before.

‘Has Mistress Blackthorn spoken to you about the past, before she came to Winterfalls?’