In the night, without seeing, without speaking, they’ve been thinking of the same thing. ‘My mother would sing it,’ he says. ‘When I was dropping off to sleep. To keep me safe.’ That feeling, that warm, good feeling – how precious it had been. He had sworn to love Brígh the way he had been loved. He had promised her, had promised Dáire with tears choking his voice, that he would protect her. ‘I used to sing it to my baby. Only I must have done it wrong. Because she wasn’t safe, she was hurt, she was killed.’ Sobs well up. He puts his fists against his mouth to hold them in.

‘Sorry, brother.’ Here’s Grim, moving over to sit beside him, putting an arm around his shoulders. And here’s Ripple, creeping in on the other side to lay her head in his lap. ‘Didn’t mean to upset you. Only, I was wondering if you could sing it to me again, the whole thing through. Or tell me the words.’

‘Why?’

‘You know my friend. Blackthorn. You saw her today. She loves old rhymes and songs and stories. I told her about your song, your lullaby. She said she’d like to hear it.’

‘Breaking the rules again. The master’s rules.’

‘Blackthorn and me don’t worry much about other folk’s rules.’

Can he bear to sing the song? He thinks of Brígh in his arms, the slight soft weight of her, the wispy nut-brown hair, the shadowed lids closed over her lovely eyes. The tiny fingers curled around one of his. The creamy skin, the perfect small ears. His daughter. His only treasure. He wonders if the Red Giant might have kept his baby son if he’d had the right lullaby. He wonders, for a moment, if singing the song now might bring Brígh back. ‘Starling, woodcock, owl on wing,’ he whispers. ‘Nightjar, chiffchaff, bunting sing, goldcrest, warbler, thrush and jay, redpoll, siskin darting by . . .’ He goes through the whole song. Then Grim asks him to say it again. Up above, the owl hoots, maybe joining in, maybe talking to another owl out in the wood somewhere.

‘Your mother like birds, did she?’ Grim asks.

Bardán’s stroking Ripple. Her ears are soft. Her head’s heavy on his knees, as if she’s gone to sleep. ‘How did you know that?’ he asks.

‘Just wondered. With the rhyme and all.’

‘Birds would follow her around. She’d sit out in the sun with her embroidery and they’d perch close, all kinds together. She put them in her pictures.’