She might as well not have been there. Blackthorn didn’t even bother to go out the back, just stripped off all her clothes and dropped them on the floor. There were scars on her body, old ones. As if she’d been beaten badly. Don’t stare, Cara, came the voice of Aunt Della, and Cara looked down at the floor instead. She thought about her aunt, because right now that felt safer than thinking about why Blackthorn was so angry. She thought of all those years Aunt Della had spent caring for her. What sort of life would her aunt have had if she had not come to help them after Cara’s mother died? Cara had never thought about this before, and now that felt rather shameful. Maybe Aunt Della would have married and had children of her own. Or maybe she would have done something quite different. Been an independent woman with her own household. Become a master of some craft. Bred dogs or sheep or pigs. Instead, she had given her life to Cara.

Mistress Blackthorn was dressed now, warm in gown and shawl and soft slippers, with her hair making a bright, tangled halo around her face. She still looked stony as she took her wet garments out the back. Cara made herself move; filled the kettle from the bucket of clean water and set it on the fire. Fetched two cups and some herbs for a brew. Chamomile and lavender were what Blackthorn used when someone was upset.

The wise woman sat down by the fire. Not relaxed. Tight in the body and dour in the face. She didn’t say a word until the brew was made and Cara had passed her a cup. Then she spoke at last. ‘You told them.’

‘W–wha . . .?’ Cara’s voice ran away like a rabbit before the fox.

‘You told them about my document. Ségán and his men. You told them where I’d hidden it.’

‘I –’ That look on her face, as if Cara were the lowest scum she’d ever seen in her life. It was a look to freeze a person’s insides. Her voice was hard as iron. Cara wanted to say, That isn’t fair. She wanted to say, I’m sorry, even though whatever had happened with the Island men was not her fault. She hadn’t told them. She’d done her best to explain that the notebook was private and so was any other writing Mistress Blackthorn might have been doing. But she was scared now, scared of her trusted friend, and that was so terrible she couldn’t speak a single word. She made a sort of gesture, trying to explain that she would talk if she could.