The druid fell silent. For a long time he sat staring into the flames, so long that Cara wished she could take back the words, that she could go on pretending it wasn’t true. ‘How can it be,’ she asked, ‘that an ancient tale like that can be so close to my story, or at least the one Mistress Blackthorn thinks may be the truth about me and my family? Is that magic?’

Master Oisin smiled. ‘A tale has as many forms and variations as it has tellers over the years. Mine was only one version of this story about the wealthy man and the monster. The heartwood house possesses a deep natural magic, there is no doubt of that. One would imagine the skills required to build such a house could be learned only in the Otherworld. Do you think your father knew that when he hired his builder?’

‘I don’t want to think about it. But I have to. I have to talk to my father. The man I always believed was my father. Only . . . if I do, and if Mistress Blackthorn is right, it would be . . . it would break his heart. He would get angry. He might do something terrible.’ Like the man in the story, who would have killed the creature if he could have found her. Only this was worse. In the story, the wealthy man had never pretended the baby was his. He hadn’t decided to keep the child and tell lies about it. ‘I don’t want it to be true. I don’t want to lose my father and my home and my whole future. But I have to know.’

‘Dear child. This seems daunting indeed, and you are very young. Do not rush to action. Take time to consider. Talk to Mistress Blackthorn again; she is wise and brave.’ He seemed to consider for a little, then added, ‘You see this as a loss. But it is not so much a loss as a choice. Two paths lie before you. One is the path you always believed would be yours: a broad, straight way, a path of security and advantage, a path with few challenges or surprises. Safe, predictable, comfortable. The other is a path of many twists and turns, of darkness and light, of difficulty and reward, a path on which you would be forever learning.’

Cara stared at him. ‘How can you know all that? You don’t know anything about me.’

‘The flames tell me much. They tell me that you, too, are somewhat strange and different. You might turn that difference to the good, Cara.’

There was a question she must make herself ask. Another to which, really, she would rather not know the answer. ‘Can you tell if I have . . . if I have fey blood? Like the man who is building the heartwood house?’

‘Have you reason to believe so? Other than the possibility that he is your real father?’