‘My questions can be asked here,’ she said. ‘But I want Gormán present, and Grim. Where are they? And where is Bardán? I would never have believed you would strike a defenceless man, but I saw that this morning. I would never have believed you would speak to Aunt Della like that. But then, I always believed you were my father.’

I was speechless, and so was Tóla. Cara. Cara, who had been so intimidated by both Tóla and his sister that she had lost her voice in their presence. Cara, who had often seemed young for her age. Cara speaking with power and purpose. But then, she was not Cara anymore. She was Brígh. Stolen from her father; taken away to live a lie, while he was lost to the Otherworld. Oh gods . . . ‘Grim,’ I said, failing to sound in the least calm. ‘Where is Grim?’

Tóla relaxed his pose; his tone became conciliatory. He did not look at me or Cara, but at Cionnaola, man to man. ‘This is all some sort of misunderstanding,’ he said. ‘A silly error, compounded by sheer fancy. My daughter should come inside, and you men should escort Mistress Blackthorn home to Winterfalls. Had Cara not fallen under her influence, there would have been no such foolish talk.’

‘If no lies have been told,’ I said, and now there was iron in my voice, ‘then you should have no trouble telling Cara the whole story, Master Tóla. About the wild man, Bardán, who came to work for you, building the heartwood house fifteen or more years ago with the fey knowledge he had from his father. And the baby girl he brought with him to Wolf Glen, his motherless daughter, who disappeared when her father suddenly downed tools and walked away. A baby girl who reappeared many moons later with a different name, a name your wife had given her. Cara. Beloved. A pet name, like sweetheart and poppet and the other endearments I’m told your wife lavished on baby Brígh. Tell us about the mysterious disappearance of Bardán. Explain why the story doesn’t add up.’

‘That’s enough –’

‘Let Mistress Blackthorn speak,’ said Cionnaola. ‘And then we will hear your side of this tale.’

‘It’s none of your –’

‘Silence,’ said Cionnaola in a quiet voice that demanded instant obedience. Master Tóla fell silent. ‘I do not know you, and nor does Cúan here. But on the basis of what I have heard and seen today, I believe that if you do not tell your daughter the truth you may lose her.’

Tóla went scarlet. ‘How dare you threaten me?’

‘You would be a fool not to take this opportunity to tell your version of the story. The true story, whatever that might be.’

‘Gormán should speak too,’ Cara said.