‘Prince Oran, I imagine, will take into consideration the fact that you have given a full account of yourself now,’ Blackthorn said. ‘Or have you? Am I wrong in thinking those ingredients laid out on the table in there were designed for a very particular purpose? One would think that having used screamers before with such unfortunate results you would have thought twice about trying the same trick again.’

‘Master Tóla asked me to gather them.’ Gormán’s voice was very quiet; the crowd hushed to catch his words. ‘Cook them into a stew, as I had done before. He feared you, Mistress Blackthorn. He feared Grim almost more, since Grim has both an enquiring mind and great physical strength. Bardán came to Master Tóla this morning to reveal that he knew Cara was his daughter. He could only have learned that from Grim. Master Tóla was desperate, I imagine, to stop the story from getting out; what he feared most of all was losing you, Cara. He did not tell me precisely what he planned, only asked me to prepare the stew. He asked for a full cup of screamers. I assume both men were to be . . . eliminated.’

Cara could not take it in. He was saying – he was saying – no, he couldn’t mean that.

‘Wait a bit,’ said Cionnaola. ‘Isn’t Bardán still needed to build the heartwood house?’

‘Hah!’ A derisive sound from Tóla.

Cold crept deep into Cara’s bones. Maybe she wasn’t Brave Brígh after all. I’ll always be afraid of him, she realised. And I’ll always love him. I’ll always love them both. Even after this.

‘The heartwood house will never be finished,’ Tóla went on. ‘He came down to see me this morning – him, that godforsaken apology for a man – and told me there was a part to the tale he hadn’t divulged before. About the thatch. It’s impossible to do.’

‘Feather bright and feather fine,’ said the wild man in his thick, awkward voice.

‘None shall harm this child of mine,’ said Cara, looking at Bardán. ‘That’s the song, isn’t it? The lullaby you used to sing me.’ The chill in her bones retreated. ‘That’s about the heartwood house too.’

‘Thatch of straw and feathers,’ Bardán said. ‘One feather from every kind of bird in the wood. Given willingly. Starling, woodcock, owl. Nightjar, chiffchaff, bunting. Goldcrest, warbler, thrush, jay. And many, many more.’

‘Crow, wren, siskin,’ said Cara, glancing up at the barn roof. ‘You need them all or the heartwood house loses its magic.’

‘That bastard never meant it to work,’ Tóla said. ‘He tricked me. It was all lies from the first.’