He wouldn’t go. It made Cara want to cry all over again. There was still a part of her that wanted to run to him, put her arms around him, say she was sorry she had made him so sad. But she didn’t do any of those things. Her true father was here, right beside her. She could feel his warmth. His smile made her feel safer than she’d ever felt before, even though she had no idea where she would sleep tonight or what would happen tomorrow. So she stayed by Bardán and watched as the Swan Island men took Tóla between them, as if he were a miscreant, and walked him down to the house with the serving folk following behind like sheep. She wondered if she would ever see him again.

Mistress Blackthorn asked Grim to look at the toadstools; she asked Aunt Della too. So that there would be witnesses to speak up at the council, if needed, she said. Cara tried not to think about that. Tried not to think of Tóla and Gormán facing charges of . . . all sorts of things. Stealing a child. Telling lies. Poisoning. But her mind was full of a terrible realisation. If she had not come to Wolf Glen today Grim and Bardán might both be dead, their bodies neatly disposed of, and the truth might never have come out.

Mistress Blackthorn consigned the toadstools to the fire, then washed her hands three times over. ‘Where did Gormán go?’ she asked, looking around.

He had gone away while Tóla was arguing; while the rest of them were listening. Cara had seen him walk off into the forest just as he was, without cloak or bag or water skin. But she had not mentioned it to anyone. ‘He gave his word he’d be back for the prince’s council,’ she said. But she doubted he would keep that promise. Her heart told her she would never see him again.

Cionnaola and Cúan returned, and Cara remembered that when she had burst in on them at Dreamer’s Wood they had been about to set out on a journey. Mistress Blackthorn too. It was late afternoon now; if they were going, they should go. She could not ask Mistress Blackthorn for any more help. That would be unfair.

‘Cara?’ Aunt Della was beside her, pale but perfectly composed.

‘My name is Brígh now.’

‘Brígh. It will take time to get used to that. The folk from Longwater have offered you and – and your father a place to stay. They’ve got room for you.’

Brígh looked at her father. ‘What do you think? We can’t stay here.’

‘The house,’ Bardán said. ‘At Longwater. Our house.’