She still doesn’t understand. ‘Explains why he helped you, yes. And why he made you promise to follow his rules. He wanted you to be that old Blackthorn again. The one who stood up for what was right. The one who saw him as a real boy. The one who took time to listen.’

Blackthorn’s starting to look cross. ‘How does that help?’

‘Not sure. Don’t know much about charms and spells. You’re the wise woman. What we want is a spell to bring Conmael here. He can come here any time he wants: he’s fey. But he doesn’t come. He might be upset. He might’ve been waiting all this time for you to remember he’s Cully. Thinking you never will. Thinking that didn’t matter to you like it did to him. Being friends, that’s a big thing for some folk. One good friend can change your whole life. He might have given up coming to visit you because he’s . . . sad.’

‘Conmael?’ Blackthorn’s brows go up. ‘Hardly.’

‘Not Conmael, maybe. But Cully, yes. Lonely little boy, bullied by everyone, living on the outskirts, never had a friend to stick up for him. Then along you came. Brave. Sure of yourself. Strong. Ready to take on the world. He must’ve been . . . dazzled.’

‘Her hands are strong as a warrior’s,’ Blackthorn says. Gives a crooked smile, as if she doesn’t believe it.

My heart does a bit of a jump. ‘You saw that, then,’ I say. Feels like a long time since I wrote those words for her.

‘I copied it into my notebook. There are times when I need to remind myself I’m supposed to be brave.’ After a bit, she adds, ‘I liked what you wrote.’

‘I liked what you wrote.’ I feel myself blushing. Fool of a man. ‘Didn’t copy it down. Got it in my head. Thought of it when Bardán and I were . . . in there.’

‘Good,’ Blackthorn says. She’s blushing too. ‘Now, Conmael. You’re saying think of him as he was back then, a lonely little boy in need of a friend, and he might appear?’

‘Worth a try. What did the two of you do together? Play games? Tell stories?’

Cionnaola comes out of the cottage. ‘Fire’s lit, water’s heating,’ he says. ‘Cúan will get some food ready.’ He doesn’t need to say, It’s getting late and if we don’t go soon we’ll be riding in the dark.

‘Thank you,’ says Blackthorn. ‘Just one thing. I need some herbs from the wood, to wash Grim’s head wound. They grow not far in. Grim can come with me; no need for you or Cúan to trouble yourselves.’