‘Does that mean . . .’ Blackthorn’s thinking twice about asking, I can see. ‘Does it mean a human child was left in the Otherworld? In your place? Raised among the fey? That’s what happens in the tales.’

‘It is sometimes so, yes.’ Conmael’s tone was cautious.

‘Only sometimes?’

‘To be raised, to be offered a different life – that is a gift of sorts. Not every human child taken by my kind meets such a benign fate. Some are simply . . . cast aside. Or worse. I will spare you the details. You already have sufficient material for a lifetime of bad dreams.’

‘So it’s not because someone in the fey world wants a human child for their own?’

‘That may occasionally be so. Your kind breeds easily; mine does not. But more often such an action is taken as a punishment.’

Blackthorn laid her stones in a neat circle, not looking at Conmael. ‘A punishment for whom?’ she asked.

‘For one of your kind who has offended one of mine. Torched an ancient site; cut down a hawthorn; walked where he or she should not. Or it might be a punishment for one of my kind.’

‘But how could – oh.’

The look in Blackthorn’s face tells me what she’s thinking. Everyone knows changeling tales. There’s the human mother who goes to the cradle and gets a nasty surprise. She’s settled her rosy, perfect little one to sleep, and now there’s a wizened thing like an old wrinkly turnip looking up at her. Crying a cry that could never come out of a human baby’s mouth. But that’s only half the picture.

‘Two mothers grieving,’ says Blackthorn. ‘Two fathers inconsolable. And two children, in effect, lost forever.’

Conmael bows his head. Meaning yes. But that isn’t right. He’s not lost, is he? Looks to be doing well for himself. Dresses like a nobleman, can move around by magic, got a few supporters we’ve seen over the years. Casts some pretty good spells, like the one that made the roof of Mathuin’s lockup fall in. Though he could have managed that better, not killed a bunch of folk doing it. One thing doesn’t fit: the way he interferes in Blackthorn’s business. In the tales, the fey don’t care about anyone. It’s not in their nature. But he cares about her.

‘You went back,’ Blackthorn says. ‘Did you . . . Did you find them?’