Good smell of cooking from the cottage, something with meat in it. Ripple pushes past me, forgetting her manners. Blackthorn’s been busy. Row of little jars on the shelf, with labels stuck on. Some potion she’s made with Emer. I remember what it was I said I’d do. Catch up on the reading and writing lesson I missed. Head’s so fuzzy I couldn’t tell one letter from another.

‘Long day,’ Blackthorn says, ladling whatever it is into a couple of bowls. Gives me a good look over, as if she doesn’t much like what she sees. ‘Eat up, go off to bed, don’t bother about anything else.’ She sets our bowls on the table. Puts a dish down for Ripple.

I eat. Try not to fall asleep between one mouthful and the next. ‘Good dumplings,’ I mumble. They are good; made with onions and mutton fat. After, I feel a lot better.

‘Got a story for you,’ says Blackthorn. ‘If you can stay awake long enough.’

‘Mm-hm?’ Hearth fire’s burning, place is cosy. Ripple’s lying across my feet, twitching in her dreams the way a dog does. Miles away from Wolf Glen and the wild man and all the stuff I’m not supposed to talk about. Different worlds, and I know which one I like best. A story would be good. Right way to end the day.

‘I’m not going to tell it,’ Blackthorn says. ‘Not all of it. You have to help. You read one part, I tell the next part.’ She takes a wax tablet from the shelf, the one she uses to teach me and Emer our letters. She opens it up on the table, and there’s writing in it, not practice letters but whole words. They swim around like little fish; can’t make any sense of them.

‘Might be a bit tired,’ I say, wishing I’d been born a clever man. ‘Can’t see it clear.’

‘That’s why I kept it short,’ says Blackthorn. ‘Come on now, one word at a time. Point as you go. Start here.’ She puts the tablet on the table in front of me, guides my finger to the spot. Words skipping about like finches in a fruit tree, dancing out of reach. ‘Breathe slowly,’ she says. ‘You can do this.’

‘A . . . a bird . . .’ I narrow my eyes, try to catch each word in turn as my finger touches it. ‘A bird calls. Called.’

‘Good.’

She’s right beside me. Her arm against mine. I remember in that place of Mathuin’s. Anyone laid so much as a finger on her, she’d lash out. Even after we were free, long after, she’d flinch if anyone reached out to her. Couldn’t bear even a friendly clasp of the hand, she was so hurt. And now she’s here, so close, not scared anymore.

‘Go on, Grim.’