‘Wake up! Wake up! Summer is here,’ I read.

‘Try this word again.’ She points.

‘Sun . . . sunrise. Sunrise is here.’

‘Well done. Now my turn. Telling, not reading. It was a fine spring morning and a man was setting off on an adventure . . .’

She’s got this all ready for me while I’ve been away. Tells a bit of the story, about a fellow who goes off fishing and finds a strange creature in a lake. Every so often she stops, and the next part of the story is there on the wax tablet, nice and simple for me to read. Not that it’s easy; wouldn’t be even if I was properly awake. Wish I was quicker at it. But I get through it, word by word. Creature turns out to be a beautiful woman in half-fishy form, and she tells the fellow he has to give up something he loves if he wants to keep her as his wife.

‘My horse,’ I read. ‘No, I cannot do it. My dog. No, I cannot do it. What can I give?’ I look up at Blackthorn. ‘Sad ending, is it?’

‘It depends,’ she says, smiling. I like the way a smile changes her face, warms it up. ‘The ending can be whatever you want.’

What can I give? is the last writing on the tablet. ‘You want me to finish it?’

‘If you like.’

Harder than I thought. I see in her eyes that it’s a sort of test, not only the reading part, but this too. Remember a time, not so long ago, when I finished one of her tales with blood and destruction and sorrow all round. Upset a few folk. Want to get this right. Try to put myself in the fisherman’s shoes. Try to think the way a water creature might. Why’s she asking him to give something up? Does she want to be in human form? Or is this some kind of bad magic?

‘Fisherman thinks, what else is there to give? My freedom; my name; my home. My good health; my strength; my courage. Says to the water creature, What do you want? Speak without fear. If you would rather be free, I will walk away and never trouble you again. Costs him a bit to say this. He’s a lonely man, and the water creature’s beautiful. Fair face, long green hair, all shiny, eyes like forest pools. And the tail of a fish. She can’t live on land, can’t be his wife without changing. Ah. He sees it now. If she changes, she’ll get a good husband. But she’ll lose something a lot more precious. If he won’t give up his freedom, how can he ask her to give up hers?’

‘Oh, very good,’ Blackthorn murmurs. ‘Go on.’