As I came closer it struck me how still she was, as much a part of the woodland as stone or water or tree. And . . . was that a bird on her finger? Yes, a redpoll perched there with complete confidence, while on the young woman’s shoulder, half-concealed by her cloud of wispy brown hair, a yellow-breasted siskin preened its feathers. I sucked in a breath; my steps faltered. Perhaps this was not a foolish human girl who had strayed where she should not, but one of Conmael’s folk.

Something alerted her. She turned her head toward me. The redpoll took flight; the siskin darted away. The girl was on the verge of doing the same – I could see it in her eyes. She came quickly out of the pool, keeping her gaze on me as if fearful I might attack.

‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ I said, walking down to the flat ground beside the water, the only spot where a person could easily venture in. ‘I must warn you. Dreamer’s Pool is not a safe place to go wading or swimming. You should keep out of the water altogether.’

She was slipping on her shoes, tugging her hem out of her girdle, thrusting items back into her bag. In a hurry to leave. ‘Why?’ she asked, not looking at me. Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

‘If the tales are to be believed, and experience tells me they are, then this pool is full to the brim with magic,’ I said, thinking maybe I could guess who this was. ‘It changes things. Man into creature. Creature into woman. And there’s no way to reverse it. At least, no way known to humankind.’ She had hitched the bag onto her back. ‘But perhaps you are not from these parts,’ I added. ‘You may not know the tales. Is your name Cara, by any chance?’

‘How . . .?’ Her response was as quick as a blade, but faded before she finished it. She might have been daydreaming back there in the water, but now she was on high alert. I did not think she was fey, after all; her features looked human, if unusual. She was tall, willowy, awkward in her movements now she knew she was not alone; a girl who had not yet grown into her woman’s body. Her pale skin was dotted with freckles. She had a big mop of wavy hair with many shades of brown in it, and wide, wary hazel eyes, now full of the wish to be somewhere else. She seemed afraid of me. Why would that be? I had tried to speak kindly.

‘How do I know your name?’ I said. ‘I know because Lady Flidais told me about you. That’s if you are the young woman who’s come from Wolf Glen to stay in the prince’s house. I am Mistress Blackthorn, the healer.’