Some girls were already wed at fifteen. Some were mothers. But that was not possible for her. It was unthinkable. If she married, how would she have time for any of the things that mattered? There would be no time to hear the many voices of the forest, no time to watch the patterns of leaves and light, no time to breathe the crisp air, no time to feel the weight of a fine piece of wood in her hands, seeing in her mind the forms that lay within. What if the husband her father chose for her did not understand these things? What if she tried to talk to him and her words suddenly vanished, the way they did sometimes when she was talking to Father or Aunt Della? The suitor would think her a half-wit, and Father would be furious, and that would make it even more impossible to get words out.

Perhaps she could refuse to wed unless the man loved the same things she loved. Somewhere, surely, there must be at least one other person like her. If she could summon the right words, maybe she could persuade Father to wait awhile. Some women married and had babies when they were quite old, twenty or even five-and-twenty. Her maid Alba had told her so. There was plenty of time. Years.

Or so she thought, up till the day the wild man came to Wolf Glen, and everything changed.

She’d been out by the barn, showing Gormán a drawing she’d made for a carving of a squirrel. He’d promised to look out for the right piece of wood but warned her it might take some time to find it. ‘Off you go, then,’ he’d said in his gruff way. ‘I’ve my big axe to sharpen, and I don’t want you anywhere near while I’m doing it, young lady.’