‘Happens in the old tales,’ I say. ‘Heard one or two about folk wandering into mushroom circles or the like. Next moment they’re somewhere else. The Otherworld. And they can’t get back. Mostly the other way, though. Feels to them like they’re in that place for a day or two. But when they come back, to this world I mean, all the folk they knew are old or dead and there are strangers living in their house.’ I take a quick glance at Bardán. He’s looking at me hard, as if what I’m saying makes sense to him. Morrigan’s curse! Could it be . . .? I was going to say, Wife, children, all gone, but I don’t. ‘Could work the other way. Hundred years. Long time.’ I look at him again. ‘A man could learn a lot about building in a hundred years. And ruin his hands doing it.’ Thing is, Blackthorn and me have seen some strange old things; things most folk would say couldn’t be true. There’s Conmael. Take one look and you know he’s fey, even if he hadn’t got us out of Mathuin’s lockup with some sort of spell. There’s Dreamer’s Pool, where we saw a dog turn into a woman and a woman turn into a dog. And when we went to Bann there were tiny wee folk and a man-monster and a curse that kept people alive more than two hundred years. Which all means I don’t jump to the conclusion that Bardán’s crazy, even if he can act that way. Learned to build a heartwood house, didn’t he? And a heartwood house sounds to be as magical as a house can be. Where would he do that, if not in the Otherworld?

But then, Bardán was the one building the heartwood house the first time. And that was before those years away. So the fey might have taught him how to do it better, but he already knew a lot about it.

‘Going to ask you something,’ I say, looking around again in case anyone’s near. ‘You don’t need to answer if you don’t want to.’

Bardán makes a sound that might mean, Go ahead, then.

‘Who taught you how to make a heartwood house?’

He doesn’t answer. Which is fair enough. I get back to work, wondering. Would hearing some kind of old tale or rhyme be enough for a fellow like him, good at building already, to get the know-how of this? And where would he have heard it?

Long while later, when I’m busy with pegs and string, checking that things are straight, Bardán speaks up. As if I’d only just asked that question.

‘My father. He showed me.’