When she was little, but old enough to be curious, she’d been full of questions about the heartwood house. In those days she’d had no trouble saying what she wanted to, straight out. She’d been brimming with words. Why was it called that? What was it for? Why couldn’t they finish building it? Back then, more of the structure had been standing, and it had been easier to imagine what it might have been like had the work been finished. She had noticed, even then, that there were different kinds of wood in it. She’d wandered through the ruin touching them, looking at the colours and the patterns of them, guessing what they were, until Father had caught her at it and ordered her away from the place, saying it was not safe. He did not answer any of her questions. Indeed, he was so stern and sad that she stopped asking him.

Aunt Della gave all the questions the same response: she had not been living at Wolf Glen while Cara’s mother was alive, and when Suanach had died the heartwood house had been abandoned. So Aunt Della knew nothing at all about it except, she said, that it was a subject best not discussed, and especially not in Tóla’s hearing. Cara would be better off putting her excess curiosity into learning her letters and numbers or improving her plain sewing.

Gormán knew the answers, some of them anyway, but even he was reluctant to talk. When she was a little older Cara realised her persistence could have got him into trouble. He could have lost his position in the household and been sent away from Wolf Glen, which had been his home for years. Gormán was a kindly man, and patient with her. Why was it called a heartwood house? That was a name from an old tale. No, he did not know the tale, but a heartwood house was said to be lucky. When Cara had commented with five-year-old bluntness that it had not been very lucky for her mother, since she had died, Gormán had crouched down, taken her hands in his and looked her straight in the eye.

‘Cara,’ he’d said, his voice so soft and sorrowful it made her feel shivery, ‘don’t ever say that to your father. Promise me.’

‘But why?’

‘Because he thinks, if he’d got it finished, she might have . . . because it would make him very, very sad. Promise.’

‘I promise.’ She’d hardly understood, back then. ‘Why didn’t he get it finished?’

‘Never mind that.’

‘You could have built it,’ she’d said.