‘Come up to check on us.’ Bardán’s eating without looking at his bread and cheese. Staring off into the forest as if half of him’s somewhere else. He doesn’t ask what she said to me, which is just as well.

‘Easier to talk to than Master Tóla.’ Morrigan’s britches, this ale’s going down a treat! Didn’t know how thirsty I was. ‘Wary of you, though.’

‘Wise to be wary. She’s that man’s sister.’

‘You hate him, you hate her, is that what you mean?’

‘He . . . he took . . .’ All of a sudden, Bardán’s right back in his nightmare, whatever it is. ‘He gave me . . . he made me . . .’ Hands shaking so hard he can’t hold his cup steady. I take it before he spills ale all over himself.

‘All right, it’s all right,’ I tell him, knowing it’s not, knowing how it feels when the past comes up and takes over everything, a crashing, crushing wave. ‘Breathe, Bardán. Breathe slow.’ I move the tray away, crouch down beside him, put a hand on his shoulder. He might lash out. His eyes are crazy, full up with all the bad things. Shudders running through his whole body. Know how that feels. ‘Breathe, friend. In . . . out . . . You’re here, with me. Here at Wolf Glen. Doing good work. Making something fine. Breathe slow, Bardán.’

I go on like this a while, and he shivers and stares and grinds his teeth, and I’m hoping Gormán might come and help me, but I’m thinking maybe it’s better if he doesn’t, because Gormán’s no more friend to this poor soul than Master Tóla is. Makes me wonder why they want him here, even if he is the only one knows how to build the heartwood house. Makes me wonder why he stays. Why he thinks he needs to stay. If I was him I’d be walking off into the forest right now, turning my back on the master and the rest of these folk and making a new life for myself. Only it’s never so simple, is it? I should know that.

‘Tell you a story,’ I say. That’s what Blackthorn does, sometimes, when the darkness comes back and I’m too crazy or sad to make sense of things. ‘Give you something different to think about. There was this fellow once, a shepherd he was, went wandering off with his sheep to a field with a big hawthorn growing all by itself in the middle . . .’

Bardán’s calming down. Only half listening, maybe, but that doesn’t matter. Just needs something instead of those voices from the past, the ones that hide away in your head and sneak out when you don’t expect it. I tell him how the shepherd met a beautiful fey woman and fell in love the moment he clapped eyes on her.