Somewhere in Dreamer’s Wood, someone screamed. The birds took instant flight. Cara and I scrambled to our feet.

‘Emer,’ said Cara. ‘Quick!’

‘No.’ I grabbed her arm, holding her back. ‘Wait.’ We stood still, listening. No more screams. But a man’s shout, cut off abruptly, and the sound of someone moving through the woods. There was only a moment to weigh it up. Emer was strong and sensible. She was wiser than her years. I had to put Cara first. She was in my care, and she was fifteen years old. ‘Come back inside,’ I whispered. ‘Do as I say.’

Out there, it had gone quiet. I hustled Cara into the cottage. ‘Stay here and keep silent.’ I grabbed the knife I used for cutting up joints of meat and stuck it in my belt. ‘No rushing to the rescue, understand?’

‘But–’

‘Flidais is expecting me to keep you safe. Stay inside until I come back. This may be nothing.’

‘All right.’ Cara’s voice sounded tight. We both knew Emer was not a screaming kind of person.

I went back out, shutting the door behind me. Stopped to listen. Cattle exchanging remarks in the nearby field. Birds in the wood. And below that, a man’s voice, speaking calmly, and Emer saying something in her turn.

They came into sight before I reached the edge of the wood. Emer was pale but composed. She had her herb basket over her arm. Walking with her was a young man. A somewhat unusual-looking young man. His garments were those of an ordinary traveller, but his features were graven with a striking pattern, a clever tracery of lines that gave the suggestion of a hunting hound. He had two sheathed knives at his belt. My grip tightened on my own knife, though nothing in Emer’s manner suggested danger. This would have been an excellent time for Grim to put in an appearance. But Grim was miles away at Wolf Glen, and so was Ripple, whose protective presence would have been welcome.

As they came closer I saw that the fellow had on a leather breast piece under his short cloak and protective bands around his forearms. Warrior garb.

‘It’s all right,’ Emer said as they reached me. She set her basket by her feet. ‘This man is Cúan.’ The name matched the skilfully executed tattoo. Young hound. ‘There was a – some kind of disagreement – but it’s over now. Cúan, this is Mistress Blackthorn, whom I told you about.’

‘Good day, Mistress,’ the warrior said, giving me a polite nod. ‘Might I have a word?’

‘A disagreement,’ I said. ‘Between whom?’ Whatever it was had frightened Emer. She might be calm and composed, but her eyes told me a different story.

‘Nothing you need concern yourself with,’ the man said. ‘It’s over now. I’m sorry the young lady was troubled. She was not involved in what occurred.’