Make up your mind, Grim. Don’t stand there dripping all over the floor. ‘Right,’ I say to Ripple. ‘You’re staying here, then at least she knows we’re back.’ I find an old cloth and rub the worst of the wet out of Ripple’s fur. There’s flint and tinder and a good stack of dry wood. I always make sure of that. I set a fire on the hearth, get it burning well, put on a couple of big logs that’ll last a while. Do it careful; don’t want them falling out and setting the house on fire while I’m gone. I light the oil lamp. She’s left the wax tablet on the table, the one she uses to teach us our letters. I look for a message, but all it says is: What bird are you? I am a crow. Which I’m guessing is the start of whatever she wanted me to read for her. The start of something she didn’t get finished.

Don’t think about it, Grim, I tell myself. But I can’t help it. In my thoughts there’s someone knocking on the door, and Blackthorn opening it because it might be a person in trouble. Only it’s not one of the locals with a sick child or a wife giving birth or a friend with a sprained ankle, it’s Mathuin’s henchmen come to take her away.

‘Bad news from the south,’ says Scannal. He takes hold of Mercy’s bridle to lead her into his stable. ‘I heard it in the settlement. Something about Lady Flidais’s parents and an attack. The prince is off to court first thing tomorrow, that’s what they’re saying.’

‘An attack.’ Thoughts working fast, too fast. ‘Who by?’

‘I don’t know much about it,’ Scannal says. ‘One of the local chieftains in those parts, some fellow who’s always stirring up trouble. Bad business.’

‘Seen anything of Blackthorn today? She wasn’t home when I got there. Not sure where she’d be in all this rain.’

Scannal shakes his head. ‘I haven’t seen her. Maybe in the settlement?’

‘I’ll head over there now. Won’t be needing a horse tomorrow unless this clears quicker than I think it will. Hardly building weather.’

‘Go carefully,’ he says. Which is good advice, since the light’s fading fast and the rain’s coming down in sheets. Couldn’t be wetter if I tried. And it’s turned chilly. Hope Blackthorn’s inside somewhere, waiting for a break in the weather. But deep down I know something’s wrong.