‘Got dampish.’ I look in the storage chest, take out a gown, a shawl, a shift for underneath, some stockings. Lay everything on her bed. I find a big cloth for drying. ‘Ready when you are.’ Wondering if I can rub out what I wrote on the wax tablet while she’s busy getting changed. But no; she’s sure to see and ask me what it is. So I just move the tablet to the shelf and start setting supper out, making sure I don’t look at her. We’ve got good at that over the time we’ve lived close. We saw each other unclothed, shamed and hurt, time after time in that place of Mathuin’s. Means we’re more careful than most to show each other courtesy now.

I find some bread I didn’t spot before, put it on the table with the bowls of broth and the mead cups. Take my time about it.

‘That looks good, Grim.’ She’s dressed now, taking her wet things out the back to hang up.

‘Let me do that –’

Too late, she’s already gone. Soon after, she’s back. ‘Dampish, you said.’ She comes to sit at the table. ‘You were soaked through. Your stuff’s still dripping everywhere.’

‘Went looking for you. After I dropped Mercy off.’ I sit opposite her; Ripple settles by my feet. Bit more colour in Blackthorn’s cheeks. Hands steadier. Hope she’ll tell me where she’s been and why she was looking like a ghost. Don’t ask, though. Her and me, we’ve got our own way of doing these things. ‘I know about the raid at Cloud Hill. Spoke to some folk over at Winterfalls. Donagan. Deirdre. Eoin.’

‘Tell me.’ Darkness back in her eyes. Voice wobbly again.

‘Eat that while I do. Need something warm in your belly.’

‘Tell me, Grim. I know Cloud Hill was overrun. I know Flidais’s parents are in Mide.’

‘Can’t tell you much more than that.’ I share what I know, which isn’t a lot. ‘Plenty of folk upset. All them who came from those parts with Flidais. No news of who died and who survived. They’ve got families there, friends, comrades.’

She says nothing at all. Spoon halfway to her mouth, forgotten what she’s doing, staring into space.

‘Lady?’ I say it soft, put my hand on her arm. She starts, drops the spoon. Broth splashes onto the table. ‘Nothing we can do right now. Have your supper.’

‘Someone has to do something,’ she mutters. ‘How much more can that man get away with? He just takes what he wants, and folk let him push them down in the mud. This is – this is –’

‘One mouthful at a time. Want me to feed you?’

‘I’m not an infant!’ she snaps, and starts eating again, which was what I hoped she might do. ‘You didn’t ask where I was before.’