I break up the bread, pass her a share, keep my big trap shut.

‘I was here. Not in the house. In Dreamer’s Wood. Wandering about at first. Angry. Too angry to stay inside. I would have done some damage. It wasn’t just the news about Cloud Hill that had upset me. There was a – an episode here earlier, something odd. I’m not even sure what happened, but Emer saw some kind of fight in Dreamer’s Wood, and a fellow brought her back here and started asking me questions.’

‘A fellow? What fellow?’

‘A fighting man with tattoos on his face. From some place called Swan Island. Very polite. Said he and his friends were heading for Prince Oran’s, at the prince’s invitation. But Dreamer’s Wood was out of their way. So I had Mathuin on my mind even before I took Cara back over to the prince’s. Why would fighting men be skulking around in the wood? Why would they want to know anything about me? It felt like Flannan and his lies all over again. And then, hearing what Mathuin had done at Cloud Hill – I was angry. Disgusted with myself for being so helpless. So useless. Furious with Conmael for making me come all the way to Dalriada and for making me promise not to go back. I tried to think it through. Made myself go through the possibilities. And then . . .’

‘Then what? Go on, eat that bread while you tell me.’

‘I tried to summon Conmael. Tried as many different ways as I could think of. But he didn’t come. And . . . No, you don’t want to hear this.’

‘I could guess.’ Hope I’m wrong, though. ‘Talked about the Otherworld, didn’t we? A while back? How, if Conmael wouldn’t put in an appearance, you might go looking for him there?’

‘You were the one who thought up that ridiculous idea.’ She’s not meeting my eye.

‘Didn’t think you’d try it, or I wouldn’t have said it.’

‘I didn’t try it, exactly. I spent a lot of time just standing by Dreamer’s Pool, wondering if Conmael passes through some kind of portal every time he comes to our world, and whether that doorway is a physical one. Often he just . . . appears. Out of thin air. That’s what it looks like, anyway. I walked around the wood, and the rain got heavier, and I peered down some cracks in the rocks and some hollows under trees and tried to convince myself I could actually find a way in. And . . . I tried some other tricks. Hearth magic. Chanting. Telling stories. The more I did, the more useless I felt. I hate that. It muddies my thinking. For a bit there, I’d half-convinced myself Dreamer’s Pool might be the portal.’