There was stone under her face, flat, worn and dirty, like a pavement. She got her hands down and raised her head. They were in some sort of building: behind her was a wide arched doorway that led directly into the forest, and the forest seemed to be creeping in through it, along with the moonglow that gave the only illumination. She could hear her own panting, the man’s footsteps in the dark corners of the room, padding about, and above her, the soft mutterings of roosting birds.

He set a bowl in front of her that reflected moonlight off its trembling surface. She unceremoniously plunged her face into the bowl and started sucking. It wasn’t water, but some sort of beer, and she didn’t care. It was as far removed as possible from the cans of cheap lager she’d beg, buy or steal, but she picked up the bowl when she couldn’t empty it any other way. Yeasty froth stuck to her upper lip.

‘Finished dying?’

She coughed one last time. ‘Where am I?’

‘My castle,’ he said.

‘Does that make you a king?’

He laughed. ‘The King of Crows, if anything.’

‘You could do with a new front door.’

‘I will tell my craftsmen to saw the timber first thing in the morning.’

Mary drew herself shakily to her feet, peering around her in the gloom. It was a ruin. If she looked up, she could see the sky through the ragged rafters and birds’ wings. Dark doorways led further in. The man took the bowl from her, and disappeared into one of the rooms beyond.

‘What do I call you?’ she asked. He might have rescued her from one set of dangers, but that didn’t mean he was safe.

‘Your Majesty?’ came his disembodied voice.

‘Fuck off.’

‘Crows, then. Call me Crows. You know about names, do you? What they mean?’

‘I know that the wolfman wouldn’t tell us his. He said others should give us our names.’

Crows returned holding the bowl. He’d pulled his hood back to reveal his face, a fine black face with a long oval head shaved close. ‘So what should your name be? What are you famous for?’

‘I’m …’ and she trailed off. She ended up shrugging. ‘Nothing really.’

‘That is a poor title,’ said Crows. He handed her the bowl, and she drank deeply, almost greedily. ‘What do you call yourself, when the lights go out and all is dark and quiet, in those moments between waking and sleeping when you dream and can still remember?’

‘I can’t tell you.’ She stopped drinking, and looked at him over the rim of the bowl.

‘Cannot or will not?’

‘It sounds stupid.’

‘Others should be the judge of that.’

She muttered it into the bowl, and he cupped his long fingers around his ear.

‘Too soft. Louder, so all the crows can hear.’

‘The Red Queen.’ Her face burned.