I sat awhile among the graves as the sun came up and the cows stirred themselves, moving at a leisurely pace toward the barn for the morning milking. I said a prayer for the departed – not only the girl who had drowned, but the others who lay nearby, folk who had lived and died at Winterfalls in the service of our family. I practised a skill taught to me a year or two ago by a wandering druid: sitting with my eyes closed, concentrating on sounds, finding music in the way they fitted together. So many sounds. The lowing of the cattle, the singing of birds – chirping, calling, crying, warbling – and the whisper and rustle of their movement in the trees. The flowing of the stream, which was many voices in one. Eochu over by the stables calling his dogs, and one of them barking. And . . . something else, a whimpering, as of some creature in distress. Eyes still closed, I made myself concentrate as I’d been taught, and when I opened them there was Bramble, hunkered down on the other side of the girl’s grave, her coat all stuck with whinnies and burrs. There was blood on the little dog’s face.

I was careful not to make any sudden movement. ‘Bramble,’ I said in a murmur. ‘It’s all right. Good dog.’ If I startled the creature now, she might bolt. Far from all she knew, on open ground, it would be near-impossible to find her. Flidais would be devastated. ‘Friend,’ I said. ‘I’m a friend. I hope your mistress explained that.’

Bramble stayed where she was, big eyes on me. She was shivering with some violence. I kept talking, low-voiced, speaking of matters that might interest a dog, such as a warm fire to lie in front of, a meaty bone, a cosy basket. I mentioned Flidais, who would be missing her little companion. I kept this up awhile, all the time edging gradually closer and hoping nobody would come looking for me and frighten the little one away. And after a certain time, much to my astonishment, for I had been sure that I would eventually have to resort to a sudden snatch, Bramble crept forward, the ghost of a whimper emerging from her throat, until she was right beside me.

I found that I was smiling for the first time in days. Slowly I reached out a hand, holding it where the dog could sniff, and she touched my fingers with her cold nose. She was exactly as portrayed in the painting, where she had been cradled in Flidais’s arms: a delicately made thing, her eyes and ears rather too large for the rest of her, her body somewhat spindly. Her long whippy tail was cautiously wagging now. Her hair was as fine as thistledown and tangled with debris. I did not gather her up; not yet.