I was summoned one afternoon to an old woman lying alone and helpless in her tiny dwelling. When I got to the house, to be ushered in by the neighbour who had sent for me, I found the old one lying on her pallet staring out the window, and I guessed she was hoping Black Crow would come soon and not drag things out. The crone was labouring to breathe, but she wanted to talk, and since there was little else I could do for her, I sat by her pallet and listened. She told me a story about a princess shut up in a tower by an evil mage. At least, that was how the story began, but it grew strange and complicated, and eventually she seemed to lose the thread of it, fixing me with her gaze and whispering, ‘We all take our own ways. We all make our own choices, for good or ill.’

No kinsfolk had come to this bedside – perhaps she had none, or maybe they were scattered far and did not know she had seen her last sunrise. No druid had spoken final blessings; no friend was present to hold her hand as she passed through the gateway. Only me, a stranger. And although this was a duty wise women often performed, I wondered if I’d lost any fitness I’d ever had for such a task.

‘I hope you are content with your choices,’ I said, thinking that if I lived so long – unlikely – I’d probably die just as lonely a death as hers, or maybe even lonelier, since at least she had me, even if I was a wretched thing eaten up by anger and bitterness.

The rheumy old eyes gazed into mine, and I wondered if what she saw there made her sad or shocked or merely tired. ‘Now you tell . . . story,’ she whispered.

I could hardly refuse, since this, too, was a duty wise women were expected to perform. As she struggled from one breath to the next, I felt the leaden weight of the past settle on my shoulders, and instead of a tale that would be comforting and uplifting, all I could think of was the story of a woman who was robbed of her treasure, the thing she loved more than life itself; a woman who’d once had some good in her, some gift for making folk’s lives better, but who’d been turned into a twisted, furious weapon of vengeance. Right now, a blunted, useless weapon, thanks to wretched Conmael. ‘I can’t,’ I told her. ‘The story that’s in me is too sad. Too angry. Wrong for now.’