I eased the old woman back onto her pillows, then moved so I could see her face. But she had closed her eyes now, and I could not read her expression. The skin was sunken on the bone, making her face a pattern of white and grey, and her breath rasped like a stick run along wattles. ‘Was Holly the wise woman at Dreamer’s Wood? Did she live in the cottage there?’

‘Wise . . .’ With a sighing exhalation she was gone. Whatever the story was about the pigs, I’d never hear it now.

I called the neighbour in, and between us we got the old woman laid out on the kitchen table of her meagre dwelling, washed, dried and wrapped ready for burial. I had sweet herbs in my healer’s bag, and a pair of flat stones to lay on her eyes, and the neighbour found cloth for the shroud.

I had thought this crone’s burial might be as lonely as her death. But once the word got around that she was gone, a couple of the local boys came by and offered to dig a grave in the field set aside for the purpose, and another neighbour dropped in to tell us a few of the local folk would gather while the old woman was put in it. I asked the neighbour if she’d heard of Holly, and she gave me a blank look.

A druid was coming to Winterfalls for the betrothal of Prince Oran and Lady Flidais. Grim had passed on this information. But the druid had not arrived yet, and this old woman could not wait long for burial. That left me responsible for conducting a graveside rite, complete with prayers and blessings. I did my best, part of me thinking of my promise to Conmael, the other half thinking it would be good to die precisely when you were ready for it, not before and not after. By the time the ritual was finished, it was nearing dusk and I was as weary as if I’d done a full day’s labour in the fields. The straggle of folk who’d been at the graveside thanked me; I nodded, gathered my cloak around me and headed for home.

I was almost there – close enough to see lamplight from the window, where Grim had left the shutters open – when I realised I was not walking alone. I slowed my pace; my unseen companion did the same. I stood still; the presence behind me also halted. If I’d been hearing footsteps, I’d have been worried about being attacked and robbed, not that I had anything worth stealing. A wise woman did not request payment for attending a deathbed, and even if I had, in this case there would have been nobody to provide it. But there were no footsteps, only a sensation of being followed.

‘What do you want, Conmael?’ I asked, not turning.