That was the moment, I believe, when I first felt the pangs of true misgiving. Somehow, oddly, Flidais’s perfect demeanour tonight, her grace and apparent confidence, only served to emphasise the times when her behaviour had seemed odd. Words were on the tip of my tongue, words I could not speak: She looks like her portrait, yes. But this is not the woman I thought I would be marrying. That woman would have known Lucian’s Bestiary the moment she opened the cover. That woman would have received Bramble’s love and trust even in the most trying times. That woman would have loved and wanted me, yes. But she would never have crept into my bed before we were husband and wife. That I had allowed it to happen, that I had acquiesced to it was my shame. Even as I had enjoyed what she’d offered so generously, I had wondered at a certain lack of . . . of tenderness. Of gentleness. Of sweet words to accompany the pleasures of the body. Our coupling had not been as I might have expected. That had only added to my confusion.

‘Oran?’

I could not say it. It was already too late. I was complicit in what had taken place on those two nights; I was as guilty as Flidais. More so, in truth, because I was her senior, and I was a prince, and I should have known better. Now that I had lain with her, I must set my doubts aside. What basis had I for them, anyway, other than my disappointment that she was less than a perfect match for the woman of the letters? Maybe Donagan had been right; maybe a scribe had helped Flidais write them. Maybe half of Cloud Hill knew what a romantic fool I was.

‘The portrait is indeed a true likeness,’ I said.

After a moment, Mother said, ‘You seem a little weary, Oran. You’ve done well today. The preparations were faultless; the house and garden look wonderful.’

This was high praise indeed. A month or two earlier it would have pleased me greatly. Now I felt a cold weight inside me, made up of confusion and guilt and sheer exhaustion. I had not had much sleep for the last two nights. ‘Thank you, Mother. I will pass your kind remarks on to my people. Now, if you will excuse me, I’d best have a word with Master Oisin. He looks a little overwhelmed by so much company; I should rescue him.’

Master Oisin was the druid, come to enact the ritual. I had met him before. While some of his kind lived in forest communities, Oisin was of the wandering variety of druid, and passed through Winterfalls from time to time on his travels, staying a few nights and telling tales as recompense for our hospitality. We always housed him away from the main dwelling, understanding that although he enjoyed sitting at table for a good supper and sharing a story afterwards, he was most content in solitude. While the need to speak to him had been something of an excuse to escape the scrutiny of my female relatives, I had observed how tired the druid looked as he stood near the hearth, listening politely while my father’s chief councillor held forth.