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.

I made my way through the crowd, stopping as I went to nod and smile and accept the congratulations of a number of high-born folk who did not know me very well at all. My smiling face felt like a mask, tight and false.

‘Master Oisin. Feabhal. More mead?’