‘Yes, that is possible,’ he says. ‘I almost believe it. But not quite. Something is wrong, Mistress Blackthorn. Deeply wrong. Lady Flidais . . . She does not behave at all like the woman I was expecting. Not at all.’

‘In what respects?’ Blackthorn asks.

The prince doesn’t answer. The silence goes on, and I’m wondering what the lady might be doing that isn’t very ladylike. Things her own folk must be keeping quiet about. Because he said they hadn’t mentioned anything being out of the usual.

‘If you want me to investigate this,’ says Blackthorn, ‘you need to give me all the relevant information, my lord.’ And when he still doesn’t, she says, ‘I’m not asking these questions to embarrass or shame you or Lady Flidais. I have no reason to do that. Let’s start with something easy. You said the headaches are stopping her from reading and writing. But not all ladies enjoy scholarship.’

‘Flidais does. Did. The letters . . . She wrote poems, beautiful poems. And we shared a love of old tales. She has completely lost her interest in such things. I understand about the headaches. But the Flidais of the letters would still have wanted to talk about poetry and tales, and perhaps to have me read to her. And . . . there was a certain book, Lucian’s Bestiary, which we discussed at some length in our correspondence. A book held in her father’s library; a volume she particularly loved. I had a perfect copy made as her wedding gift. When I gave it to her, she did not know what it was.’

‘Odd,’ observed Blackthorn. ‘You’re convinced a scribe did not pen those letters for Lady Flidais, my lord?’

‘I’m not sure of anything. Her last letter was written when she was far from home, and far from her father’s scribe, and it was in the same mode and the same hand as the others. You may think I am clutching at straws.’ This fellow’s lost his dreams, and it’s broken his heart. Doesn’t know how lucky he’s been to keep them until he was a man grown. ‘But something’s wrong,’ he goes on. ‘I feel it in my bones. Something strange has happened. So strange it seems almost . . . uncanny. I owe it to . . . I owe it to what might have been, to seek out the truth.’

‘May I look at Lady Flidais’s letters?’ Blackthorn asks, straight out.

‘I burned them.’

That’s a surprise. Blackthorn gives him a look, as if she thinks he’s a silly boy, and he says, ‘All but one.’ And fishes it out of the pouch at his belt, which is not so easy with the dog lying on his knee. ‘Don’t ask me to read it,’ Prince Oran says. He sounds as if he might cry, but he doesn’t. He’s a prince, after all. Letter looks a bit the worse for wear. He passes it over.

‘Why did you burn the others?’ Blackthorn asks.