‘How long did you say it was until the hand-fasting?’

Oran holds the dog against his chest; it stretches up and gives him a lick on the chin. ‘Just over one turning of the moon.’

‘And what exactly are you hoping we can do? Are you suggesting the lady is here under false pretences? That this is an imposter?’

‘She cannot be.’ His voice is flat. ‘She is the image of her portrait, and that came from her father to mine. Besides, she travelled here with her own folk and none of them has mentioned anything amiss. The only oddity is . . .’ His face goes red.

‘What?’ If Blackthorn has noticed he’s embarrassed, she’s not showing it.

‘Bramble,’ says the prince, looking at the dog. I’m sure he was going to say something else and changed his mind. ‘In the portrait, and in the letters, Flidais was devoted to her little dog. Bramble went everywhere with her. Slept on her bed; loved to go for long walks in the woods. But Bramble’s behaviour changed from the day they arrived here. She seems in great fear of Flidais. She has bitten her more than once. And Flidais wants nothing to do with her. My aunt, Lady Sochla, has been caring for the dog.’

‘Bramble seems to like you well enough,’ Blackthorn says.

The prince doesn’t answer for a bit. He’s fondling the dog’s ears, looking at her, not at us. Then he says, ‘She reminds me of the dream. The dream that Flidais and I would be happy together. In the portrait, Flidais was holding Bramble so tenderly. It touched my heart from the first glance.’

I’m thinking this man’s far too soft to be a prince. But then I remember the council and how he spoke to Branoc, and I think, it takes a brave man to admit he’s got a weak spot.

‘My mother has been urging me to wed for several years now,’ he says. ‘I refused a number of suitable women who were suggested. I insisted on waiting for the right one; for someone I could love, someone I could be truly happy with. I loved the portrait, but I did exercise some caution. Hence the correspondence. Flidais’s letters won me over completely. So the marriage was agreed, and she came here. And from our first encounter I found myself . . . confused. Surprised. As time has passed, that confusion has become a deep and unsettling doubt. The hand-fasting is drawing ever closer. Lady Flidais’s parents are in a difficult situation, with a powerful neighbour threatening their holdings; she cannot be despatched home, and even if she could, I have no real grounds for taking such drastic action. I remind myself, daily, that if I had not been so insistent on marrying this particular woman, I would not be in such difficulty now. And neither would she.’

‘Have you spoken to Lady Flidais about your doubts?’ Blackthorn asks.