‘I’d been thinking along the same lines,’ I said. ‘And what you’ve just told me adds weight to that theory. But, if it’s true, if this is a transformation, maid to mistress and mistress to maid, it means the real Flidais is dead. There’s no happy ending to this. Besides, why would the false Flidais – if she is false – tell that story about the prince assaulting her? Nobody was casting suspicion on her. If she was holding out for the hand-fasting, hoping nobody would guess there was something wrong before she was safely wed, all she had to do was keep on pretending.’ Even as I spoke, I remembered that Prince Oran had asked me to spy on Flidais; that I had sat among those women writing in my little book and trying to pick up clues. Flidais had seen me watching her. She and Mhairi had been unsettled by my questions. She had known I doubted her. She had probably known the prince doubted her, especially after he and Master Oisin told that story about a pool, and magic, and a transformation. So she had taken steps, not only to convince me she was no liar, but to make sure I did not do Oran’s bidding any longer. She had persuaded me neatly that she was no pretender, but a real princess and a future queen. ‘A pox on it,’ I muttered. It was becoming apparent that I’d got this badly wrong. I’d acted as no wise woman ever should, letting the weight of things past blind me to the truth. When Flidais had told me her story, I’d been so incensed on her behalf that I’d thrown logic out the window. And if it hadn’t been for Grim, I’d have headed on south without ever realising what I’d done.

‘Not like you to give up,’ said Grim.

‘What if I told you I don’t care? What if I picked up my bag and headed off right now?’

‘Then I’d say you’d forgotten to check the sky. Be pouring soon.’

‘But if I did? Would you still try to help the prince? Solve the puzzle on your own?’

He looked at me in silence for a bit. In the blockish face, the small eyes were sad. ‘Nah. Couldn’t. Do what I did before. Pick up my own bag and follow after. You can’t stand up to Mathuin on your own.’

‘Then you’re a fool,’ I said. Black Crow save me, the man was pig-headed. I remembered the night when he’d got soaking wet and lingered on the fringes of my camp like a huge forlorn ghost. My eyes were prickling. Were these tears? Impossible.

‘Bonehead,’ Grim said, nodding.

Curse it! I turned away, scrubbed my cheeks, said, ‘Too late to head back for Winterfalls now, even with this borrowed horse of yours. And there’s an old woman in this camp who knows a story about Dreamer’s Pool. We’d best ask these folk if we can stay here overnight, go back in the morning.’