I tie off the ends of the straw, fixing the hedgehog in place, then climb down my ladder. ‘Need a hand with some inside work. Couple of beds, work table for Blackthorn, shelf or two. Timber’s all cut to size, pegs shaped, just need to put them together. Your friend coming today?’

‘He’s got a job for Iobhar. Busy all day.’

We get started on the work. Pátraic’s a talker. By the time we’re done with the first bed, I know all about who’s been coming in and out of Iobhar’s brewery and what they’ve been saying since last time I saw him. The lad’s job, when he’s not here helping me, is keeping an eye on folk’s horses while they’re drinking their ale or haggling with Iobhar over how many coppers he’s charging for his goods.

We get started on the second bed, which is mine, though I don’t tell Pátraic that. If he bothered to look, which he doesn’t, he could work it out from the carving I’ve done along the side. Blackthorn twigs on one bed, with thorns and blossoms. Fierce-looking hounds on the other. Joke, that. Heard folk call me her guard dog more than once.

Morning’s passing. Rain’s holding off for now. Thought Blackthorn might come over today, gather herbs, stay for a chat. Be good to talk; it’s been a while. Want to tell her what Donagan said, ask her if she’s found out anything. But she doesn’t turn up. Called away to someone sick, maybe, or busy in the house.

Second bed’s all done. Looks fine. We stop for a bite to eat. Brid’s given me supplies, and Pátraic’s brought a crock of ale. We sit out on the step, looking over the garden, and behind that, the fields between Dreamer’s Wood and Winterfalls. Clouds are filling up the sky; I can feel the damp in the air.

‘What’s it like, working in the prince’s house?’ Pátraic asks through a mouthful of bread and mutton. ‘Are the folk there friendly?’

Not sure how to answer this. ‘Some,’ I say. ‘Had a few problems, but it’s sorted now. He seems a good fellow. Prince Oran, I mean. His people like him.’

‘What about her?’ asks Pátraic. He means Lady Flidais. Feels wrong to be talking about her. Disrespectful. I’m about to tell him so when I see the look on his face. He’s looking as if he’s got a secret to share, the kind of secret the Winterfalls men-at-arms would be sniggering about over their ale. Don’t want to hear it, but if it’s about Lady Flidais, I have to let him talk.

‘Haven’t seen much of her,’ I say. ‘Been on night duty. Seems a nice lady. Why?’