In the half-circle an open hearth of stones had been built, and a fire burned there, with a three-legged iron support over it, and a big cook pot hanging from a chain. Groups of men and women sat around it talking, working at crafts, passing the time of day. As we walked into the circle a tall woman in a green shawl came forward to greet us. She had such a look of Abhan – the lanky build, the lean face, the steady eyes – that she must surely be his mother.

We were swept into a tide of welcome. She embraced first Ness, then Emer, then me, whether I liked it or not. Then with one arm around Ness and the other around Emer, she bore us away toward one of the covered carts, set at a little distance from the others.

‘We’ll give you a brew soon. Ness, you need to sit down after that walk, here.’ A blanket on the grass; a soft cushion for Ness. A couple of girls, silent and shy, brought everything without being asked. Obviously Abhan’s sisters; they were like peas in a pod, this family. ‘Now then,’ said Abhan’s mother, ‘make yourselves at home. Emer, will you take Mistress Blackthorn in to see Mother?’ To me, she said, ‘My mother’s ailing. Abhan will have told you. Emer made her a draught to ease the cough, and that’s helped a bit. It’s kind of you to take the trouble, Mistress Blackthorn. We’re honoured by your visit.’

What could I say? Most certainly not that I was only here because I’d feared her son might be less than the good man he appeared to be. And not that I was in too much of a hurry to spend time with the old woman. ‘Good work, Emer,’ I said. ‘What brew did you make up?’

‘A decoction of black spleenwort, sweetened with a drop of honey. I thought of milkweed root, marshmallow root . . . but I didn’t want to try those without asking you first. I thought they might be too strong for an old lady.’

Since she’d been in Silverlake, Emer had been making tonics for Ness, gathering herbs in the woods by the lake and using Mór’s kitchen as a stillroom. It pleased me that she was keeping up the skills I’d taught her. ‘Good,’ I said. ‘How long has the old lady had the cough?’

‘A full turning of the moon, as they travelled north. Deep in the chest. A rattling sound, and it hurts her. They’ve moved her cart away a bit, so she’ll have more quiet.’

I was expecting a frail old person like the crone in Winterfalls whose deathbed I had attended. The woman in the cart, lying on a bed of cushions, was old in body only. From her wrinkled face shone forth a pair of dark and penetrating eyes, lively with intelligence.