I tried not to feel sorry for wretched Ciar, who had found herself in a terrifying situation and had lied to get through it. The first lie, that she was Flidais, I could almost understand, though I hoped that if it had happened to me, I would have been braver. But the later lie, about Oran abusing her – that I found unforgivable. So many women were hurt by men and found themselves powerless to make it stop. So many had no voice. Ciar had used me. She had heard me speak strongly at the council, when Branoc’s case came up, and she had found the key to turning me against the prince, so that I would cease spying. She must have believed I was close to finding out her perilous secret. I despised her for that lie. That did not stop my belly from churning at the thought of what lay ahead. I would add this to the burden of guilt I already carried.

Waiting until full moon to do it meant enduring more days of pretence, more days of anxiety. But full moon would best fit the story. And it would give Oran time to soften his attitude toward her. Besides, we had to wait until a few days, at least, after her moon-bleeding ended. So I went out every morning, in what I hoped was a convincing pretence of seeking answers, and I came back to tell her I’d heard a whisper of a story, something that might possibly work, only I needed to talk to one more old woman, or perhaps two more, and they lived in a valley a long walk to the west . . .

Often I went no further than Dreamer’s Wood. Often I spent the morning helping Grim with the last touches on the house, or warming water on the new hearth to make a brew, or planning a tidier way to store my materials when we moved back in. The way the work was going, we’d be doing so around the time Oran and his bride rode off to Cahercorcan for their wedding. If they did. If this happened. If all of us were not charged with assault or murder or using dark magic for evil ends.

One morning I went right into the wood, taking Grim with me. Dreamer’s Pool lay quiet under the leafless trees. Pale mist wreathed the leaden water; no birds sang. The air was chill enough to freeze your bones.

‘Feels like the place is holding its breath,’ said Grim, who sometimes surprised me with his words.