I’d caught a fish earlier in the day, and now I made it into a kind of soup with a handful of greens I’d gathered along the way. What I did not eat now I would have in the morning. I made a makeshift frame to hang my damp clothing on, but with the tracker so close I was not prepared to strip. I draped my shawl and stockings over the frame and set my boots in the warmth. I was beginning to think the pack Conmael had given me had a fey charm of some kind on it, for the rest of my belongings, including the two rolled-up blankets, were quite dry.

The fish soup smelled appetising. My supplies included a bowl, a spoon and a cup, all fashioned from a strange pale substance, neither pottery nor bone, but smooth as silk to the touch and carven with little creatures, hedgehog, owl and fox, peering out from a twine of ivy. They were far too fine for the likes of me. I filled the bowl, draped one of the blankets around my shoulders, then settled by the campfire to eat.

Beyond my place of shelter the rain was coming down in remorseless, drenching sheets. I watched the stream broaden and the little dam overflow its confines. My fire was the only light in the darkening woods; the moon would not show her face tonight. I gazed toward the spot where I had last seen the tracker, but it was too dark now to make him out. If he had any sense at all he’d back off, leave this dogged pursuit and find himself somewhere dry to sleep. Such pig-headed persistence. It reminded me of something. It reminded me of . . .

Morrigan’s curse! Surely not. Why in the name of all the gods would Grim follow me miles across country, and if he did, why would he act as if he was on some kind of secret mission? No, it couldn’t be. I squinted out through the rain again. Had those glimpses of the tracker matched the hulking lump of a man who’d shared my imprisonment day in, day out for the last year? Why would he do this? It couldn’t be him. But in my mind I saw Grim performing those exercises in the near-dark of the cells, every single night, every endless, mind-numbing night, hauling himself, pushing himself, keeping himself strong as if tomorrow would be not another day in the dank horror of Mathuin’s prison but a day of challenge and hope and heroism. For pig-headed persistence, Grim was the man.

‘Danu save us, Grim,’ I murmured, remembering the way he’d lifted me out of the place. After it happened, after we saw open sky above us, that had been the first thing he’d done. ‘That day you were waiting for really did come.’