‘No hurry, is there?’ We’ve been managing all right, what with fishing and trapping and her knack for boiling up handfuls of weeds and making something tasty out of them. The way-bread’s running low, but she seems to think that fellow, Conmael, might provide more if we need it. Seen nothing of him so far, and I’ll be happy if it stays that way. Never did trust the fey. More trouble than they’re worth, tricky and meddlesome. Mind you, he did get her out, and for that reason I can’t hate him. But because of Strangler and the others, it’s hard not to.

Blackthorn’s thinking. There’s a little crease between her brows. ‘I suppose not. And life on the road surely beats what we had before. Still, I’d like to get on. The nights are only going to grow colder, and our supplies are limited.’

‘I can get you a cloak. Good boots. Just say the word.’

‘I’ll manage with what I have,’ she says. ‘Not that I haven’t stolen in the past to keep body and soul together, once or twice, but we won’t do it if we need not. Maybe I’ll find some work as we go.’ She thinks a bit more. ‘The trouble is, I’ve forgotten the ways of ordinary folk, Grim. Forgotten how to say the right things, play the right part. Conmael seemed to think I could slip right back into being a village healer. But I’m not sure I can. Part of me has turned wild, and another part’s turned dark as endless night, and I’m not going to change back just because someone says I must.’

Dark as endless night? Her? Seems like being shut up in that place has made her blind to herself. And even out here in the open, with good things all around, she’s still in the shadows. ‘Give it time,’ I say. ‘Another reason not to rush, maybe.’

‘I’d like to get there before autumn. He said the cottage was run-down. It would make sense to attend to that before the storms set in.’

‘We’ll be there in time.’

She gives me one of her looks, as if she doesn’t quite believe me. ‘You sound so certain.’

I don’t have any answer to that. Inside, certain is just what I’m not.

A few days later, we’re coming along a track between grazing fields when we hear shouting and screaming up ahead. Blackthorn looks at me; I look at her. Whatever this is, it’s trouble, and we don’t want it. But before we can work out a short cut that’ll take us around the spot, a lad comes in sight. He’s sprinting toward us as if a monster’s on his tail. Face a nasty shade of green. ‘Help!’ he wheezes. ‘The cart – Fergus – trapped –’