My common sense fled. My mind filled with Mathuin, his men-at-arms, his thugs here to make an end of us and rob me of my last slim chance to see justice done.

‘Step out and show yourself!’ I shouted, before Grim grabbed me and clapped his big hand over my mouth. For a moment I fought him – a pointless exercise – and then a light appeared in the woods below our camping spot, and another, and a third, and it became plain that our visitors were not Mathuin’s folk but Conmael’s.

Grim let me go only to push me behind him. He planted his feet squarely, the knife ready in his hand.

‘Grim,’ I said. ‘They’re friends.’

‘Hah!’

‘Grim. Leave this to me.’ And when he still made no move, ‘Trust me. Please.’

He grunted, stuck the knife in his belt, folded his arms.

Conmael was coming up the rise. Behind him walked three others of his kind. All wore hooded cloaks, and each had the noble nose, broad brow and lustrous eyes typical of the fey. A person who had not encountered such folk before might perhaps think this an unusually handsome, if somewhat odd-looking, family of human brothers. Anyone who knew their lore, or who had lived close by a place where their kind dwelled – a cave, a hollow hill, an ancient forest, a mysterious lake isle – would recognise their true nature.

I stepped forward, trying to set aside the awareness that I was inadequately clad, tousled from sleep and freezing cold to boot. ‘Conmael,’ I said, shivering despite my best efforts. ‘What brings you here in such inclement weather?’

‘A desire to make sure you do not drown where you sleep,’ he said smoothly. ‘The stream is rising fast. I wish you to reach your destination.’ His gaze went briefly to Grim, then returned to me. ‘No longer alone, I see?’

His manner set me on edge. I spoke through chattering teeth. ‘Last time we met you said you’d leave me to get on with things. What’s changed? I’m keeping my side of the agreement.’ Had I managed to miss a request for help somewhere along the way? Reduced my remaining chances to four and added another year to the sentence before I’d even reached Winterfalls? That would be cruel. But perhaps that was the game, with the term of the agreement always stretching just a little further than I could reach. Such a trick would be typical of the fey.

‘Speak up.’ Grim’s voice was a rumble of aggression.

Conmael’s brows rose. ‘My conversation is not with you,’ he said, ‘but with your mistress. Shouts and blows may have won arguments for you in the past, fellow. They are pointless in the current situation.’