A deep chill was creeping through me. This tale was in my head already. Glencarnagh: a gracious house surrounded by oaks and elms. A hedge of beech, a pond, a garden. Thirty men. The sentry posts. I had known about this. Cathal had told me about it and I’d hardly listened to him because the whole thing sounded so impossible. I hadn’t even realized what place he was speaking of. And now the details were all coming back to me, and they were the same, just the same . . . As the men-at-arms ushered the injured Cronan out I stood frozen before the hearth, my head swimming. The mysterious figure in the night; the peculiar disappearance on the day of the picnic. The odd statements: My instincts tell me you may be personally at risk, and, I don’t think it’s wise for me to be here.

“Father,” I made myself say, “I have something to tell you. Aidan should be here when I say it. And I think we need to be somewhere more private.”

We went into the small council chamber, where the table was spread with the various maps, charts and notes by which Father was maintaining meticulous control of the search for Finbar. A lamp burned and a small fire glowed on the hearth. Johnny fetched a yawning Aidan, then shut the door. Standing before the men, I stammered out an account of the hints and clues and warnings I had been given since the day Aidan and Cathal had first come to Sevenwaters; signs I had dismissed as either my own imaginings or Cathal’s mischief. Despite the fire it felt cold in the chamber. Father’s expression was wintry; Johnny’s was fierce. Aidan tried to interrupt several times and was silenced by Johnny.

I explained how Cathal’s description of a possible raid on Father’s holdings matched exactly what that poor man, Cronan, had just told us. “I never thought of Glencarnagh, Father. I’m sorry. I didn’t entertain for a moment that this might be something that would really happen. I mean, Cathal is—was—always saying outrageous things. I thought he was just playing games. He does that a lot. But in Cronan’s account, all the details were the same: men going ahead to disable the forward sentries, the estimate of numbers, the fire, the family fleeing into the woods . . . And his description of the house was like Glencarnagh, only I never thought . . .”

“How could Cathal know?” asked Aidan. “He’s never been to Glencarnagh. Couldn’t this be sheer coincidence?”

“Why would Cathal describe this to you, Clodagh?” That was Johnny, his tone very grim indeed.