“I suppose these are clean; the light isn’t good enough to see properly.” Perhaps it really was dusk now. The presence of badgers and owls suggested that. But maybe in this place it was always dusk. The prospect was disturbing. It was so much easier to feel confident by sunlight.

“You look tired,” Cathal said when we were settled by our fire once more. “You must sleep. Hold the child close to you and use my cloak. You should be warm enough. I’ll stay on watch and keep the fire going.”

“All night?” I studied him, taking in the long face, the grave features now quite devoid of their customary look of derision. “I can’t let you do that. You must wake me after a few hours. I know I can’t defend us against an attack, but I can keep watch and alert you if I see or hear anyone coming.”

The thin lips twisted into a smile. “If you insist.”

“I do,” I told him. “I don’t want you staying heroically awake all night, then being too tired to make yourself useful in the morning. If there is a morning.” I shivered.

“There will be, Clodagh.” As Cathal spoke, a silvery light began to steal across the forest floor, touching the boles of the great trees, where rich layers of moss glowed green, and revealing in the spaces above us a host of tiny flying creatures on iridescent wings, moving so quickly their exact shapes were unclear. Not insects. Not birds. Something else. “Morrigan’s britches,” murmured Cathal. “What are they?”

“At least they’re small,” I said, remembering the attack at the river. “Cathal, promise you’ll wake me.”

“My word on it, Clodagh. You know, you are not quite the girl I took you for when we first met.”

“Oh, I’m exactly as I seemed then,” I said with some bitterness. “My chief strength is in household management. I’m the kind of girl who’ll make a nice little wife for someone one day. I have none of the skills required for an expedition like this. I can’t swim. I can’t fight. I’m not brave. I’m not persuasive when it counts. I wish I had the capacity to surprise you, Cathal, but I am no more than I appear to be.” Becan’s pebble eyes were open now and fixed on me as I rewrapped him, using lengths torn from a spare shirt Cathal had produced. The infant made little cooing sounds. His voice had softened; I wondered that I had at first thought it harsh as a crow’s.