Dog Mask hissed its disapproval. “Cathal!” it said. “As if we would accept the help of his kind.”

“If you had told me before why it was that you distrusted him so,” I pointed out, “it might have helped him stay out of his father’s clutches. Why didn’t you explain? Why does everything need to be hints and symbols and puzzles?”

“When you face a crisis at home, Clodagh,” said the hedgehog-dwarf, “what is it you need, weeping and wailing or good common sense? If you would make this right, waste no more time.”

“Small, frail, broken, forsaken,” murmured the watery being.

“Quick!” the stony one growled. “Act!”

Treat this as a practical exercise in household mending, I told myself. Don’t doubt yourself, just get on with it.

As I had suspected, Cathal’s pack contained bone needles and a twist of sturdy thread. I could have patched a pair of trousers or mended the fastening of a shirt with ease. But this was a task such as I had never attempted in my life. I found Cathal’s second set of clothing and spread the tunic out on the grass. I put Becan down on it wrapped in my shawl. He lay stiffly, not moving so much as a finger. It was a fragile hope indeed that he could be brought back. But I must try. I rose to my feet, clearing my throat.

One of the Old Ones was milking the goat, the stream of creamy liquid spurting into a little shiny bucket. Another was laying wood on the fire. A third was filling a pannikin with water from the pond. Others had stationed themselves near the gate, perhaps on sentry duty. A torch had been placed close by us, but it was night now and sewing by such fitful light would not be easy.

Dog Mask sat cross-legged with Finbar in its arms. The mask stayed in place even when its owner could not spare a hand to hold it there. Dark eyes were fixed on me through the holes.

“Will you watch Becan while I gather what I need?” I asked. “Please?”

The creature inclined its head gravely. A moment later the hedgehog-dwarf was by my side with torch in hand, ready to light my way.

I made a picture in my mind of Becan as he had been before Mac Dara, before the fire. I would not be able to remake him exactly; certain berries, certain leaves were not present in the safe area within the hedge of thorn. But there was plenty to gather: fresh foliage from the trees and bushes, bark strips that could be taken with care, not too much from any one plant lest I wound it badly; twigs from the ground beneath. For every gift the earth gave me I murmured a prayer of thanks.