Cathal was sitting at the top of the steps outside the harness room. He had his arms folded, his head tipped back against the door, his eyes half closed. He’d as likely bite my head off when I spoke as decide to confide in me. But someone had to talk to him; he was obviously feeling quite wretched. I had spent enough nights recently lying awake with my worries and missing Deirdre to understand what it felt like being alone and miserable.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” I said, seating myself on the middle step. It was cold out here; I wished I had put on my shawl. “What could there possibly be in a story like that to upset you so much?”

“And good evening to you, too,” Cathal said in a murmur.

I tried again. “For a man all too ready to scoff at the uncanny, you seemed remarkably disturbed. You left the hall before the ending. Before my version, anyway.”

“You know how tedious I find these little entertainments.”

I said nothing. Whatever that look on his face had conveyed, it hadn’t been boredom.

“In fact,” Cathal said after a little, “I did hear your version of the ending. I thought it reflected your preference for your world to be tidy and controlled. Aidan made the tale end as a warrior would, with the wolf boy recognizing his manhood. Coll gave it the form of an ancient myth. Your version was a good compromise. But in its way as unrealistic as the others. This child was not wolf; he was not man. He was condemned to be forever outside.”

My neck prickled. I opened my mouth to speak, but his voice, whip-quick, cut across my half-formed words.

“Don’t! Don’t meddle!”

I swallowed a question about his upbringing. It really was none of my business. But I did think talking might be good for him, and right now I was the only one available to listen. Something had put that terrible look on Cathal’s face tonight; something had made him the volatile, touchy creature he was.

“In case the possibility had crossed your mind, I was not raised by wolves,” Cathal said into the silence. His tone was calmer now, but when I turned sideways on the steps to look at him, he was dashing a furious hand across his cheek. The flickering light from the torch set nearby cast odd patterns across his face. I saw tears glinting in his eyes, and turned my gaze away lest I embarrass him.

“There is more than one variety of wolf,” I said.

“You imagine a past for me that is far more complex and mysterious than the real one, Clodagh. Women are like that, or so I’ve been told—they’re happier creating a fascinating tale than accepting the mundane truth about a person.”