A dank breeze roams the room behind Alannah, and sets off a small motion near her that catches her attention. She looks to this disturbance, and sees a crow’s feather has been stuck to the outside of the door, the breeze making it flicker like candlelight. The feather is at her eye-level, where only one as small as herself would be likely to notice it. She peels it away and holds it between her thumb and finger. It is dishevelled, stuck to the door with saliva.

It could be an accident, she thinks, one of those meaningless things.

And then, outside, Colca begins to trot out of town, across the dirt until he is out on the grass, and he keeps going. Alannah watches him until he is out of sight, then turns back to Raghnailt.

‘Let us free Mary now,’ she says. ‘Your son is temporarily away and I cannot see the other man.’

Raghnailt is quiet for a moment, her head down.

‘No? Do you not love her?’ Alannah asks. ‘You have said many times you wanted her free.’

‘I do not love chains on anyone,’ Raghnailt says, ‘but Mary is dangerous; and after this morning …’

She trails off.

‘If let go she is as like to cut our throats as to kiss our cheeks.’

‘Let us ask her, so,’ Alannah says.

‘But there is no use in it; you cannot get any truth off such a person.’

Alannah ignores this, touches Mary’s shoulder. The girl opens her eyes, but doesn’t move.

‘More cider,’ she says.

‘No,’ Raghnailt interjects. ‘You have had enough to kill a horse.’

Mary pulls herself upright and begins drinking from her jug.

‘Would you kill us if I let you go?’ Alannah asks the girl.

Mary, her face deep in her jug, does not respond.

‘If I was sure you would not, I would free you, but I do not believe you would not,’ Alannah says. ‘Tell me this, do you love your man, or do you hate him?’

‘I hate him,’ Mary says. ‘He did terrible things to my daughter, used her, and she not of age.’

‘Silly woman, you lie so much. You have no children,’ Alannah says. ‘You love your man, tell the truth. He gives you a sort of pleasure.’

‘No, I hate him,’ Mary says, shaking her head. ‘I will cut his throat till it is a smiling thing.’

‘You will indeed have to kill him to be free of your love for him, I feel.’

‘Desist,’ Raghnailt says. ‘I cannot stand the violence of this talk. What are you putting in her head, Alannah? What secret plotting are you at? You fill this room with cruelty when the land is full enough of it already. Free her if you will free her, but do not draw out the act. You are a cat with a sparrow.’