Yes, he thinks, the sickness is a great thing, for thrusting me so deep into human society and all its mysteries. Gertrude has been great company to me, and I am blessed, but still the world has given me an opportunity to become something different and new, if I survive this sickness.

Conn glances at the still door, its promise of light hidden behind it.

‘Thank God,’ he says. ‘We can speak again as though we were not in a storm, which I suppose we are.’

But they do not speak. They sit in silence for a long time. Gertrude seems a little sad. Occasionally, he glances towards the door, almost hoping it will start knocking again. Eventually, she speaks, but in a slow manner, as though she has already been defeated by her own words:

‘You are not suited to shepherding, I know it. Shepherding is the domain of murderous sorts, escaping some sentence or writ; it is too dangerous for you. You would not cut a man’s throat to protect a sheep. You would not confront a fox, never mind a Gael who puts no store on your life. You are a quiet lad, and isolation is natural to you, yes, but you are too young to have had such great isolations as you have had.’

Conn, with his youthful pride, takes slight umbrage at her insinuations.

‘I have fended my flock well against the Gaels,’ he says. ‘I did recount to you my exploits two days ago.’

‘I think it was three days ago,’ she says.

‘I cannot tell.’

‘That is not the matter I wished to speak of,’ she says.

Her face has grown sullen, and her shoulders are sunken.

‘What is it, kind Gertrude?’

‘I am not sure if I should say.’

‘You can tell me anything.’