Memories rush in: wine poured from an amphora into an open throat. Hears himself gasp as his mind floods with pictures. There had been a man. He had tried to kill him. An impact. The sensation of falling, of pain. And then hands in his, and the blackness of oblivion. He screws up his face, the stitches in his cheek puckering painfully. He’d been seeking Roisin Teague. There had been a death. A murder. She was in trouble; had gone to family, and he had bumbled along after …

He squirms upright, pain gripping him in a dozen places at once. ‘Roisin,’ he says, and he cannot quite believe that she is here. That she is looking at him as if they are already lovers. A great tendril of guilt climbs up his throat, causing him to gag. He pulls the covers around himself, gasping for air. Pushes himself back against the headboard as if trying to avoid a rising tide. He thinks again of the hands upon him. The soft warmth. The song that brought him back to consciousness on inky black swells of pure pleasure.

‘What happened?’ he begs, even as she smiles at him, the corners of her mouth jerking upwards, tongue wetting her lips. ‘The man … you … I mean, where …?’

‘Aector,’ she says, and takes such delight in saying it, she repeats the word. She reaches forward to put her hand upon his cheek. Startled, he jerks back, hitting his head on the brass birdcage that dangles above the bed.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks, his head spinning. ‘I went to see your cousins, well … sort of cousins … I saw your picture – there were people looking for you … a feud, something terrible happened … the lady, and you were there, and they thought …’ He stops himself, aware he is gabbling. ‘Where am I?’ he asks, daring to meet her eye.

‘Drink, Aector,’ she says, turning onto her side and reaching out one bare, tanned arm to grasp a beaker. She turns back, her eyes seeking his. Tips it to his lips. ‘It’ll help.’

He tastes honey. Cinnamon. Something deeper. Earthier. Something that warms him, spreading out from his stomach like molten gold.

Already he yearns to sleep – to drift back into that safe, dark place. He has too many questions. Too much pain.

‘He’s dead,’ says Roisin, quietly. ‘The man who killed Eva-Jayne. He hurt the half-brothers too, but bugger them because they drugged me and would have sold me to the Heldens. He’d have done to me what he did to Eva-Jayne if you hadn’t turned up. You fought him. I drove the van at him when I saw what was happening. You’d already been hurt. I managed to get you out. Phoned Daddy’s man. They came. Helped me with you. You scared me. But I looked after you. Took care of you. Sang to you …’

‘How long?’ begs McAvoy, scratching at his beard.

‘Six days, now.’