‘You need to run about more,’ he said, watching the bird with me. ‘That’s a wagtail. Pretty isn’t it?’

I shifted my position to better look at him. He had lovely manners and his accent didn’t sound like either of his parents. He wasn’t overweight but there was a roundness to him, a fleshiness, that suggested he would always battle with his weight. He didn’t seem shy, not exactly – just slightly removed from things. He was the sort who could leave a party and nobody would notice them go.

‘You ever draw birds?’ I asked, making conversation. ‘You’re the artist in the family, aren’t you?’

He smiled and looked away, embarrassed at being pleased. ‘I don’t draw things I can look at. I just draw the things I see in my head.’

‘And that’s all the gruesome stuff?’ I asked, a little surprised.

‘It’s not gruesome,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Not really. You’re watching a bird and thinking it’s lovely and I’m seeing the worm in its beak. That’s all.’

I was a bit surprised at how mature he sounded. He was a clever lad, I could see that, but it was the sort of cleverness that rarely brought happiness. It was a restless, questioning intelligence that would forever leave him dissatisfied. I knew it well.

‘And you see people having their heads cut off, do you?’

‘Most of the stories you hear around here involve death. You know the ghost story? The castle?’

I shook my head then settled against the doorframe, wrapping my hands around my tea.

‘Centuries back the baron of Featherstone Castle arranged for his daughter to marry a man she didn’t love. She wanted this other man who had no money but a good heart.’ He paused at that to make sure I was listening and not laughing at him. Satisfied, he continued. ‘She refused to go through with the marriage but her father insisted. After the wedding, he instructed his daughter to ride out with the wedding party to see the new lands she had inherited through the marriage while he oversaw preparations for the banquet. When the wedding party reached a clearing in the woods, the bride’s lover and a group of his friends tried to rescue her and ride away. It was all very romantic. But her new husband was a warrior as well and there was a battle. In the midst of it all the bride was struck by her lover’s sword and died in his arms – as did her husband, and the man she loved, all mixed in together and their blood soaking into the ground.’

I looked at him and saw he was staring off into the distance as though the story he was telling was playing out in front of his eyes.

‘You’re good with words,’ I said, hoping for a smile in return. He barely noticed me.