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loose, flowing down over her shoulders in waves as dark as a crow’s wing. Her eyes were a deep blue and gazed directly from the portrait, giving me an uncanny sense that she could see me. The letter had said sweet and gentle ; this heart-shaped face with its small, straight nose and not-quite-smiling mouth suggested the description might not, after all, be a lie. On the girl’s lap was a tiny white dog, a delicate thing with spindly legs and large ears; she held it with some tenderness. The artist had chosen to show the two of them against a background of oak leaves.
    ‘A pretty thing,’ observed my mother. I was not sure if she meant the portrait or the girl herself. I only knew that now I held the painting in my hand I did not want to give it back to her. ‘You know, of course, that once you marry you’ll have your own household; no new bride wants to be under the eye of her mother-in-law. You’ll move to Winterfalls. That should be pleasing even to you.’
    I opened my mouth to say she should stop making assumptions, then shut it again. At some point I would have to give in. My parents were right: I did have to sire a son and heir, and at two-and-twenty I was past the age when a man was expected to get on with such things. What chance was there, really, that I would find the one woman who was my perfect complement, my other half, my long-dreamed-of true love? My mother had told me often enough that I had my head in the clouds. To be a dreamer at the age of ten was acceptable. At fifteen one might almost get away with it. In a man of two-and-twenty it was starting to verge on risible.
    And this girl, this woman in the picture . . . There was something about her, something that went far beyond the obvious beauty, the tender pose, the artful execution of the image. Unless the artist was an exceptional dissembler, the subject of his work was a rare creature.
    ‘All your father is asking,’ Mother said, evidently taking my silence for a mulish refusal to listen to her wisdom, ‘is that he may reply to Lord Cadhan’s letter telling him you are interested.’
    ‘No,’ I said, rising to my feet. Before she could say anything I added, ‘I’ll write the letter, and it won’t be to Lord Cadhan, it will be to his daughter. As for being interested, I’ll wait until she replies before I decide that.’
    I had the satisfaction of seeing my mother completely lost for words. I poured her a cup of mead from the jug on the table. Only after she had gulped down several mouthfuls did she find her voice again.
    ‘Your father would have to read the letter. He would need to approve it.’
    ‘No. It will be for no eyes but hers.’
    ‘I see.’ Mother’s face showed a peculiar blend of shock and hope.
    ‘However, I have no objection to Father writing a covering letter to Lord Cadhan; I’ll seal my own missive and give it to his scribe to enclose.’ I paused to draw breath; assessed that look on her face again and decided to press this rare advantage. ‘When Flidais’s reply comes, we’ll discuss the matter further. A condition of my agreeing to marry would be that I move to Winterfalls as soon as the decision is made. The hand-fasting would take place there.’ In my own home, on my own ground. Winterfalls, near Dreamer’s Wood, was surrounded by forest and lake. It was a place of birds and creatures, peace and tranquillity. My heart began to race. My mind soared into a realm of dreams. This was foolish indeed; both letter and portrait were probably lies. Well, my letter would be all truth, and I’d see what Flidais made of that.
    Two turnings of the moon passed before my father received Lord Cadhan’s reply; spring was turning to summer. Enclosed was a sealed message bearing this inscription: To Prince Oran of Dalriada. Personal and Private. I took it away to my apartments unopened. My heart was beating with such violence I wondered what would happen if these negotiations did bear fruit, and I came face to face with