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bounded towards the forest.
    The others followed reluctantly.
    â€˜I don’t like Samhain,’ whimpered Riona.
    â€˜Here!’ called Lorccán. ‘Over here!’
    He was waiting in front of a tree with a tall, silvery trunk. Above his head, bright yellow leaves trembled and whispered. Dutifully, Nath-í bent to scavenge for fallen twigs. Bran took hold of a lower branch and gave it a tug.
    â€˜Bran!’ said Nessa. ‘You’re not allowed to do that!’
    Bran snorted. ‘Old Feather-cloak can’t see me.’
    â€˜But . . .’
    â€˜Are you going to tell on me?’
    â€˜No, of course not. But you’re hurting a living tree.’
    â€˜So?’
    When Bran ripped the branch from the tree, Ket felt uncomfortable, as if he was watching someone tear out another person’s hair. He fumbled for the red band Auntie Mell had tied around his wrist all those years ago, that last Samhain before he left home. He rubbed the worn, frayed strands between his fingers and felt comforted. The red dye, colour of fire and blood, would bring him protection.
    â€˜I’m going to find some holly,’ said Nessa. ‘Come on, Ket, come and help me.’
    The fosterlings would spend the dreadful night of Samhain cowering inside the hollow oak, hoping that red berries and spiky leaves hung around the tree would ward off evil spirits.
    As Ket and Nessa threaded their way through the forest, they came upon a man from the ringforts lopping branches from a holly tree.
    Nessa called a greeting, and then her face lit up as the man turned. ‘Uncle Tirech!’ She ran towards him. ‘How’s everyone at the ringfort? How’s Mother? And all my cousins?’
    â€˜Nay, no time to gossip now, Nessa!’ The man shook his head. ‘I’ve lots to do before sunset!’ He glanced at his basket of holly. ‘That’ll do,’ he muttered, and looking harassed, he tramped off through the forest.
    Nessa watched his departing back with disappointment.
    â€˜Come on, Nessa. Look at all the leaves and berries he’s dropped on the ground,’ said Ket, gathering them up.
    As the fosterlings headed back to camp, loaded with boughs of aspen and holly, the scent of baking barm-brack cakes wafted towards them. Ket and Nath-í looked round for Goll. As eldest sons, they were obliged to carry cakes as offerings to the tombs of their ancestors.
    Goll met them by the fire, where Maura was laying lumps of dough to cook on a heated stone. Her cheeks were red as the holly berries from the effort of kneading, and her stiff, straw-coloured hair stuck out in all directions from the silver fillet that circled her head. She flipped the cakes over, then lifted two and laid them on pieces of bark.
    Nath-í rubbed his belly wistfully. ‘Can I eat one now?’ he asked. Spindly and fast-growing as a foxglove flower, he was always hungry.
    Maura shook her head. ‘When you come back.’ She slapped another lump of dough on the stone. ‘I’m making plenty.’
    Nath-í held the fresh-baked cake to his nose and gave a longing sniff, then set off holding it gingerly.
    â€˜Try not to drop it!’ Maura called after him.
    Nath-í headed for the hills, for his clan lands were in the north, and Goll took the path across the plain down to the marshes.
    Ket waited impatiently for the next cake, his stomach gurgling as the hot, sweet aroma filled his nostrils. At last his offering was ready. He curled the bark carefully around it, and hurried into the forest. The sooner he returned, the sooner he could sink his teeth into one of those golden rounds sticky with dark chunks of bilberry.
    The Cormac ancestors lay buried in a clearing in the forest. The tall stone pillars that circled their mound cast long shadows. As Ket stepped into the clearing, he saw that the flat slab of stone set in the side of the grass-covered mound had been pushed