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there, suspended between the sheer walls. And at the same time that she saw him, Tess’s sharp hawk-eyes saw something else. Neither the goat nor her kid were in any immediate danger from the dogs, but Tess was not the only person to have heard the frantic barks. Uncle Maurice had heard them too, and was crossing the fields with a swift stride. Over his left arm, open at the breach, was his shotgun.
    Tess began to act without stopping to think. Somehow, she had to get there before him. In the blink of an eye she had flown to the edge of the woods, then she folded her wings and stooped, dropping like a stone towards the rocky ground below. The fall was breathtaking, a kind of death-dive, and if Tess hadn’t learnt to trust the instincts of her animal forms she would have been terrified. But the bird’s senses were more accurate than any computerised landing system and, at the last possible moment, she opened her wings and broke the fall. Ducking sideways, she swept into the shadowy edge of the trees before landing and Switching, all in one motion.
    Then she was running, as fast as she dared on the dangerous going. She was glad of her trainers. At home in Dublin she had a pair of fashion shoes with huge, chunky heels, but as she sped across the rocks she promised herself she would never, ever wear them again. You never knew when you might need to run; to save your own life or someone else’s.
    She glanced towards the farmhouse as she went. As far as she could make out, she was roughly the same distance from the goats as Uncle Maurice was, but she was travelling faster and would almost certainly get there first. He lifted a hand and waved at her, calling out something that she didn’t hear but could guess. She looked away, pretending that she hadn’t seen him, and raced on. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that he was increasing his pace, and before long he was across the boundary wall and moving rapidly over the rough ground.
    Tess ran all the harder. Now she could no longer avoid hearing her Uncle’s shouts.
    ‘Tess! Stay away now, do you hear? Leave them alone!’
    She was nearly there. Sceolan ran up to greet her, proud of himself, but Bran stayed where she was, holding the old goat, who stood with her horns down like drawn swords.
    ‘Tess!’ It was more of a scream than a shout, and now Uncle Maurice was running, scrambling over the flaking and wobbling rocks towards her and the stranded goats. But Tess was there first. Her heart was pounding, because she was running and because she was afraid. She was flouting Uncle Maurice, she knew, but there was nothing else she could do. If she obeyed him, stood by and watched while he shot the goat and her kid, she would never be able to live with herself.
    Bran backed off and the old nanny ran a few steps when Tess arrived on the spot. She ignored them both and went for the trapped kid. As she knelt and grabbed it by the scruff of the neck it let out a harrowing bawl of terror, but a moment later it was free and speeding off across the rocks with its mother close at its heels. A few yards away, Uncle Maurice came to a halt. He raised the gun, but Bran and Sceolan were both in his line of fire, bounding after the goats.
    Tess called them off and by the time they returned, willingly enough after their long ordeal, the goats were at a safe distance. Uncle Maurice lowered the gun and stared at Tess in impotent fury. Then he shook his head angrily, turned on his heel and marched off the way he had come. Apologetically, the dogs took leave of Tess and followed him.
    She could understand why Uncle Maurice hated the goats. They knocked down his walls and stole the grass he needed for the sheep when grass was at its scarcest. She knew, as well, how she must appear to him; an interfering townee full of sentimental misconceptions about country life. She watched as he made his way home, the dogs at his heels.
    They were going back to their everyday lives. So were the goat and