She had been too long indoors. That was the problem, Anna thought, as she wrapped warmly in the fur-lined cloak and hood that had been hers for several winters. For although it was now past mid March, the days had turned as cold as though it had still been mid January, painting crackled frost across the windowpanes each morning, with a wind that tore against the shutters, blowing a fine mist of snow that settled in small drifts along the sills.

There was one place at General Lacy’s house where she could breathe the outside air without an escort, for she had not truly left the property – the yard, hemmed round on all sides by the high walls of the houses, would provide her room to pace about, and might help cure her aching head.

The servants clearly thought her mad, but none of them said anything as she made her way through the kitchen to the door that led out to the yard. Outside, the cold air struck her like a blade, so sharp it froze her nostrils as it stung her cheeks, but Anna gladly raised her face to welcome it.

And saw that she was not alone.

The children were already out here, legs half-swallowed by the deep snow as they clustered round the doorway of the small grey shed that leant against the western wall. She was about to call to them and ask what they were doing when a taller figure moved within the shed, and as she recognised the man and would have turned away, the youngest boy, young Pierce, turned too, and called her over. ‘Mistress Jamieson! Come see! Come see our bird.’

Then all the other heads turned, too, and there was nothing for it but to make her way across the yard and stand among the children while they stared with fascination at the crow held in Edmund O’Connor’s gloved hands.

He told them, ‘Only for a minute, now. She’ll freeze if she stays out too long.’

The crow, seeming calm, watched them all with a curious eye while the children took turns gently stroking a finger across the black head. All but Helen, the littlest girl, who pressed back against her brother, Michael, in fear. ‘It’s so ugly.’

Edmund crouched so that he and the bird were on Helen’s own level, and gently agreed, ‘Aye, she’s never the prettiest bird, to be sure. But she’s taken that form as a test, to see how well we’ll care for her.’

Katie asked, ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I think what we’ve captured is not a true crow, but the Cailleagh herself. Do you know of the Cailleagh?’ He lifted his eyebrows as all of the children assured him they didn’t. ‘And what has your father been teaching you, then? The Cailleagh,’ he said, ‘is a very old woman of Ireland; very old, older than time. Every autumn she’s born, and she cradles the year as it dies, and she cares for it under the frost and the snow, and through all of the winter she keeps safe the seeds that will turn the world green in the spring. She has powerful ways, but she’s not to be feared,’ he told Helen.

The little girl blinked at him. ‘And this is her?’

Edmund nodded. ‘I think so. ’Tis one of the forms that she likes to appear in, to see whether we will be kind to her.’

Katie asked, ‘And if we are? What does she do then?’

‘Why, then she brings you good fortune. Go on,’ he told Helen, and held the crow closer to her in encouragement. ‘Show her your heart’s not so cold.’

Helen, biting her lip, reached one small mittened hand out to touch the bird’s head, then withdrew it as quickly, but proud of her bravery she smiled up at Edmund, and he smiled back.

‘There you are, then,’ he said to the girl, ‘she’ll be bringing the spring to us soon, that’s for certain.’

Anna, through all this, said nothing, because she’d been suddenly struck by a memory: herself as a child, walking with Captain Jamieson in the dim church of the convent at Ypres while he gave her advice. ‘Ye’ll learn more of a man if ye look at his face when he’s looking at somebody else,’ he had said, ‘than ye’ll learn any other way.’

Looking at Edmund O’Connor’s face now, while he was looking at Helen, she saw what she hadn’t expected to see. Kindness. Tenderness. Patience.

And something more. All down the edge of his jawline, the skin was beginning to whiten, with small crystals forming along it. Without taking time to think, Anna reacted as she would have done were he one of the children – she scooped up a handful of snow and, not asking for leave, rubbed the side of his face with it.

He rose to his full height, evading her hand as he asked, ‘What the devil was that for?’

His irritation, wholly understandable, but following so soon upon her unexpected glimpse into his other nature, left her for a moment without words. A new experience, for Anna. She could only stand before him and absorb his anger while the children hastened to explain that in this harsh and northern climate any sign of frost upon the skin must instantly be treated so; that she had only rubbed his jaw with snow to stop it freezing.

She could see the change of his expression as their jumbled explanations penetrated, and as fast as it had flared, the anger left his eyes, but there was no more tenderness within them, either.

With a nod he thanked her, and she took his thanks and turned away, still silent.

She had gone halfway across the yard before she felt the impact on her back as something hit her. Turning, she had scarcely time to see the ball of white approaching before snow exploded on her face, a thousand stinging needles.

Edmund O’Connor, having presumably put the bird back in its cage, stood with both hands now free, by the door of the shed. ‘I’m only returning the favour,’ he called, ‘Mistress Jamieson.’ Raising one gloved hand, he brushed his own cheek before pointing to hers. ‘You were looking a little bit frosty, just there.’