She continued to stare out and I thought she would not answer. But then, without looking down at me, she replied, “Everyone. Go away.”

“How can I help you if I go away?”

“You can't help me. You've told me that often enough. So you might as well just go away and leave me alone. Like everyone else.”

“Who has gone away and left you alone?”

That brought me a furious glare. She spoke in a low voice full of hurt. “I don't know why I thought you might remember! My brother, for one. My brother Swift, who you said would soon be coming home to us. Well, he hasn't! And then my stupid father decided to go look for him. As if a man with fogged eyes can go look for anything! And we told him not to go, but he did. And something happened, we don't know what, but his horse came home without him. So I went out on my horse, despite my mother shrieking at me that I wasn't to leave, and I tracked his horse's trail back and found Papa by the side of the road, bruised and bloody and trying to crawl home dragging one leg. So I brought him home, and then my mother scolded me again for disobeying her. And now my father is in bed and all he does is lie there and stare at the wall and not speak to anyone. My mother forbade any of us from bringing him any brandy. So he won't talk to us or tell us what happened. Which makes my mother furious at all of us. As if it were my fault.”

Halfway through this tirade, her tears had begun to stream down her face. They dripped from her chin and ran over her hands and trickled down the wall of the tower. Slowly they solidified into opal strands of misery. I reared up on my hind legs and clawed at them, but they were too smooth and too shallow for me to gain any purchase. I sat down again. I felt hollow and old. I tried to tell myself that the misery in Molly's home had nothing to do with me, that I had not caused it and could not cure it. And yet, the roots of it ran deep, did they not?

After a time, she looked down at me and laughed bitterly. “Well, Shadow Wolf? Aren't you going to say you can't help me with that? Isn't that what you always say?” When I could think of no reply, she added in an accusing tone, “I don't know why I even speak to you. You lied to me. You said my brother was coming home.”

“I thought he was,” I replied, finding words at last. “I went to him and I told him to go home. I thought he had.”

“Well, perhaps he tried to. Perhaps he started this way, and was killed by robbers, or fell in a river and drowned. I don't suppose you ever considered that ten is a bit young to be out on the roads alone? I suppose you never thought that it might have been kinder if you had brought him home safely to us, instead of ‘sending' him? But no, that might have been inconvenient to you.”

“Nettle. Stop. Let me speak. Swift is safe. Alive and safe. He is still here, with me.” I paused and tried to breathe. The inevitability of what must follow those words sickened me. Here it comes, Burrich, I thought to myself. All the pain I ever tried to save you. All tied up in a tidy package of misery for you and your family.

For Nettle asked, as I knew she must, “And where is ‘safe with you'? And how do I know he is safe? How do I know you are a true thing at all? Perhaps you are like the rest of this dream, a thing I made. Look at you, man-wolf! You are not real and you offer me false hope.”

“I am not real as you see me,” I replied slowly. “But I am real. And once upon a time, your father knew me.”

“‘Once upon a time,' ” she said scornfully. “Another tale from Shadow Wolf. Take your silly stories away.” She took a shuddering breath and fresh tears started down her face. “I'm not a child any longer. Your stupid stories can't help me.”

So I knew I had lost her. Lost her trust, lost her friendship. Lost my chance of knowing my child as a child. Terrible sadness welled up in me, but it was laced with the music of brambles growing. I glanced behind me. The thorn vines and fog had crept higher. Was it just my own dream threatening me, or had Thick's music become even more menacing? I didn't know. “And I came here seeking your help,” I reminded myself bitterly.

“My help?” Nettle asked in a choked voice.

I had spoken without thinking. “I know I don't have the right to ask you for anything.”

“No. You don't.” She was looking past me. “What is that, anyway?”

“A dream. A nightmare, actually.”

“I thought your nightmares were about falling.” She sounded intrigued.

“That's not my nightmare. It belongs to someone else. He is . . . It's a very strong nightmare. Strong enough to spread out from him and take over the dreams of other people. It's threatening lives. And I don't think the man whose dream it is can control it.”