She circled the room, peering and tweaking at the machines she passed, trying to make sense of them, trying to see what they did, and why, and how, and failing at every turn. “It’s not fair. There has to be a way of making use of these and making the village better.”

Cadan watched her prowl. “The villagers are happy with Woodbine as it is. They won’t think a printing press an improvement, any more than they’d appreciate your little puppy friend.”

They would like it, they may take a little while to come around, but being able to print and sell books… Images crossed her mind; Sarah, not interested in using the castle’s still room, or selling her concoctions in Gandry, Ingrid, reluctant to upset the apple cart with the swindling farmer and his wife, Samuel, rote-teaching letters with no view to the use or value of reading, the list went on.

She wondered how the Old Master managed, why he’d settled here. She continued to pace. “Where was he from?”

Cadan shrugged. “Sundaria. Matthew says he never shared aught about his life before Clearfall though, and Lily neither.”

“Well, what was his name?”

“John Sundar.”

Eleanor was ready to scream. “That was not his name.”

“Maybe not originally, but it’s what he answered to here, although most just knew him as The Master. There was precious little he couldn’t turn his hand to.”

Why was the one villager she felt a kinship with dead, with his notebooks locked away? Why couldn’t she do something more than follow in the narrow confines of the path set by Sarah or Maggie?

She looked around her, at the room, keeping her warm, penning her in, then at the trees outside, looming above her, shielding the sky, blocking the horizon. Nothing to see, nowhere to go, trapped.

She realised she was muttering as she paced and glanced guiltily at Cadan. He’d heard, she could see it in his face, the sorrow in his eyes made her heart twist. She reached towards him. “It’s not you…”

He looked away. “We’d better get back before dark sets in.”

Snow was beginning to fall as they packed up and left the workshop, locking it behind them. Eleanor wriggled her hand into his as they walked. He held it, but didn’t look at her, and when they came to an awkward part of the trail, he let go to wrestle the handcart across and didn’t take it again.

He left her at the door of Sarah and Matthew’s cottage to return the hand cart and bathe. When he came back, he brought news. “You’re to go with Evan and Martha Smith to town for supplies. You’re leaving in the morning.”

Eleanor could only stand and stare for a minute. Finally, she found her voice. “What? I can’t go into town. I have no idea what’s needed. And why is it Evan and Martha? Why not you?”

He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I’m needed here.”

Matthew had followed him into the room. “You’ll have a grand time, lass, be able to visit with your parents and friends and trade news.”

Sarah added from her chair by the fire. “More to the point, you’ll be able to trade our wood for a fair price.”

“Am I allowed any say in this? Or are my concerns and opinions so worthless they’re not even allowed to be aired?”

The older couple traded worried, uncertain looks. Cadan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course they’re important, but the village needs your knowledge and skill. Evan’s taking the trip as he’s the only one who’ll know what’s needed to fix the mill but he’s no negotiator.”

“Martha can do the negotiating, she’s good enough at wheedling her way out of work around here. Or is this you looking to get rid of me? Are the Smiths expecting to bring me back again?”

In the silence that followed, Eleanor crossed her arms, bit her lip, hard, and glared at the young man now staring at her in shock.

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