Dusk was beginning to eddy around the patrons of the bar, and Annie pulled her jacket around her shoulders. A mischievous breeze sifted through the little market square, lifting scarves and fluttering napkins. The breeze tugged at the corners of Annie’s newspaper, slipping between the pages and lifting them open. Annie looked around for something to act as a paperweight. She found a flat gray pebble beneath the table. She turned it over in her hand and saw that it had been painted with the words Everything will be all right. She smiled. The painter could have had no idea who would find their random pebble, but it made her feel instantly better.

She was about to fold the paper back up when something at the bottom of the right-hand column of the page caught her eye.

It was a small advertisement, outlined in bold black lines: Winter Guardian Required

Annie read on: Live-in guardian required as custodian of secluded beach apartment and small (closed) business premises over the winter months. This is an unpaid position and the custodian will be responsible for all utilities, but the rent is free.

The rent is free part was an enticing prospect for a woman with a serious cash-flow problem.

The ad gave no address or hint as to where this secluded beach might be, but it did list a phone number, and Annie began punching in the numbers before she’d fully registered what she was doing.

“Helloo!”

“Oh, hello,” said Annie. “My name is Annie Sharpe, I’m calling about the ad in the paper for a winter guardian?”

“Ach, how lovely!” said the woman. She had a strong Scottish accent and the kind of creamy voice that made you want to lie back and have her read you a story. “I’ve had that ad in the paper for over a month! You’re the first person to call. I was beginning to give up hope.”

“Well, I’m very interested in having a look, Ms. . . . ?”

“Mari, call me Mari,” she said. “And please, please do come and have a look. I’d said to myself, this is the last week I’m going to put the ad in, and if nobody calls then it’s just not meant to be.”

The apartment was at a place called Willow Bay, on account—according to Mari—of a smugglers’ ship called The Willow being sunk there in a storm in 1502. Annie was intrigued.

“When can I come to view?” asked Annie.

“Tomorrow?” said Mari.

“Perfect!” said Annie.

“Could you bring some ID, and could I ask you to e-mail me a reference, please?”

“Oh,” said Annie. “Yes, of course.” She was sure Marianne wouldn’t mind writing her a reference.

“And just a couple of bank statements, if you don’t mind, it’s just so that we know you’re financially able to cope with the job.”

“We?” asked Annie.