‘Morning all! I say, any tea left in that pot?’ It was Mr Richards. He always helped himself to a cuppa before he started work. Maggie could hear voices and footsteps now as other workers arrived. There was nowhere she could be alone.

She glanced out through the windows. The whole Snowden estate and, beyond it, the hills of Gloucestershire, lay there. It was drizzling but that didn’t matter. She’d go outside.

She ran for the shelter of an oak tree on the edge of the lawn. Blast, it was raining harder than she’d thought but the fresh air was welcoming. It was nice to be away from everyone.

Under the tree, as the rain made a steady pitter-patter on the leaves above, Maggie pulled the letter out – just a single, thin sheet of paper – and read:

Dear Maggie

Ta for the letter. I am having a very nice time here at the farm. There is another girl my age, so I have a fiend.

Is Tabby all right?

‘Ow!’ A raindrop fell onto the paper and smudged the ink, threatening to wash Violet’s precious words away. Maggie stepped nearer to the trunk and covered the sheet with her arm.

There are horses, pigs, cows and sheep and hens. We mustn’t get too fond of them because they’ll all be going for meat. (Not the horses, though).

Have you heard from Mutti? Send her my love pleese.

And let me know when youre able to come and see me. I cant wait.

Love from Vi

It was only a short note and Maggie re-read it, looking for clues that her sister was unhappy. At least she’d got a friend (hopefully not a ‘fiend’), which was something.

Maggie quickly turned the piece of paper over and felt a thud of disappointment; there was nothing on the back.

It was such a relief. Vi was safe and she sounded cheerful. Some of the butterflies in Maggie’s stomach had settled now but her mind still wasn’t at rest. It was a frustratingly brief note and then, there were—

‘Oh!’ Someone was coming along the path. A man, judging from the heavy tread.

Two big dogs – one black, one golden – raced joyfully across the lawn, barking as they chased a squirrel.

Perhaps it was Jack Rosman? Her stomach did a loop-the-loop at the thought. She hadn’t seen him since their walk to the Mirror Pool last Saturday. He’d told her then that he’d be unable to re-join his squadron for at least a few weeks, until his wrist mended and that he came and went from Snowden Hall. She would, he’d assured her with that steady smile, see him again.