Then she was slowing down, turning a last corner and Nicolas was waiting to open a gate in the long hedgerow for us. We drove through and parked sharply, while Nicolas fiddled with the gate, trying to shut it again. I looked around. We were at the edge of a lush expanse of countryside, around six hundred acres or so, with a few thatched huts, gently smoking, dotted here and there in the distance. The Aberdares reared up to our right, a silvery waterfall cascading down their sides, and close by on our left the river moved sluggishly around a bend, where a deep pool had formed.

‘Welcome.’ Nicolas was walking towards us now, and it was only then that we noticed the smallish ball of yellow fluff, with large, ungainly feet, trotting next to him.

‘Is that a lion?’ Maud asked.

‘Our surprise,’ Sylvie said, turning in her seat. ‘Samson the lion cub.’ She looked at me, and I felt somehow she’d wanted to show him to me in particular.

‘Say hello to him if you like,’ Nicolas said, opening the door for Maud. Fairyfeet took the opportunity to escape, and bounded into the bushes. ‘He’s very tame.’

We carefully approached Samson, who was sitting a few feet from the car. He was no bigger than a domestic cat, but stockier, with shorter legs. His fur was sand-coloured, and there were brown spots on his head much like a leopard. His eyes were wide and black, and his mouth was open, tongue hanging out pinkly, giving him a quizzical expression. His teeth looked sharp enough.

I felt myself breaking into a smile, just looking at him. Here was a real, live predator. A man-killer.

‘Where does he like to be stroked?’ Maud asked.

As if in answer, Samson flopped onto the ground in front of us and rolled over, exposing his belly.

‘He’s a flirt,’ Nicolas said, slapping him playfully on his flank. Samson growled, and wriggled from side to side, scratching his back on the rocky surface of the drive.

‘We’ve been cursed with all the naughty animals,’ Sylvie said, picking Roderigo up from the back seat of the car. ‘Now come see the plans for the house. We’re living in the manager’s house in the meantime.’

The manager’s house was smaller than ours and painted white with green shutters. There was a narrow porch along the front of the house with a table and four chairs set up. Inside was white as well, with red tiles on the floor, and stacks of unopened boxes in the corners. No paintings hung on the walls, but there was some needlework above the fireplace, proclaiming ‘Home, Sweet Home’.

We sat around a coffee table near the open front door while Sylvie flitted about trying to find the plans, and Nicolas ordered us a jug of lemonade. Roderigo scampered up a tall armoire, and perched on the top, surveying us calmly.