Once outside, she was drawn to the lake, the fountains not yet playing on a watery surface that exactly mimicked the sky, only heavier in its stillness. The mist was still rising up in twists from the water, dissolving into the air. Charlotte stood for a long time, not quite certain what it was she was watching; but she knew the ease with which she breathed was not entirely due to the freshness of the air, or the vistas along the slopes of the long valley in which the estate stood, or the resounding shouting of birds.

And then she became aware that one of the birds’ songs was too melodious to be entirely natural, its notes speaking of human breath; it was a musical instrument, some sort of pipe, that she could hear. She walked in the direction of the sound, but it was deceptive; sometimes it sank beneath the chatter of nature, sometimes it called from the left, then the right. At moments, it sounded so close she would turn in a circle, puzzled not to be able to see the source; at other times, it faded into the distance.

Her pursuit led her towards the upper and wilder part of the garden, through arboretums and along hedged paths, and eventually up rock steps shaded by mature chestnut trees. A gloomy grotto did not tempt, but as she crested the ridge on which it stood, she saw spread before her a vast maze. The sound of the piping was now tantalisingly close.

Charlotte advanced down the slope towards the entrance to the maze. The trimmed edges of box rose high above her head, but the sun glittered on the leaves, and the overall impression was enticing rather than daunting. Wondering if she should be leaving a trail of breadcrumbs or pebbles, she stepped inside, and began to work her way towards the centre, encouraged by the continuing cascade of notes.

She took a few wrong turns, finding herself trapped in blind ends that made her impatient and slightly anxious. It became imperative to find the source of the music, but she did not consider why, other than as an object to her journey. As she turned back from one dead end to seek another route, the angle of the early rays revealed footprints in the dewy path. By following these, as well as the music, the sound of which was growing stronger and more compelling by the minute, Charlotte navigated herself closer to the heart of the maze.

One more turn, then a slide through a narrow opening in the hedge – and there, on a bench in a small chamber like that in the epicentre of a snail shell, sat Herr Rosenstein. He had his recorder at his lips, fingers marching up and down its wooden stem.