‘Come this way and I’ll show you the observation tower.’ Pax’s husky voice sounded like a harbour bell, closer now, that deep vibrato she only used when she was sitting on a suitcase of unhappiness. How did you heal hers?

When she and Bridge finally trundled buggies noisily across the cobbles, he knew straight away something was wrong. She knew he saw it, determinedly avoiding his gaze.

Bridge hailed them noisily, gratefully handing the yawning toddler on her hip across to Carly and chuckling. ‘You two ready to wassail close to the wind? It’s started already. The parish committee are very hot on hurdy-gurdies. Listen.’

They could all hear the wheezing of a medieval instrument in the distance.

‘We thought we’d go and stake a good spot by the bonfire,’ she said, elbowing Luca. ‘You’re coming too. No arguments. Carly has helped you finish the yard specially. Just so we’re clear, it’s all old baldy men dancing with handkerchiefs and weird Wicca Man rituals but we need a bacon butty and cider right now more that we need fecking oxygen, do we not?’

He watched Pax’s face, freckles crowding as she frowned, not wanting a chaperone. He could guess why. They both knew that rolling down to a cider-fest wasn’t a wise idea, even surrounded by a small army of children. He wasn’t feeling too safe himself.

‘Sure.’

*

From the top of the stud’s drive, it was possible to see down into the little walled orchard opposite the Green, one of the few remnants of the Comptons’ cider-producing heritage. As a small child, Pax had imagined its trees to be courtly dancers, skirts trimmed with blossom lace in spring, embroidered green tassels in summer and red fruit in autumn, then in winter as twisted and gnarled black skeletons. Today those skeletons had been joined by a few hunched figures in woolly hats. A thin plume of smoke rose up from one corner, cast sulphur yellow by a horizon-low winter sun that was striping everything gold as it sank amid fast-dispersing clouds.

Ahead of Pax, Luca’s black Puffa jacket was like a tiger’s back as they set off for the wassail, Bridge hurrying to keep up alongside him.

‘I warn you, compared to back home the music’s always totally fecking shite, even if the grog’s sensational,’ she said.

Instinctively, Pax glanced at Kes, imagining him parroting ‘fecking shite’ back at his father, and then she decided it served Mack right if he did. She liked the way Bridge spoke exactly as she found. Carly’s barbed tongue was more circumspect, letting off her own buggy brake with a huff, eyes sliding past Pax without looking at her. ‘We could always go to yours if it’s crap, Bridge,’ she called. ‘I’m dying for a cup of tea and a biscuit.’

Walking alongside, Pax let the sarcasm wash over her. Her mind was far too busy, thoughts churning like a curdling sauce. Keep thinking about something else.

‘Looks like we’re in for a starry night,’ she predicted brightly.