‘I’ve lent my bodhran to that ver’ attractive young man,’ Auriol, heavy-lidded, pointed out Monique Austen’s handsome groom beating out a rhythm.

‘Baron.’

‘Is he?’ She looked delighted. ‘I wonder if he has children of school age?’

‘No, the Irish drum is pronounced “baron”.’

‘I’ll stick with bo-de-ron, thank you,’ she said with crisp headmistress starch and just the slightest lurch to the left.

Auriol was waiting for a lift home from the hurdy-gurdy player, still only part through telling his potted history of medieval instruments to a glazed Mr Well Cottage (sideburns more Liam Gallagher than George Best, Bridge noted). None of the other Bags had been there to witness Bridge roll in with the Horsemaker and Pax, not that they’d hung out any longer than washing in a winter downpour.

She was feeling so neglected she’d even switched on her phone and texted Aleš to let him know where she was. He hadn’t yet replied. To add to her FOMO she had PMT, period pains tugging. Her lip throbbed again and her eyes itched. She wanted to be make-up free in the sagbag in Flavia and Zak’s room, hot wheat bag pressed to her belly, bingeing Julia Donaldson with them.

‘Who is this violinist we’re waiting for, Mrs Mazur?’ asked Auriol, every sibilant subtly slurred.

‘The Horsemaker.’ Bridge hammed up her own accent. ‘Many meet him but nobody knows him. The Don Quixote of the Comptons. They say he rides horses’ very souls.’

‘Is he any good at racing tips?’ Auriol looked impressed.

‘It’s a safe bet he’ll be racing away from here if he doesn’t pick his bow up soon.’ Bridge glanced at the biggest group of Turners, a broiling tattooed mass styled by Sports Direct.

‘I used to have a great many beaus,’ Auriol sighed, pulling a hip flask from her pocket and offering it across.

Bridge took a swig purely out of professional duty – Amaretto, delicious – then perked up as a bearded blond figure stepped forward from the dark Turner massive, eyes lively, fiddle already at his chin.

‘Here he is!’ she told Auriol.

‘Beowulf!’ The headmistress shivered ecstatically, paying attention now.

With a polite nod from Luca to the little crowd around him, the bow danced on the strings.

‘Oh my lord,’ Bridge gasped.

Beside her, Auriol closed her eyes blissfully.

When Luca played the fiddle, the village fell in love as one. The Lord of the Dance had arrived, his fingers racing across the strings like galloping thoroughbred legs, the bow whipping them on faster and faster as, picking up Zak, Bridge started to dance.

Lucky, lucky Pax. Where was she?

*

Crossing the bigger yard with a bottle of plum gin under both arms and one in each hand, Pax stopped and listened, skin prickling. The music being carried up from the village orchard had changed timbre, its tempo heartbeat fast.

Flanked by Knott and Stubbs, she hurried out to the arrivals yard, crossing beneath the carriage circle cedar and putting down the bottles, clambered up onto the stone wall beside the drive to sit and listen. She looked down on the glow in the village orchard and hugged her knees.