‘I can remember talking to him, you know,’ she told the crow as they headed up a rise under old oaks. Here, the dense canopy held off the worst of the rain, and it became easier to draw breath. ‘When I was little. Aunt Della would take me in to see him every evening before supper, and I would sit on his knee, and we would tell each other what we had been doing that day. I’d show him my crooked embroidery and my untidy writing and he would praise me for trying my best. And he would tell me about selling a load of pine or buying a new stud bull. I wanted to ask him about Mother. What she looked like, the things she enjoyed doing, how she died. Only I didn’t. I knew it would make him cry.’

The crow made a derisive comment.

‘I don’t know what happened. Or why. But the older I grew, the harder it became to talk to him. Or to almost anyone. Like a spell, a curse, that stole away the words. He’d ask a question and when I opened my mouth to answer there’d be nothing. Nothing at all. He thought I was doing it on purpose. Playing a trick; being troublesome. So did Aunt Della. I think he still believes that, or why would he think going to Winterfalls would cure me?’

‘Kraaa.’ The crow flew down to the forest floor and began to claw up the sodden debris, hunting out some morsel.

‘I could always talk to Alba. I wonder where Alba is? If she’d come to Winterfalls with me I would have had one friend there, at least.’

‘Kraaa.’

‘All right, all right, I know. It’s all nonsense. Even you don’t believe in me.’

Everything went still for a moment. As if an uncanny voice had spoken without making a sound. As if an unseen hand had stirred the troubled pot of her life and said, ‘Ah!’ Then, with a rush and flurry of wings, there came a goldcrest to perch on her shoulder and a tiny bright wren to settle in her hair. The crow came up to her feet, fixing her with its perceptive eye. We believe in you. You are one of ours. Now, shall we be getting on?