I poured the rest of the Turkish Delight into my throat and that tasted even better. I felt a surge of energy and an almost overwhelming desire to laugh. Not only did it taste good, it had revived my flagging spirits! Clearly, this was necessary to my future wellbeing.

Soon, on several reconnaissance missions to the ‘to-baccon-ists’ I discovered that Earth was filled with such wonders. Liquorice tablets, Pear drops, Aniseed twists, Fruit Gums, Cough Candy and – most precious of all, Sherbet Fancies.

All these became essential to my pre-mission routine. Except Parma violets. I can’t stand those.

Mrs Gillyflower’s dining room was no less overwhelming than her parlour – walls heavy with florid paper in curlicues of twisting unhealthiness. More bell jars were crammed onto every surface and their contents – marmosets, birds of paradise, kittens – glared back into the gas light with glassy eyes. At one end of a polished table sat Mrs Gillyflower, head bent low over her soup bowl, slurping unpleasantly. Her black dress glittered with jet embroidery, extending to the lacy piece which covered her throat.

In the middle was set a vacant chair and an empty place.

At the other end of the table, the graceful counter to her mother’s bent and sinister shape, sat Ada – dressed in cream and violet. With care she guided her heavy silver spoon to her ruby lips. The slightest mistake would send the soup tumbling down her chin and onto her dress. That would make Mama unhappy. And Sweetville was not a pleasant place when Mama was unhappy.

Serving them was another of the Pilgrims – a most handsome youth, green-eyed and slender – whose name was Abel. He poured wine for his mistress and water for her daughter.

‘I trust you had a pleasant day, Mama,’ said Ada.

‘Tolerable,’ grunted Mrs Gillyflower, her furred tongue flashing over her soup spoon.

‘Will Mr Sweet be joining us for dinner?’

Ada’s question hung in the air. Mrs Gillyflower caught Abel’s eye and he looked down, suddenly engrossed in the stuffed squirrel on the sideboard next to him.

‘Mr Sweet is rather tired tonight, I fear,’ said Mrs Gillyflower. ‘Perhaps tomorrow.’

‘Am I never to meet this silent partner of yours, Mama?’

‘All in good time.’

‘It seems to me that you are keeping him from me!’ cried Ada. ‘There is always some excuse, is there not? First, his travels had exhausted him. Then business took him to Leeds. Now—’

‘SILENCE!’ Mrs Gillyflower slammed her wrinkled hand onto the tablecloth and sent the salt cellar tumbling over. Ada froze in her chair, spoon halfway to her mouth.

‘You will become acquainted with Mr Sweet in good time, daughter. Until then, as in all things, obey me. Clear?’

Ada bowed her lovely head. ‘Yes, Mama.’

Mrs Gillyflower’s scowl transformed all at once into an apologetic smile as she looked towards the Pilgrim again and pointed to the fallen salt cellar. ‘And look what you’ve made me do!’