‘What do you want to do?’ asked Nikki as they continued to trudge down the hill. It was still a bright morning, but the wind was picking up.

‘I just want to have a look around. Get a feel for the place. And it would be interesting to see if we can find some of the places our white witch painted.’ Inside her bag were copies of most of Pamela Whittaker’s paintings and photos – the picture that featured her mother was hidden right in the bottom. ‘Or even find the locations of her photographs. It would be interesting to know exactly where this commune was set up.’

‘Well, if we encounter any “gerrof my land” types, I will let you deal with them. You were fairly mean to that receptionist, you know.’

Heather gave Nikki a look. ‘Fair enough.’

They walked on, both lapsing into silence. The quiet was oppressive, so full of the whistle of the wind and the quiet music of birdsong that it felt like a physical weight. Heather found herself reluctant to speak, as though to do so would be to expose herself; although to what, she did not know. Eventually they passed over the neatly kept grasses and roads and came to a strip of trees, a single rough path leading through them. Despite the bright morning, the trees were a solid clump of darkness, seeming to hold their own shadows close around their trunks and branches. On the edge of it, Nikki hesitated.

‘Are you sure this is the right way?’

‘I am.’ Heather indicated the map. ‘See? And this bit doesn’t last for long, there’s a clearing beyond, and the first of the old houses. This is just a small branch of the larger Fiddler’s Wood.’

Nikki turned and looked back up the hill, where the house was now a squat grey box. More people were arriving in the car park.

‘Let’s get it over with.’