And not just any open door, but that of the servants’ staircase that ran both up and down. From the sounds and smells rising from below it was obvious that it led to the kitchens. The sterile silence from above spoke of bedchambers. I could not resist the opportunity to see more of the household where Jan Harsson had worked, especially from a servant’s means.

I trod as quietly and carefully as I could on the plain wooden stairs. I winced at their creaks, paused at their louder groans, and left by the first door I came to – even though the steps continued upwards. I did not wish to stumble into a dusty loft.

To my relief I found the corridor empty. One door I came to was ajar. The room beyond clearly belonged to Victor; and I could say that not because it contained childish ephemera in a state of chaos, but quite the opposite. Everything in the room was meticulously ordered and placed entirely at right angles – be it on the shelves, on his writing desk, or the pillows on his bed. The floor was completely clear and the sole picture gracing the walls was a crude but detailed framed sketch of human anatomy. Beyond, I could see through an adjoining door a very different situation. Given the colourful detritus, I assumed it to be Julia’s room.

I left the open door and continued down the corridor. Here portraits of great men and striking women gazed down at me, each and every one passing judgement on my intrusion. They were but a momentary relief from the prevalence of stags, because when I looked closer the animal could be seen in one form or another everywhere – breaking from a distant copse in one portrait of military bearing, a gem-encrusted broach in another more domestic example.

Passing the last room on the corridor, I thought I heard my name. I stopped and listened, every muscle tensed. There, again, a high pitched whisper: Christophor.

It crept out from under the closed door. I reached for the handle and was suddenly back downstairs, walking into the dining room.

My day-brother was beside me.

I looked at him, and he at me, almost as a reflection might. But there was no doubt it was Alexsander. The way he held himself, the smile that was always lurking at the edge of his mouth, the stoop of his shoulders – too lazy to stand up straight. He wore his finery better than I. We walked together back to the table, where we sat next to each other.

Laughter and chatter abounded and I felt a warmth, a genuine camaraderie among the diners and their hosts. But it was felt as one might the heat of a fire: at a distance, from an essential remove, lest I interrupted that warmth to dire consequences. There was no such sensation between my day-brother and I.

My apology for our absence fell on deaf ears. The magistrate’s wife, laughing almost maniacally at something her husband had said, turned to me, her mouth cavernously empty of teeth.