Tentatively, Petra rapped on the glass set into the front door, and then after a moment, feeling nothing stir inside, she knocked louder. There was a light on somewhere inside, a low and sickly sulphurous glow, like a candle in a hermit’s cave. She rapped on the glass again, about to call Vincent’s name, but somehow hyperaware of the ripples her presence was already causing on the quiet street. She didn’t want to make a scene.

A shadow passed across the deep-set glow. Petra waited, but he didn’t come to the door. She raised the lion-head knocker, and as she did, the door nudged open.

She stepped inside, pushing the door closed behind her. Now she could call out.

‘Vincent?’ To her right, the front room where Ellis Brown had been lounging last time she’d been here was vacant and lightless. Hurriedly, she advanced along the corridor towards the amber light, which was coming from the kitchen.

‘Vincent?’ she called up the stairs that led to darkness. ‘Are you here?’

In the kitchen, a single low bulb was burning in the stove-top hob, yellowed by years of singe and grease. A pot was simmering on the stove, saturating the air with a rich, soupy aroma. A notepad lay on the table with something written on it.

‘He’s not here.’

Petra wheeled around to see Gloria in the doorway, buttoning a thick coat as if she was on her way out.

‘Oh, hello ma’am. Sorry for letting myself in. There was no answer. Do you know where he went?’

‘He left a note,’ Gloria said, gesturing at the table.

Petra picked up the notepad.

I have to go. Beccie needs me.

‘I’m worried for him,’ Gloria said. ‘I want to find him but I don’t know where he’s gone.’

If Petra had been any less of an emotional busybody, maybe she would have left Vincent to it. She’d warned him; he was a grown-up and could make his own decisions. But she couldn’t expect Gloria to go hobbling off unprepared into the countryside to face down Olivia Jouval and her band of mercenaries.

‘I know where he is,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and fetch him.’

Gloria stepped closer and took her hand. Her skin was warm and dry, textured from years of work; it reminded her of her own grandmother’s palms. Sometimes Granny Jo would visit, and if Dad and Helena started fighting, Granny would take Petra by the hand and lead her into the garden. That lavender-dusted parchment skin meant safety, peace.

She gripped Petra’s fingers and looked her in the eyes. ‘Thank you. You have a kind heart.’ There was intense worry in her expression, such naked vulnerability that it cloyed with the sweet fat in the air and ashamed Petra.