Just before I woke up for real, when the bright daylight was already filtering round the edges of the hotel curtains, I found myself in the most vivid dream of all. I was flying over green countryside, which was spread out beneath me like a map, and then I was hovering over a house set in parkland, with a broad river snaking round the edge of the grounds. It was a big old house, red-brick, Victorian, not friendly-looking, with wings extending on either side, topped by spiky turrets and parapets. And then I was at the riverside, and it was very quiet but not entirely silent. I could hear birds and trees stirring in the breeze and the rushing of running water, and someone speaking, or maybe thinking out loud, in a faint but insistent voice: This time it’ll work. It has to. He’ll bring them here and then we’ll see.

It sounded like an old lady, but it definitely wasn’t Grandma. I would have loved to hear Grandma speak, but she never did: she was more a warm, comforting presence than an actual personality. This old lady was a presence all right, but she was neither warm nor comforting. She was proud and strong-willed, and she wanted something, wanted it badly, and nothing else would do. Even though her voice was hushed there was nothing frail about it.

I wanted to ask her, What? What has to work out? What was the chance that went wrong? But I couldn’t speak, and nothing more was said.

I turned away from the house towards the river and saw a heron standing on a wall alongside it, patient as a statue, watching and waiting with its neck arched and its curved beak ready to strike. There was something ancient and reptilian about it: it was so still, so poised, and so sure of itself. It looked as if it could stay there forever without tiring or losing concentration, as if what mattered wasn’t whether it made a catch or not, but only that it stayed ready to.

It turned towards me and regarded me steadily and levelly with its yellow eyes.

You’ll see me again before this is over, it seemed to say.

The stillness of the moment broke like a bubble as it arched its wings and suddenly took flight, following the curve of the river out of view.

And then I came to in the room I was sharing with my sister in the Grand Hotel in France, and Ava was still sound asleep in the bed next to mine even though a maid had just come in with our breakfasts. There were two identical silver trays lined up next to each other on the desk, with croissants and juice and, for Ava, a little silver pot of coffee. Each tray was decorated with a single rose in a slim silver vase.

‘Ava? Ava, it’s time to wake up. Your coffee will go cold.’

She groaned something I couldn’t make out, turned over and put one of her pillows over her head. Well, she was obviously going to be great company that day.