A moment later, when Smith left the Head’s study, Joan was waiting for him in the corridor, sitting on the little bench outside normally reserved for quaking schoolboys.

‘Sent to see the Head, eh?’

‘Yes.’ Smith bit his bottom lip worriedly.

‘What did he want to see you about?’

‘Nothing important. I’m a bad influence. Are you going home?’

Joan stood up. ‘Yes. I was hoping that you would walk me to the gate, Dr Smith. If you’d like that.’

Smith stuck his elbow out. Joan raised an eyebrow at it, and, abashed, he took his black umbrella from the coat rack and hung it there.

‘I heard that you wrote…’ They walked stiffly down the gravel driveway, the crunching of their feet being the only sound in the beautiful blue twilight. A full moon was rising, its surface rippling with the haze of the departing day. Its light turned the rest of the sky into a negative, expectant and shining, the first brave stars appearing over the hills. The school was an enormous dark edifice behind them, a block of shadow which suddenly started to come alive with light as, at once all over the building, prefects turned on oil lamps. In seconds, the light fluttered all over the gothic structure, filling the windows with a sickly glow.

Smith had glanced back over his shoulder, watching as the window of Rocastle’s study also slowly illuminated. ‘Light…’ he muttered. Then he turned back to Joan.

‘Sorry. Miles away. What did you say?’

‘I said that I heard you wrote. Fiction, I mean.’

‘It’s nothing. Stories. For children. Magic, elves, you know.’ Fireflies were dancing through the trees along the drive.

‘I see. Are you a mystic, then?’

‘No. Well, not in the romantic sense. I don’t believe in sprites or kelpies or boogens or intelligent seaweed.’

‘Intelligent seaweed? My, you have an imagination.’

They turned the curve of the driveway so that the school was hidden by the trees.

They both slowed to a stop and visibly relaxed, smiling at the similarity of their reactions.

Smith offered Joan the crook of his arm again, and this time, with a wry glance, she took it. ‘Go on then. I need all the support I can get at my age.’

‘Why, how old are you?’

‘Dr Smith! What a question!’ Joan feigned a glare. ‘Sorry. I’m forty-eight.’

‘Well I’m⁠ —’

‘Don’t tell me.’

‘Younger.’

‘Good.’

‘Why?’

‘Because⁠ — I don’t know, sometimes I feel terribly old. I need somebody to keep me young.’

‘So what did Rocastle have to say to you?’

‘He was telling me about some of the unwritten rules. I wanted to ask if he could give me a list, but that’s probably the point, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, that man. He’s a complete caricature.’

Smith waved his free hand. ‘He’s dedicated. He means well.’