The mother was sitting outside on that splintered veranda when we arrived, even though the temperature was dipping near zero. At the sound of our engine, the girl came out too, crashing the door back on its hinges, running down the veranda steps as if she might launch herself at my father when he stepped from the cab, for an embrace perhaps, or to bundle him aggressively to the ground. I stepped out too, driven by a protective impulse. Was this why I wasn’t so sure about listening to his advice anymore, because our roles were reversing? Was it my turn to look after him?

‘I haven’t been anywhere near your dogs!’ the girl yelled. ‘And Dot hasn’t been anywhere near the sheep!’

This was the first time I’d got close to her, heard her speak. Her accent was similar to Ben’s but not quite the same; the vowels rang flat. Her face was startlingly pale, the freckles picked out, like they are on the cheeks of Lark girls at the end of summer.

‘I came to warn you of a snare,’ said my father.

‘Oh.’

She was extinguished just as swiftly as she had caught fire, my father’s words the wet thumb against the flame. She pulled the too-long sleeves of her sweater over her hands and glanced at her mother who was pushing herself to standing, angling for a better view. The girl gave her a neat shake of the head that translated quickly – no need to worry – and the woman sat down again.

‘What’s a snare?’ asked the girl, returning her attention to us.

‘It’s for catching foxes.’

Her eyes widened at this.

‘Don’t you or your dog be getting caught up in it.’ Dad pointed towards the west cliffs. ‘It’s set in the thick of the brush, that way.’

I knew that voice – the extra gruffness put there to hide a tenderness beneath. It was unnerving to hear it being used on someone who wasn’t me. Would he tell the girl to keep her head down next, to do as he said so everything would be all right?

She nodded her understanding. We climbed back in the cab and drove away.

The clock slipped past one as we bounced down the steep hill towards the lodge, to Mum and to lunch, to the small parcel I’d seen wrapped on the kitchen sideboard that would be a piece of jewellery made by Charity Ainsley, Hope’s sister – an arrowhead of silver, decorated with some foraged jade. We would not be on time, but we would be close.

Then we came upon the goat, lying in a pool of its own blood, its body ripped in two.

Dad stopped the Land Rover and we got out to examine the carcass, its gaping chest and ravaged head, the congregation of flies.

‘Foxes, do you think? The girl’s dog?’