She threw things for Dot to fetch, who would make the initial dash, then pull up, as if remembering belatedly that she wasn’t like other dogs and didn’t get excited by stupid sticks.

Restless, Viola had crawled through the hollow centre of that middle stone, Dot liking this game at least and joining in. Viola wasn’t sure that sorrow was an ailment that could be cured by the stone gods but she hoped they might give it a try.

‘That’s your worms and fleas sorted, too,’ she informed Dot as they headed back through the wood for home.

The day after Boxing Day, a large dappled horse sauntered into the farmstead yard. Riding it, dressed head to toe in worker’s greens, was the woman Viola had seen with the gamekeeper, the one the same age as her mother. The woman hefted herself off the horse with a grunt and an awkward swing of the leg, gravel crunching as she hit the ground. She introduced herself as Mary, before telling Viola that she would like her to sit down for what she was about to say next.

Viola had sunk down instantly, thudding onto one of the peeling wooden steps of the veranda. Mary, who had clearly expected to be invited inside on that bitter December day, was taken aback for a moment. She stood unfastening her riding helmet while Viola inhaled deeply, then held her breath as if she was about to be submerged by water.

Viola understood this moment – knew it viscerally. Someone says they have something to tell you and that you need to sit down.

Then they say it.

Then your whole life changes.

Mary perched beside Viola, the weight of her making the step bow and creak.

‘It’s Peter,’ she said, her eyes glistening at the mention of his name.

Viola let go of the air in her lungs. ‘Who?’ she asked.

‘Peter Cedars,’ said the woman, her voice sharpening, irritated by the need to clarify.

Viola shook her head, slowly, apologetically.

‘The gamekeeper?’ Mary offered.

‘Oh, yes, him.’ Viola relaxed a little; they were back on track.

‘Well …’ Mary eyed her cautiously, ‘he had a serious heart attack.’ She paused, as if checking that it was all right to go on. Viola nodded. ‘And though Saul Cooper managed to keep him alive while Reuben Springer ran for the defibrillator, we have only limited resources here on Lark, and what with it being winter and no boats passing near, well …’ She took a great shivery breath. ‘I’m afraid he didn’t make it.’

‘Okay,’ said Viola, because it was obvious she must respond. ‘That’s –’ what would be the right word? ‘– sad.’