I drew the curtains and turned off the lights. When I heard the click of the rear gate, I hurried upstairs and hid beneath the blankets.

I can’t see you, I told myself. Or rather, I do see you. I see you so much better than before.

‘Leah! Leah!’

He wouldn’t stop calling; he was going to wake the neighbours. I had to go downstairs and open the door – just a crack, let in a small breath of cold air.

‘You locked it!’ he said, smiling, thinking it a silly mistake.

‘Go away,’ I replied.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Just go away.’

These were the only words I could manage.

‘Is this about … Is this about today, with the girls?’

I said nothing.

‘Because I can explain what that was. It isn’t what you –’

I shut the door, latched it again and stood with my back against it.

‘Leah!’ he called gently. ‘Leah?’

I could hear him sigh and shuffle, lingering, trying to work out the right tenor of comeback. Then the rear gate clicked, marking his retreat.

I stayed behind the door for a long time – the crown of my head against the glass, my palms against the painted wood. How inevitable this had all been. From the moment he mentioned Britta Sayers’ difficult question, my doubt had grown stronger and stronger, until it was bigger than the joy of his presence, more persuasive than any prospect of true love.

I told myself I was lucky. He was Hades and I was Persephone; it was a mercy to be free from the underworld before any real damage was done.

I returned to my Demeter, to the bosom of my family.

All Hallows’ Eve, I walked up through the estate to the gamekeeper’s lodge where my parents lived, past the furthest reaching walls of the Big House, along the winding path there, the bricks beneath my soles slimy with moss. The light hadn’t fallen completely and labouring continued in the fields; a trio of figures moving across the land. The fog had been thin that day; they had to make the most of the conditions. October 31st was supposed to mark the end of harvest, but there was still work to be done. The date didn’t mark the end of summer either. That had vanished long ago.

I carried a bottle of wine, gripped tightly by the neck – an expensive purchase, in payment and in effort. I’d dropped the name of both my father and the Father in the Provisions Store to secure it. Wasn’t I duty-bound to honour them both with a good bottle on this most holy of nights? Wouldn’t it be unchristian to refuse me?

Rhoda Sayers, cow-eyed and heavy-jowled, was unimpressed. The good stuff was to be held over for Christmas rations, she said, no exceptions, no matter who you were. I knew these rules, but winning against the woman suddenly became important.