She disappeared into the black of the upstairs landing. There was the sound of her heavy bedroom door clunking shut. Viola would be lonely without her in the dark of the house, her senses on edge, Dot barking at every sound, sure that foxes were trespassing on the veranda. Yet she had to find some comfort in the way her mother had spoken. These were strong words, seditious even, but they were not the words of surrender.

Viola would not go to that appointment – if only because the late afternoons were reserved for spying. If she couldn’t get close to the Eldest Girls at school, she would have to keep her vigil at the stones, slowly building the courage to step inside the circle.

But, before that, she’d need to get rid of Michael.

His company had been valuable to her; his knowledge of the island exhaustive, his discretion completely lacking. (‘Huxley fell and snagged his bean-bags on some rigging once and they say Dr Bishy had to amputate one of them.’) Every anecdote was delivered with the self-regard of a precocious child at a spelling bee, his embellishments signposted by the rising of his voice.

‘Britta Sayers is always stopping me in the school corridors to ruffle my hair or straighten my collar, that kind of thing. She’s very… tactile.’

He was so obviously pleased with the word ‘tactile’ that Viola had snorted with laughter.

Michael defined each girl as a clear archetype – Britta was the gobby one; Anna, the angel; Jade-Marie, the friendly klutz. It made Viola wonder what easy classification he applied to her when she wasn’t there, because surely he did talk about her. This was currency – first-hand contact with the redheaded newcomer, the one with the obstructive mother who was growing as reclusive as the Earl.

Could Viola describe Michael with a cute little phrase in return? He was such a keeno, such a neek, king of all the boffins… No, nothing was quite right. Archetypes were what boys used to label girls – so they could get past the tedious business of empathy and nuance, and focus on the gawping, deciding if the art deserved a place on their wall.

When repetitions started to appear in Michael’s stories, signalling that he had little else to reveal to her, Viola made her move. She needed to break free from the way he watched her as she watched the girls, making comments on her every reaction. She wanted to enjoy the vibrations, tip her head back as the girls did, allow the sensations to shiver gratifyingly through her body.

He was her friend and she liked him, but Michael had to go.

She put it to him straight. ‘You need to leave this to me.’