I mean the damn things were taken by … by her (the source of all my … the cause of all my …). They were hers. They were what she saw! How to keep in check all those … those … those … urgh … feelings? That powerful sense (even way back then!) of something being … being stolen … snapped. Taken? Like a photograph! And that desperate need (by contrast) to keep something un-recorded, something real – something safe – still nestled away deep inside me. My memories, untarnished by … unspoiled by … by … what? The world? The actual facts? The truth?

‘How many are there, altogether?’ I wonder, still watching the needles.

‘How many …?’

Mr Huff seems lost inside a dream of his own.

‘Photos.’

‘Oh. Hundreds.’

Hundreds?

‘And what will happen to them now?’ I ask. ‘I mean now that Kimberly is …?’

‘Dead,’ he fills in.

‘Dead,’ I echo (why did she get to survive when Bran died? Why did she get to live when Bran died? What made her so …? So special? So important? So resilient?).

‘They’ll be sold, I suppose.’ He shrugs.

‘But you have copies with you,’ I persist, ‘duplicates of the originals?’

‘Yes,’ he concedes, ‘of course I do.’

He glances up, irritated. ‘I thought you just wanted to forget about the whole thing.’ He scowls. ‘And anyway, there’s a legal …’ – he stumbles – ‘an embargo. On all her possessions. The laws of probate. Until the will is read. You can tell that to your gypsy pal if you want. Take some of the heat off.’

‘But you showed them to Alys,’ I argue.

‘I showed a few of them to Alys,’ he grudgingly concedes.

‘So why can’t I see them, then?’ I demand.

(Why am I asking this? It’s utterly counter-productive. I really don’t want to see them. No. I really don’t.)

‘It’s out of my hands.’ Mr Huff shrugs. ‘It’s an issue for the lawyers.’

Then something astonishing suddenly strikes me.

‘But if you were Kimberly’s husband …?’

‘I was,’ Mr Huff snaps. ‘I am Kimberly’s husband.’

‘Did she leave a will?’

A long silence follows.

‘Because if she didn’t, then surely …?’

The full implications of all this finally start to filter through.

‘Oh my goodness!’ I exclaim. ‘You own the photos! They’re yours!’

‘Like I said,’ he continues, ‘it’s an issue for the lawyers.’

‘So why won’t you let me see them?’ I demand.

‘It’s not a question of …’ he begins.

‘Let me see them!’ I say.

‘No,’ he answers, calmly enough.

‘I’ll evict you from Mulberry,’ I quietly threaten (and are there …? Are there actual tears on my lashes?!).

‘All right then,’ he responds, ‘refuse the gypsy access and I’ll show them to you.’

‘But I can’t possibly deny Sorcha access to the shrine!’ I exclaim. ‘It would be … it would be cruel. She visits the shrine every year.’

‘Then there you have it, Miss Hahn!’ Mr Huff smiles, victorious. ‘There’s your answer!’