‘That was outstanding,’ Henry said, once I’d provided a tour and then seen them safely down the drive. After escorting Nana Joy home he’d returned to the library, leaning on the wall with his arms folded like some sort of self-appointed bodyguard.

He’d smothered the fire and locked up while I was showing the reporters the grounds, so we now started walking back towards the Coach House. The air was murky, with wisps of fog lurking at the edges of the forest, and the grounds felt unnaturally still, our boots scrunching on the gravel the only sound.

Despite the pressing issue of Charis House, an undercurrent of uncertainty hovered alongside us. Henry had been nothing but pleasant since yesterday. His actions were as kind and considerate as I’d grown to expect. But the easy warmth that had grown between us over the past week had reverted to the lukewarm politeness of the years that had preceded it.

And it was only now, when Henry felt so far away, hidden behind his robot mask despite walking right beside me, that I realised how much I missed him.

I missed him nudging me with his elbow and giving a sidelong look that confirmed we were thinking precisely the same thing.

I missed knowing he’d got my back, and if I needed it he’d take my hand, too.

I wanted to drag him back to the library, relight the fire, grab one of the blankets, and curl up with him on the plushest sofa, spending the rest of the day telling him everything in my heart and my head.

And as he held the garden gate open, walked behind me as I made my way through all the shimmering decorations, I knew that he was the one I wanted.

Only, the way he jerked his hand back when we both reached for the door handle at the same instant and our fingers brushed, it appeared that Henry had decided he did not want me.

I didn’t have time to think about that now, though. I had ten short minutes to summarise the interview for my parents, trying to provide reassurance while painfully aware that the journalists could spin and edit things into whatever nightmare story they fancied.

‘That won’t happen,’ Henry said, when he followed me out of the door to where hopefully a taxi would soon appear to take me to work. ‘You sold it to them, Bea. Literally, judging by the two donations they made.’

‘Maybe so. But I know how it works. There are editors to impress and the rest of the day to forget how amazing the cause is and start thinking about how they can make it as sensational as possible.’ I shuddered. ‘And I dread to think what my producer will say when he sees whatever article they come up with. He’s only just unfired me.’

‘He fired you?’ Henry gave me a sharp look. ‘Was it Summer?’