“Really? I’d always imagined it was just me who had itchy feet. You’d have thought the sky was falling when I announced I was applying for universities in Birmingham, Manchester, and London.”

He laughed quietly and nodded. “Pretty much the same in my house. God, the quiet of this place used to drive me nuts!”

“Same. The only excitement was when the fair arrived each year; other than that it was dancing round the fricking maypole.” Nory laughed.

“Ah, the fair. It still comes every year, and it’s still full of overexcited, horny teenagers. I can remember the feeling of seeing all those flashing lights and the loud noises in contrast to the usual monotony. God, it felt like a theme park.”

“You were all right, you had your motorbike,” said Nory. “You could escape.”

“How far away do you realistically think I could get in an evening? We made it out as far as Lamberhurst once. Saw two foxes having sex. Got refused a pint by the landlord in the only pub open. Rode home.”

“At least you got out of Hartmead.”

“You didn’t seem stuck for entertainment over at Snob Towers.”

“You’ve been reading too much Harry Potter. Boarding schools aren’t all sneaking around the halls and midnight adventures.”

Isaac made an agreeing sound that wasn’t convincing.

“And during the holidays I was as stuck as you were, more so because unlike you and my brother, I didn’t have a motorbike.”

“Are we arguing about who was more bored growing up?”

Nory laughed. “I believe we are,” she replied. “But to be honest, when I look back on it now, it wasn’t that bad. And I would defy anyone not to be enthralled by this place in the snow, I mean, look at it.”

“Enthralled?” Isaac drawled. “Who uses that in an ordinary sentence?”

“Someone who owns a bookshop,” said Nory.

“Fair enough.”

They walked on in companionable silence until they reached the Winter Garden. The little solar lights in the beds were making a stellar effort to remain lit, casting a yellowy illumination against the white snow. The heads of the hellebores nodded gently under the weight of the flakes landing on their bell tops, their spiky leaves almost black in the half-light. Once again Nory was drawn to the hybrid flower Isaac had been working on. In this light, the thick stripes at the base of the flower, which petered out to a thin ink line at the tips of the petals, looked blood red.

“What did you say this one was called?” she asked, stopping to bend down for a closer look, this time avoiding the near-invisible wire around the flower beds.