Rack my brains as I might, I could not come up with a logical explanation for this man’s sudden arrival at the cottage. It didn’t make any sense. I ran through his actions in my mind. He had sat down with obvious relief, as if exhausted, and gulped that glass of water down so quickly … Was he a homeless man searching for a home? Maybe. That was the first idea that made some sort of sense. But then – why was he homeless in the first place? Had he done something bad that had made him lose his home? It was impossible to know.

Emma’s crying escalated to screams. The kitchen went quiet. The door opened and I stepped back as Mother froze at the sight of me standing there.

I thought it was only wolves that snarled – like in Beauty and the Beast and The Wolves of Willoughby Chase – but right then, she snarled at me, baring her small, sharp teeth and yellow-pink gums, her lips curled back, her nose scrunched up. Her eyes looked black in the gloom of the hallway and her body towered over me like a skeletal giant. Her blouse hung loose, revealing the ribs between her small breasts.

I stumbled backwards, sure she was going to hit me, but something changed in her eyes. Her expression softened and she relaxed her face. I could almost see the cogs whirring in her brain as she changed her plan of attack.

‘Go upstairs and calm Clarabelle down, please, Little Doll. I’m busy entertaining our guest.’ Her voice was soft – and completely fake.

I looked down at her hands, which were balled into fists beside her skinny thighs.

I hesitated, knowing I was taking a risk. She glanced back over her shoulder, her brow creased.

‘I’ll need the key,’ I said quietly.

‘The key?’ she said.

‘The key to her room,’ I said, determined not to call Emma by her fake name. ‘I can only calm her down properly if I can see her and give her a cuddle.’

The scrape of a chair from the kitchen and Patrick’s voice, asking if everything was OK, seemed to force her into a decision.

‘Everything’s fine – back in a second!’ she called, her voice high and girly again.

She lifted the key ring at her belt and hastily removed the spare room key. I noticed her fingers were trembling. The old me would have asked if she was all right, but I wasn’t Mirabelle the Weak any more.

‘Thank you, Mother,’ I said softly.

Before she could change her mind, I turned and walked along the hallway. She went back into the kitchen and shut the door as I ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, my heart about to burst with excitement and nerves. This was it. This was the first real step.

I knocked on the door. ‘Hi,’ I said gently, ‘it’s only me.’