He went out into the larger room. It was chilly, cluttered, somewhat shabbier than he recalled it. He saw things he had failed to notice the day before: an old ottoman against the wall, blue silk, frayed in places, worn through; three Turkey rugs on the wooden floor; a branch of antlers nailed above the fireplace. On the table were dishes from a meal the family must have taken while he was sleeping. He chewed on a corner of dry bread then took the stopper from the decanter, sniffed the contents, replaced the stopper.

Which way now? Which door should he choose? He went to the one by the stairs, opened it quietly. On the other side was a small room with a piece of thin cloth tacked over the window. A muddle of boxes, books, clothes. On the bed, most of him buried under blankets, was Cornelius. He was deeply asleep, his mouth slightly open beneath the not-quite-successful moustache. Something like grief in that face. A child in need of comforting.

Lacroix stepped back, drew the door shut, crossed to the opposite door and walked into the kitchen. Here too was the disorder that seemed to characterise these people. Did they have no servants? The table was piled with unwashed pots, and on the brick floor there was enough flour for a cat to have left a trail of paw prints. The cat was still there, drinking the milk that lay in a generous splash beside one of the table legs. It traded glances with him then went on with its lapping.

The door to the outside was open. He stood on the stone step and looked down to the water. A hen appeared, stopped, turned its head a little to study him, now one eye, now the other. Then Emily came, walking from around the side of the house, a clutch of fresh eggs in the curve of her apron.

“It’s you,” she said, breaking her step, getting him in focus, much as the hen had done.

“Yes,” he said.

He moved out of her way and she came into the house.

“You have slept a long while,” she said. “I hope it has done you good.”

He stood, somewhat awkwardly, watching her unload the eggs from her apron on to the tabletop. When she had taken out all but one she let her apron drop, then looked down with a pursed mouth at the broken egg on the floor. The cat shifted from the milk to the egg, floated its face over the mess of it, then dipped its tongue into the yolk.

Emily asked if he was hungry. He said he was.

“There is no need to stand,” she said.