‘But they never come back,’ Mags said, glaring at her. ‘That’s the whole point of the story. In most versions of the legend the children never come back. In one version, the Piper drowns them all in the river. He steals the children as an act of revenge, because the Mayor won’t pay him after he gets rid of the rats. It’s a story about greedy, untrustworthy bureaucrats. Whoever named the evacuation programme Pied Piper is stupid.’

Mrs Peacock started flapping about like a flustered pheasant. ‘Well. I don’t think there’s any need for that sort of speculation, Magda, but I’m pleased to see that you’ve been paying attention in your English Literature lessons . . .’

‘Our mother told us the story, actually. Robert Browning’s poem is based on a German folk tale. Or didn’t you know that either?’

‘All right, Magda,’ Mrs Baron said. ‘That’s enough.’

My sister was just lashing out now – angry that our lives were being taken out of our hands: we were being dragged away from our Castle and there was nothing we could do. Part of me was pleased to see Mags getting Mrs Peacock on the ropes, but I knew it wasn’t going to change anything. First Mutti had been taken away from us, then Pa, and now we were going to be separated from each other and sent away. Things were beyond our control. Lightning was crackling in the sky above us and there was nowhere to hide.

Mags’s face changed quite suddenly. It reminded me of the moment when Pa pushed up the lever and switched off the lighthouse lamp. ‘Thank you so much for all your help and hard work, Mrs Baron and Mrs Peacock. But you’re extremely busy ladies, I know – I’m sure you will need to be getting along. I’ll discuss the situation with my sister . . .’ She escorted them both to the door.

Mrs Baron smiled a little, pulling on her gloves. ‘You’re good girls really,’ she said. ‘And you’ve had a terrible time of it. We’ll find somewhere nice for you. And you mustn’t worry about your lovely lighthouse. I shall get in touch with the coastguard and personally ensure that everything is well looked-after while you are away. I promise.’

Then Mrs Peacock opened the door and very nearly trod on Barnaby, who was sitting on the doorstep, waiting to come in. He leapt away from her with a yowl and flew down the garden like a ginger comet.

As soon as the door was closed again, Mags exploded: ‘The nerve of that woman! We’re not going anywhere, Pet.’

‘But, Mags, you heard what Mrs Baron said – we’re minors and we can’t be left here on our own.’