The setting sun was laying down a shimmering silvery-gold path of magic over the busy waves. Where they neared the shore, gigantic rollers were forming and exploding, then sweeping in on the pale-golden beach of the tiny cove, a hundred feet below. As the water hit the sheltering rocks, flurrying white spray was sent up high, then it retreated to rejoin the glorious assault. This was the grandeur, the magnificence of the coast opposite to that on which his father had his estate: the dark and dangerous North Cliffs. The sea was rarely completely calm here, and was more outrageous in its beauty. Up the coast, not far out in the waters, off St Agnes Head, he could see a huge rock and a smaller one at its side. They were named Man and His Man. Like he and Jack.

His cliff, his beach, his village, his people. His play. It all felt good. So good.

He began writing again, furiously adding to his tale of bitter-sweet love in a realm of fantasy. Act II, Scene i, he wrote. Lia moves centre stage. She’s lost, nervous but enthralled, looks all around. Sasken, hiding behind the enchanted trees, moves forward. His expression shows his deep, unbearable love for her.

Luke was unaware that someone was watching him. Speaking to him. He did not feel the arms that came about his neck from behind.

‘Luke, you’ve been here all day. It’s time to come home. Uncle Oliver is here.’

He thought the voice had come from his mind, part of his play he had yet to write down, or to retrace and include in an earlier page.

‘What?’ he asked his inner voice, pen hovering over the paper.

The quill was pulled out of his hand. ‘Luke, wake up, time to come back to reality.’

His head followed the direction of the pen, and he was surprised to see Cordelia’s small face an inch from his. She was smiling, ‘Home, my dear. You haven’t eaten a thing since breakfast nor touched the wine you’ve brought with you.’

‘What?’ Her face was in shadow, it would soon be dark. ‘Have I been away so long? It seems but a minute.’

‘Be careful how you get up. You’re too near the edge and you’ll be stiff all over.’

Luke worked his hand, it was stiff and cramped from writing for the best part of the day. ‘Ow! My shoulder hurts. Everything hurts.’

‘You were wise to keep your hat and shirt on, or you’d be burnt badly by the sun,’ Cordelia said.

They walked back to their new home, hand in hand, climbing up the fern-fringed cliff, following the somewhat precarious path he had flattened out that morning through the gorse, heather and bramble. Using protruding rocks as steps, they took care where sudden dips and rabbit holes might cause a stumble or twisted ankle.

‘How long has my father been here?’