‘No, no, Ingrid,’ he said, tutting, shaking his head with a weary sigh one might expect to give a child. ‘Jamie needs to see that we are a family, that we are patient and make amends.’ Ensuring that Ingrid was really paying attention, Claude dropped his voice until it was almost a growl, a clear sign that what he said next was an order. ‘When we bring Jamie in, you will be present; you will cook for him, clean for him, be helpful and accommodating. Can you do that?’

In the distance a murder of crows set off from the high top of a tree, their rasping, haggard cackle taunting Ingrid over such a humiliating demand, but Claude knew she’d agree, because it was the only way to get back in his good books.

‘Yes, I can do that.’ Her voice had diminished, weighed down with defeat, the only indication of her usual gutsy attitude coming through in the way her jaw tensed as she spoke. Another subtle twitch that did not escape Claude’s attention.

‘Very good.’ He clapped his hands together for good measure, applauding the behaviour he wanted to see. ‘Feel free to take the coffee tray to the kitchen when you go.’

17

Alfred Tompkins’s funeral was at Sweetmill Crematorium on a rainy Saturday morning in October. The service was quiet, only attended by his remaining family and closest confidants in a lily-lined chapel, preceded by the matter of the will. Lola and Micky did not return to school the week following their father’s passing, nor did Percy. Their two family businesses, Tompkins and Butter, had recently merged to become the world’s largest confectionary empire, and, to honour Alfred, the Butter family joined the Tompkins in grieving their loss.

Without the twins around, Rosewood felt bitter, their absence a constant gloomy reminder of what Lottie’s world would be like should any of her friends get taken away from her. This vision of her world splintering only made Lottie that much more determined to give them the perfect welcome home, and she wasn’t the only one striving for perfection.

‘I said yellow, green and pink icing, not yellow, green and orange.’ Anastacia spoke sharply, pointing at the tray of fondant fancies and macarons being held out by the Conch girl before her, who was supposedly top of the food-tech class in their year.

‘These are lovely, thank you,’ Lottie said, taking the tray off the gaping girl.

Rolling her eyes, Anastacia picked up another tray of cakes, falling in line behind Lottie to head to the Conch House reception room they’d commandeered for Lola and Micky’s return to Rosewood.