Here was the wooden castle designed by Giles’s father as a sixth birthday present for his small son. In it, Giles, a solitary but imaginative only child, had commanded armies and slain dragons; in it, some thirty years later, Edward, with his passion for history and store of unexpected information, had also become a crusader, or a Roman centurion; St George, Prince Caspian, Harry Potter or an alien. It was one of the surprises about Edward that though he could barely do more than write his name, he’d read fluently from quite an early age. During the last April holidays it had been a joy to Isobel to see the teenage Edward, so uneven in his development, so out of step with his contemporaries, blissfully re-entering his childhood world again, with Rory, a very willing participant, brilliantly playing minor parts to Edward’s starring roles – though frequently without the foggiest idea about the characters he was supposed to be portraying. Here, in a circle of grass, was the seesaw on which talented Amy, as a small girl, had balanced precariously to practise her fiddle, music pouring forth with all the unselfconscious abandon of a bird singing in a tree. Here also was the old wooden swing, slung from a branch of the immense cedar tree that provided either shade or shelter.

Amy was sitting on the swing now, kicking at the bare earth with the toe of her trainer, her shoulders hunched, her heart deeply troubled. She eyed her father stonily as he approached.

‘Hi, darling,’ said Giles.

‘Hi,’ said Amy, unsmiling, not giving an inch.

‘We need to talk,’ said Giles, straddling the seesaw and perching in the middle of it, his heart sinking even further at the sight of his daughter’s face. ‘Or rather I need to talk to you. I need to talk about something that I now think I should have discussed with you weeks ago – about possibilities of which you are clearly already aware. Perhaps I should have guessed that too – but anyway I didn’t. I need to ask your opinion. Maybe I need to ask for your forgiveness.’ He paused. Amy said nothing. Giles watched her face, understanding the dichotomy between opposing loyalties, between love and furious resentment; aching for her distress. ‘Are you prepared to listen?’ he asked quietly.

Amy shrugged. ‘I suppose so,’ she said grudgingly, longing to make peace but not knowing how to do so without loss of dignity; wishing she could recapture the untroubled relationship of her childhood when her father had been her unquestioned hero, her musical mentor, her adored companion . . . until her Aunt Lorna had arrived at Glendrochatt, set the whole family at odds with each other and, in Amy’s view, tarnished something special, which had never quite recovered its shine.

‘You obviously realise Rory might be my son?’ he asked.

‘Only might be?’ Amy’s voice was cutting.