‘But shall I come too? What if it’s Yanny?’

‘What if it is?’ she asks. ‘You do your bit; I’ll do mine. And I promise, Stella, I’ll explain later!’

She turns and runs back to the stairs, and I go to shout out after her but a new memory assails me.

‘Estelle.’ My mother’s voice, but pale and worn. Her face, but too thin. Standing by her bed, my hands clutching the cold sheets as someone pulls me away. Screaming. ‘My star!’ She struggles to sit and uses the last of her fire to drown out my wails. ‘Go with your nan. Live your life away from this, and when you are strong and bold, when you are grown, then you will come into your own. Then you will return.’ She reaches for the table by the bed, picks up the links of the copper chain and ties it around my neck with a whisper of words that seals it. A single silver acorn hangs at my throat.

I reach for it now, feel the heat of the golden one that has joined it – that hung at her own neck, so long ago – and I force myself onward, down almost familiar corridors, with the sense of her by my side, searching every inch for what I need.

Now I know – there were three acorns. One silver, one gold, and one of rich, dark amber.

The silver light of my cracked fae lantern casts swinging shadows all around me as I start to search in earnest. Every sound echoes. Giant swathes of cobweb drape from every lintel and hang like silent ghosts from the dull pewter chandelier on the landing, and the dust on the floor has been swept to the sides by giant scuffing footsteps.

In the eerie half-light, the palace feels like a cathedral. Every room a vast, echoing chamber with minimal wood furniture and unravelling tapestries on the walls. I work my way back, and the rooms get smaller. In one, there’s a row of pitted kettles and old pans hanging from hooks, and a fire pit in the centre with a fat copper pot sitting on a metal rack. Another is heaped with old blankets and cushions, stubs of candles set on the mantelpiece amid old wax spills that drip to the hearth.

I head up again and find threadbare rugs on the cold wood floors, and tatters of curtains hanging at the empty window frames. It’s dusty up here, and the air is bitter. Room after room, I catch flashes of the lives that were here before. Rickety old beds, window seats where nobody has sat for years. There’s a piano in one room, surrounded by narrow upholstered benches; and in another, a heavy wood dresser. The drawers squeak as I pull them out to reveal neatly folded moth-eaten linen.

‘I can’t go through everything,’ I whisper to myself despairingly, as the next door opens on to yet another room, this one with vast oak wardrobes and a heavily laden bed. I sigh, abandoning the room and trudging to the next.