I should never have gone. I should have left when he was two drinks in, knowing the effect whisky has on the brain. I should have known that the fourth was likely to have impaired his judgement. The man I’ve just left isn’t the man Jacob is. Alcohol can turn you into someone you’re not. Just look at my father.

Flames are flickering in the lanterns that hang from the flint pillars either side of the entrance and, as I drive onto the estate, with the gravel crunching under my tyres, I still can’t get my head around the fact that we actually get to call this place home.

Both Leon and I had long been fascinated by the estate, so living deep within the grounds was a dream come true. And for the first month or two, it felt like the novelty would never wear off. Yet now, although we’ve never been so physically close to one another, it feels as if we’ve never been further apart.

I need to tell him about my father, but he’s only ever known half the story and now is not the time to burden him with the rest.

The long driveway is eerily quiet, and the only light is coming from the crescent moon reflected in the glass-like water of the boating lake. I can’t even begin to imagine how different it will feel in just a few days’ time when the grounds will be teeming with thousands of people, who will all, no doubt, pretend to be Lord or Lady of the manor for the afternoon.

As the main house looms into view, its turrets shrouded in a soft light against the dark sky, I wonder what Earl Tatten is doing in there. With no family of his own, the silence amongst its fifty or so rooms, each more imposing than the last, must be deafening.

The word amongst the staff is that he only lives between two rooms in the attic, never coming down and rarely receiving visitors. Even Leon, who is employed directly by him, has only met him twice; once at the interview and again to discuss his intentions for the summer concert. Both of which were conducted in his surprisingly compact living room on the top floor.