She picked up her cup, around the rim of which were tiny paintings of turtledoves, and poured herself another coffee. She cradled the warmth in her palms and tapped her pen against the side, tried to think when her grandmother could have taken it. Perhaps she had hidden it away in the pocket of her cardigan, or inside a packet of tobacco, knowing it was somewhere Emily would never look. Emily had searched all over for the pen, tossing cushions aside, even removing books from the shelves in the study and going into the greenhouse to see if it had mysteriously ended up next to the tomatoes.

“Look for the signs,” her grandmother would always say. “Don’t forget to look for all the clues and miracles tucked away in every corner of the world.”

But what sort of clue was this? Emily unscrewed the lid, raised the nib to her nose and breathed deep. It always made her think of the tube of Germoline, all pink and sticky, sitting at the back of the cabinet above the bathroom sink. A leftover cream from childhood with such a distinct smell. The pen had been a present from her grandmother, something to help Emily have confidence in herself, her drawings. She told her she shouldn’t ever think of rubbing something away, that all the images she created were there for a reason and she should treasure them all. Ever since, Emily always sketched in black ink, never pencil.

A long sigh, because all of the memories only served to remind Emily that she was alone. She closed her eyes, tried to remember the look on her grandmother’s face the last evening she had been alive, tried to recall the exact words spoken before she had kissed her good night and Emily had turned back to her work, away from the sound of footsteps on the narrow stairs. The creak of floorboards overhead as the old woman settled down to sleep.

Emily blew into her cup, let the steam rise and cover her face. Felt tears on her cheeks, grief tangled up with anger at being left all alone.

There was a sudden cackle of magpie, and Emily opened her eyes, sought out the culprit that sat in the apple tree at the edge of the lawn. Two sharp whistles and the bird swooped down from the branch, hopping across the grass, then in through the door and up onto the kitchen table.

“Hello, Milton,” Emily said in a small whisper.

The bird pecked at the toast crumbs on offer, then went over to tap at a biscuit tin placed high on a nearby shelf. Emily reached up to bring the bird back down, leant in close to whisper a reprimand, which made Milton cock his head in response.

Two black eyes regarded her for a moment, then he leapt over to the sink. Head down, tail up, the magpie went, its beak investigating a saturated envelope that Emily snatched away and dropped on the table.