Emily knew how hard it was for anyone to look upon her, strapped into a chair with a face contorted and bruised. She had known it every day since, even when her body had healed, her scars faded to silvery pink. She knew he could still see her the way she used to be, before the accident, and part of her hated him for it.

“You can’t stay here, Emily.” Tyler placed a hand on her shoulder, only for her to swat him away. “Mum told me that Aunt Cat’s instructions were really specific.”

“She knew?” Emily grappled with the words and idea all at once. To think that Tyler’s mother, her own godmother, had known of her grandmother’s intentions yet said nothing.

“Well, yes, of course she did.” Tyler frowned, then gave a small shake of his head as he saw the way Emily’s fists were clenched tight and her shoulders raised. “But you didn’t, did you?”

He sank into the desk chair, picked up a glass paperweight in the shape of an apple, then put it back down again.

“I know what you’re thinking.” He started to sway back and forth on the chair, opened one drawer, then closed it again. “And, yes, you’re right. I didn’t come here out of my own free will. Call it a favor, of sorts.”

Emily looked at him with raised eyebrows and crossed her arms.

“The thing is, I need this trip as much as you do. So, why not call a truce? Help each other out?”

Emily laughed at how revoltingly obnoxious he was, then turned to walk out of the room, but she felt his hand on her arm, asking her to stay. Instinctively, she wanted to pull free, but something stopped her. She considered the weight of him on her, the warmth spreading from skin to skin. And then up to the dusting of freckles across his cheeks, half hidden by stubble.

“No.” Emily stomped up the stairs, heard him call out after her.

“There is something else,” he said.

She paused on the landing.

“I have a letter. From your grandmother. Only I’m not allowed to give it to you until we’re on the train. Which, by the way, leaves in fifty-five minutes.”

Emily slammed the door to shut him out, sank onto her bed, and stared out of the window to the garden beyond.

A letter. Another clue? She had to consider her options. Could she steal it from him? Negate the need to even leave the house? Only she didn’t know where the letter was hidden; perhaps in his guitar case, or his pocket?

She rolled over and looked under the bed, saw nothing more than a pair of moccasin slippers she never wore, even on the coldest days. No suitcase, but then again she couldn’t remember the last time she had needed to pack an overnight bag, nor indeed if she even owned one.

Out onto the landing she went, then pushed the door to her grandmother’s room wide, a line of sunlight cutting the space in two. The bed was stripped of all linens, but there remained a hand-stitched quilt folded at its foot. In her last few months, even when the evenings remained bright and warm, Catriona had needed the extra layer. Emily had often sat with her, reading aloud until she fell asleep, the role of adult and child reversed.