‘Anyway, I’m imprisoned here for the holidays which is beyond dull. Are you in Cornwall for the summer too?’

I wondered where she thought I might be going. France, maybe? On one of those exchanges where you swap families? Or New York or Tokyo or India? I didn’t answer immediately, allowing myself to enjoy a few precious seconds where as far as Edie Davenport was concerned I was someone who could have a life beyond St Just.

When the pause grew uncomfortable I nodded. ‘Yes, I’m here the whole time.’

‘And presumably you have no friends?’

Her assumption took the wind out of me. I opened my mouth to protest but then decided not to. She was, after all, correct.

‘Good,’ she said emphatically. ‘Then you and I will hang out. We’ll be holiday friends. It’ll be fun.’

Holiday friends? The thought made my skin tingle.

‘I mean, Jesus,’ she said. ‘The thought of being stuck in this place with nobody to talk to for six weeks is unbearable.’

I looked up at the house and wondered if there was anywhere on this planet I’d prefer to be stuck.

Edie gave an impatient sigh. ‘Well then?’ Her question was laced with irritation. It dawned on me she might be reading my silence as lack of enthusiasm so I nodded quickly.

From nowhere a gust of wind blew. Dust and bits of last year’s leaves were lifted off the terrace in a flurry. Eleanor Davenport’s scarf again caught my eye as it was scooped up and tumbled through the air. The wind dropped as suddenly as it had picked up and the scarf fell. It floated downwards to settle on the surface of the pool. The material darkened as it sucked in the water and sank slowly until it hung suspended as if trapped in aspic.

As I stared at the scarf, the stillness was torn in two by a screech. The noise was instantly recognisable. I jumped and grabbed the table instinctively, catching the edge of one of the bottles with my hand. It fell and Coke spilled through the fretwork and collected on the paving slabs below the table.

‘Oh, I’m… sorry…’ I reached for the bottle and quickly righted it whilst casting my eyes about in search of the raven, which I knew was lurking somewhere close.

My skin prickled. I scoured the lawn, the trees, the railings, but there was no sign.

‘I have to go.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. My grandad. I need to get back to see him. He isn’t well.’ I glanced up and scanned the sky and the roof of the house. I let out a breath. There it was. The raven. Perched on the guttering of the roof. Black feathers buffeted by the wind coming off the sea. It screeched again and the sound cut through me like a shard of glass.

I had a vivid flash of the raven on the path. The one Dad and I had seen that day as we hurried home beneath a darkening sky, the first drops of rain spattering our faces.