Two crates of holly and other greenery had been left ready for her, freshly cut and brought over from the mainland. She rinsed all the vases in the tiny vestry and began to make up the arrangements for the service the following day, wincing whenever the holly caught her skin. There was more than enough to dress the altar, so she filled each window ledge with garlands of ivy and mistletoe, the berries stark against the green like tiny moons on a winter’s night. The wood around the altar needed polishing and she did it with care – not out of love now, but because it was her job – then hung the last of the greenery at the end of the family pews, fighting back tears as the familiar rituals of the season emphasised the passing of time.

The pews hid a narrow staircase leading down to an underground chamber, once a hermit’s cell and used these days as a storeroom. Nora took the uneven steps carefully, glad of the daylight that followed her down, and braced herself against the mustiness of the small, enclosed space. She rummaged around in some boxes and soon found the last of the decorations, together with one or two pieces of silver which were used for the most important services of the year. When the altar was complete, she unwound the chain which lowered a heavy gilt chandelier down from its place above the nave; changing the candles was a laborious task and she was glad that they were lit only at Christmas, but 63Jenna had always loved helping her, demanding to be lifted up in her mother’s arms until the year that she was finally tall enough to reach the highest crown of fixtures on her own. Nora paused, feeling for a moment the warmth of her little girl’s body, remembering the laughter that had seemed to fill so much of those eighteen treasured years. She had been so proud of the young woman who replaced the child, and even now, when there was no option but to accept it, she could scarcely believe that she would never see her daughter again. Perhaps, in time, her memories would be a comfort to her; at the moment, with her grief still so raw, it was as much as she could do to get out of bed in the morning.

The sun had moved round while she worked, a reminder that the day was slipping away and she still had plenty to do. She had forgotten to collect the missing nativity figure from the museum, which meant an extra trip down to the village that she really could have done without, and hurried across the terrace and back through the house. The doors to the guest rooms were wide open, and she could hear the crisp snap of sheets being shaken as she passed, accompanied by expectant chatter amongst the housemaids. She had been wrong to assume that Marlene Dietrich’s birthplace would be more important than her celebrity; most of the staff had been thrilled by the prospect of looking after a Hollywood star, and only the older members of the household had shared her reservations, most notably those who remembered the last war. She looked at the clock: the first train was due soon, and from then on there would be a steady stream of arrivals, taking advantage of low tide to cross with their luggage by car rather than boat. She told the maids to get a move on, then left the castle and took the Pilgrims’ Steps down to the harbour. 64