The nursery door opened then, and Cakey beckoned them in. Mary and Norton entered, each clutching the other; both terrified of what they might find. The sight they beheld defied all expectations.

John was sitting in Ned’s lap, with a long glass of milk. One arm was bandaged and in a sling, but – could it really be true? – by some extraordinary miracle, he was otherwise unharmed. Though the sweet face was still deathly pale, eyes pink with crying, at the sight of his Others, he looked up and beamed. Mary rushed over and knelt down before him. ‘Dearest!’

‘Mr Knight saved my life,’ he chirruped with triumph. ‘I was quite dead, you know.’ He took another, deep slurp of milk, smacked his lips and repeated: ‘Perfectly dead. Dead as a dead thing. For ages and ages. Saved my life, yes he did.’

With one elegant foot, Ned rocked the chair; with a strong arm, he clutched the boy around his waist and with remarkable tenderness, kissed the top of the little blond head. ‘Not quite mortal danger, old soldier.’ He smiled. ‘It may be that you fainted. But you’ve been in the wars, right enough.’

Cakey bustled over then, took away the cup and handed over a plate. ‘There now, my chicken. Cook’s cherry sponge is the best sort of medicine.’ She turned back to Mary. ‘Stroke of luck Mr Ned had just ridden in. Just the man you want in a crisis. Always knows what to do and when to do it.’ She stroked the boy’s cheek, which was bulging with cake. ‘Poor little precious – arm quite out of its socket.’

‘Pray, do not look so alarmed.’ Ned half rose and passed the patient to Mary. ‘Sling for a week or two.’ The transfer complete, he prepared to go. ‘And when you’re quite mended, we’ll have a good game of cricket, eh?’ He winked at the little one and left.

At last, the three Knatchbull children were alone in the nursery. The eldest two squashed into the rocker, John settled across both laps and together they wallowed in that sweet relief which descends in the wake of disaster averted.

Norton set the chair into its sway and, by some long latent instinct, Mary began quietly to hum – a tune she could no longer name, nor was she even aware that she knew … But, surely … was this not the lullaby once sung by their own lost mama? Yes! Long trapped by the years, now returned like a gift.

As if to compete, then, the sound of voices drifted up from the lawn: the ancient ritual of a hero receiving his accolade. Mary sighed, and gave a sad smile. So down there were the Knights, of whom she had grown so very fond. But here was her true family; this was her self. Mary Dorothea Knatchbull: thus she had been born; thus she would always be. And that she must take care to remember.