The priest blessed her, whispered, ‘God and peace be with you’ and we sent her on into the next world.

We covered Saffie with earth and while the Maoris swayed and sang softly of things I did not know we placed our plants into the new turned soil. In the spring they will flower and the saplings will have thin branches stretching to the sky and the palest green translucent leaves.

In the spring I will bring Alice and it will be a new year of a new life. Fleur is part of that life; part of Alice and part of me. I will never let her feel alone again and neither will Sam. Fleur protected me and now it is my turn to protect her. We have both come home, Saffie and I. We have both come home.

In the spring I will bring Alice.

EPILOGUE

The man folds the newspaper carefully into its natural creases and leaves it on his desk. His study overlooks the garden and he goes to the open French windows where the scent of tobacco plants is overpowering.

He stands leaning on the doorframe staring out into the darkness. He brings his hand up to his face to brush away a moth and realises that his hands are trembling and his mouth is dry. Fear lies like ice upon his heart. The velvety night of summer draws him out of the light. He walks across the grass to the shelter of the apple trees near the old summer house.

As he turns he sees his own footprints on the damp grass, walking away from the house, and it seems to him they belong to someone who has already left. As if he is no longer a part of the lives in the lighted drawing room where he can see his wife and eldest daughter watching television, unaware of him out here in the garden.

Upstairs, in the spare room, his small grandson lies asleep.

Standing under the trees a terrifying lethargy overtakes him and he shivers violently. He crosses the lawn again and goes back to his study. He cannot distract himself from the dreadful consequences of his discovery. It is a stark fact that makes all reasoned dialogue with himself meaningless.

His daughter calls, ‘Good night, Dad,’ as she goes upstairs. His two black Labradors fill the doorway looking expectant, waiting for their last walk.

He pours himself a whisky and sits down again, his back to the newspaper. The dogs move towards him, puzzled by his silence, and he strokes their smooth heads. He holds his glass up and examines it in the light as if surprised how quickly it is emptying. He can hear Beattie plumping cushions, switching the kettle on, turning off lamps.

She comes to the door. ‘I’m going up. Will you be long?’

‘No, not long. I’ve just got a couple of letters to write and then I’ll walk the dogs. I’ll try not to wake you,’ he says as he always says, but something in his tone alerts his wife.