‘Aye, you have our word. Get down now. Enough of this nonsense and heap no more shame upon your father.’

Effie’s eyes flashed but she had her agreement; her uncle might be brusque but he had honour; everyone knew his word was his bond. She scrambled to her feet. ‘Come on then, girl,’ she said, looking back.

Looking around.

‘Poppit?’

She turned on the spot, seeing grass and sea and sky on all sides. But no dog.

‘Poppit?’ Her voice inflected strangely, eyes focusing to pinpoints, like they did when she was out searching for birds.

A short bark, whickering into a squeal, made her head whip round.

‘Poppit?’

A silence came back at her as she stared into the distance from where the sound had come. There was a shallow dip over there, near the storm cleit. Beyond it lay the narrow inlet where the land tore apart into a vertiginous crevasse.

With a gasp of horror, she began to sprint, her feet flying across the hard ground, her arms like pistons – but limbs were no good. The drumbeat of her feet seemed to make no difference; she might as well have been dancing. She needed osprey wings that would make her soar and not stumble; she needed to cover ground. She needed—

A dark head appeared. Broad forehead and heavy brows above hard eyes and a thick beard.

‘Where’s my dog? Where’s my dog?’ she screamed as Norman Ferguson, Jayne’s husband, strode towards her. ‘Hamish has agreed! She’s to come with us! It’s agreed! Where is she?’

The wind carried her voice like feathers in the moult, scattering them through the sky. She saw his face – impassive, unmoved – and knew it was already done. Her spirit cleaved, a confetti of pain and panic that made her legs buckle, bringing the ground up to her. No! She could still feel the weight of her pet on her back, still smell her coat on her hands. Shock and disbelief racked her. How long had she been turned away from Poppit? One minute? Two?

She screamed. Everything, all her efforts, had come undone in those few mere moments and she was alone now. Utterly alone. She couldn’t move. She wouldn’t. She lay on the hard-packed ground and sobbed, her fists clutching mindlessly at the grass and heather.

Norman’s bare feet stopped in front of her, inches from her face. She stared blindly at the dirt ingrained beneath the nails, the muddied skin that had been stained since his early baby steps. She felt his hand close around her bicep, fingers digging uncomfortably in her armpit as she was hauled to her feet, onto legs that wouldn’t lock. He held her askance until he felt her feet take the weight.

‘How could you be so cruel?’ she cried, her voice tearing in half as the grief overtook her again. Where was his compassion? His heart?