Effie wandered through to the room on the other side of the cottage. It was identical in layout and size to the kitchen but for a pale blue sheet hanging across the centre. She peered past it to find her parents’ narrow wooden bed roughly pushed against the far wall. On this side of the hanging was the single bed her brother had slept in all his life. It had a star notched in the headboard, the bed left askew in the middle of the space, as if tossed there.

She looked about her. The fireplace sat to her right-hand side but the hanging sheet meant her father, to the left of it, wouldn’t get any benefit from the fire when it got colder. She gave a tentative tug of the sheet; it would have come to down. It would be a sore loss of privacy for them both but there was nothing to be done. On Hirta, before John’s accident, she’d shared the byre in the original neighbouring blackhouse with their cow and Poppit and it had suited her fine, but there was no such luxury here.

Mr Croucher and her father followed her into the room as she went to pull down the sheet.

‘Leave it,’ her father commanded.

‘But Father, you’ll get cold.’

‘It’ll do fine,’ he said. Effie could see he was leaning heavily on his stick, his joints bad today.

Mr Croucher went straight to the window and lit the taper there, before repeating the same at the fireplace. Weak light sputtered then flared, casting shadows about the stone room. The flagged floor looked cool and reassuringly ancient and a yearning to press her bare soles to the stone rushed through Effie’s body; she’d been suppressing her physical instincts all day and she didn’t think she could stand it any longer. She stared at Mr Croucher in anguish, willing him to leave.