It was just after ten the next morning when I finally headed back the way I had come. Out the door, down the hill, over the swollen river. When I had first arrived I had been told to turn left at the riverbank and make my way to the Popping Stone. It was a local landmark: three rounded boulders beside the river and a popular place for courtships over the years. The poet Sir Walter Scott proposed to his sweetheart there, though local legend had it that he only did so out of spite towards a previous lover who had turned him down. He had made her a promise he would find a new object for his affections before the year was out. The spot was as popular with locals as with tourists who all put great stock in the sulphurous water’s healing powers. Several bottles of gunpowder-scented water had been left on my doorstep during my time in the village though I had barely taken more than a sip. It tasted of rotten eggs and while it may have offered long life to those who imbibed, none of the stooped, gnarled old folk who shuffled around Gilsland looked as though they were gaining much from the experience.

It took twenty minutes to reach Felicity’s. The rain had eased off but the air was still wet and the sky had the look of uncooked bread. I saw two women at the bus stop and said hello to a man I half recognized outside the post office. He seemed a little taken aback but knuckled his flat cap as if I was somebody important. It was all I could do not to curtsey in return.

There was no answer at Felicity’s so I presumed she had already made her way to Fairfax’s. I crossed the road and peered in at the kitchen window. Felicity was on her knees, surrounded by papers, like a mug on an elaborate doily. I was cautious with my knock on the window but she still jumped like a teenager caught looking at a magazine. When she turned to me her face was white; the veins in her neck standing out as if she had just escaped the noose. One hand held to her heart, she gestured me to the back door. I went inside, into chilly air that smelled like forgotten fruit and liniment.

‘Gave me a start,’ said Felicity. She seemed as cool as the room; her whole manner stiff.

‘I’m always doing that,’ I said, trying to raise a smile.

‘I don’t know if I’m doing any of this right,’ she said, leading me into the kitchen through the passageway. It was quite a nice space, designed like Felicity’s, but the table was made for two, not four, and the pictures on the walls were in better quality frames.