Trig slumped into a chair. “But I hate making pastry.”

“Tough,” she said.

I pushed the woodpecker door knocker. Tapped its head forwards so it pecked on the door. Peck-peck-peck.

The Siamese cat crept up. Gave a snarly meow.

I knocked again. Peck-peck-peck.

The cat blinked.

PECK-PECK-PECK. I knocked harder.

The door opened and the cat shot inside.

“All right, all right. Give an old woman a chance to get down the stairs.” It was Elsie, leaning on her stick. Dressed in the exact same red checked dress I have to wear to school. Must be a hundred years, though, since she was a schoolgirl.

“Um, I was wondering, Mrs Weather, if I could get a forecast?”

Her eyes went to the jug.

“Flour.” I held it up. “I’ve brought flour for you. And cheese.”

“Forecast?”

I nodded. She opened the door wider. I stepped inside. She closed the door behind me and the hall went dark, only a grimy bit of light leaking in through the fanlight. My eyes took a moment to adjust.

The hall had piles of things all down one side. Coats, odd shoes, stacks of books – even heaps of paper. More paper than I’d ever seen in one single place. I glanced over it all, checking for the little brown bottle.

“Um, Mum says—”

“Quiet, Cruise girl, Hannard’s got a sitting.”

The door to Mr Wetheral’s painting room was ever so slightly open. A slice of someone – a girl I think – was just visible through the gap. Mr Wetheral’s soft voice murmured in the background.

Elsie held out her free hand for the cheese. She unwrapped a corner and sniffed it. Slipped it into her apron pocket. Held her hand out again. I passed her the flour.

“In there.” She pointed to the back room with the jug. “I’ll get tea.”

“Oh no, Mrs Weather, it’s—”

“Quiet, girl. In there.”

Trig was right. She didn’t ever smile.

The back room was packed full of all kinds of junk. Boxes and crates; old pots and bowls; mugs with the handles broken off; cables with plugs on the end that fit into the wall; boards with the whole alphabet written on them in little squares. All useless, Dad’d say. And there were books. Piles and piles of books. Some on shelves that went right up to the ceiling. Ten times as many as the whole school library.

I picked my way between the stuff. Sat down on a half-empty chair, moved a glass off the seat. LA ANGELS, it said on the side of it.

On the wall in front of me hung old photographs and certificates and little wooden carvings and even two long, thin masks that had straw for hair and empty spaces where the eyes should be. Everything was ancient and crooked and squashed together.