Seren pressed her lips together tight. She felt a touch on her fingers and Tomos’s hand crept into hers. They stood and watched the fire burn, and Enoch stood next to them, quivering with nerves, his face as white as paper. Soon all the pieces of the Crow were nothing but ashes and twisted wire, and then they were gone altogether, falling down into the heart of the blaze.

They waited.

Nothing happened.

Over the lake, the moon laid a silver pathway. The midsummer stars wheeled across the sky. Bats flitted. The summer garden was a soft peace of sleeping flowers.

Inside the Plas, the harp was playing a gentle Welsh folksong.

Five minutes passed.

Ten.

Twelve.

‘Where is he?’ Seren whispered at last.

‘Wait,’ Denzil growled.

‘But it’s taking so long!’ A terrible doubt was creeping into her mind and she couldn’t stop it. What if it had all been a trap, a bitter revenge taken by the Swan? What if the Crow was gone and would never come back? What if…

‘Seren!’

She turned.

Lady Mair was standing there with a lantern. ‘Seren! Tomos! Come quickly!’

‘But…’

‘Come at once!’ Lady Mair waved her hand. ‘I need you here now!’

Seren looked at Denzil. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘We’ll wait here. See what happens. Go now.’

She couldn’t move. He thinks nothing will happen, she thought, but then Tomos was pulling her with him towards his mother. Seren ran, too, but inside her was a horrible darkness, a deep grief that she thought she might fall into forever.

Lady Mair said, ‘Oh, I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Come quickly!’

She caught Seren’s hand and between the two of them she was pulled into the house.

Plas-y-Fran was open to the summer night, all its windows wide, all its doors ajar. They ran through the lavender-scented hall and up the stairs, and the lamps were bright and moths danced duets under the painted faces of the Jones’ family, all of whom seemed to be smiling down at her in delight, their gilt frames gleaming.

Up, past dozens of guests, past Lily and all the maids clustered on the landing, past Mrs Villiers who touched Seren’s arm and whispered, ‘I’m so glad, dear,’ and touched a tear from her eye with a handkerchief.

Bewildered, Seren said, ‘What’s happening? What’s going on?’

‘You’ll see,’ Tomos grinned.

Her heart beat fast. Her palms were hot. She was scared.

Past all the farmers and squires and ladies in the hot room, who squeezed aside and whispered.

Up to where Captain Jones stood, tall and waiting on the polished dais with the musicians, his tweed suit immaculate, his collar white as snow, his moustaches perfect.

‘Seren,’ he said. He held out a hand. ‘Come up here, my dear.’

Breathless, she gasped, ‘What’s wrong?’