When Alex had married she had waited for a granddaughter: that would have solved everything. But the impossible demands of a high-pressure job that meant he was rarely at home had brought his marriage sadly to a close, and he had no daughter to show for it. And Will. Well, she knew better than to wait for him to start a family. He was talented, loving, warmhearted, and irascible. Women were inevitably drawn to her younger son, to his tousled good looks and his sheer physicality. Both of her boys were good sportsmen, both played cricket in the village, but Will might have played for the county if he’d chosen. A dangerous middle-order batsman, he square cut fours and hoisted sixes in an ungainly but effective manner; and bowling to the other team’s tail he was adept at the art of reverse swing, laughing as they prodded one way while the ball cut back in the opposite direction. He was talent-spotted a few times, but refused to put in the necessary hours of practice, wouldn’t commit his summer. He’d play for love if his day was free, but never for money, and never so anyone would depend on him—that was Will.

She had thought Siân might get her way after all and push him to the altar. Siân was so fiery and attractive, determined, and ready to settle. She had just turned thirty, and time wouldn’t wait forever. Perhaps one day Will would have a little girl—and knowing the sensitivity that lurked behind his outward masculinity, it would be a daughter he would father, his mother felt. Whatever it was the key gave access to, it must have surely been meant for Will’s daughter: and he would hand it to her. Yes, she’d trust to time and Siân’s single-mindedness, and leave the key to Will. She’d penned a note, and put it with the key and the single ancient leaf of vellum in a huge envelope:

For Will, when he is something, or someone, that he is not now.

And she’d said not a word more on the subject, even when they bid each other goodbye in her last hours.