In her dreams she sees the shadow woman rise again. Her black arms open in an embrace, stretching and extending around the walls, until their darkness encircles the room. Could it have been Constance, objecting to Agnes’s friendship with Pearl? If she managed to call up her other family members, it is conceivable …

But it would be safer, Agnes decides, to never find out.

She will send Simon to go and pack the things she needs. He will look after her, always.

On Twelfth Night, Mrs Oswald, the pregnant lady who slipped on the ice back in October, is brought to bed. Simon is obliged to leave Agnes and attend the birth.

‘I shall make all possible haste,’ he says hurriedly, tucking the summons away and fetching his outdoor things. ‘But confinements can be lengthy affairs. I am likely to be absent well into the evening.’

It is a disappointment to be left without company for the holiday, but she hoists a brave smile. ‘You must take as long as the lady needs. Do not fear, I shall save some wassail for you.’

He deliberates, slapping his gloves against his wrist. ‘And you … you will be quite well, on your own?’

‘Oh, Simon, I am not alone.’

Morpheus grumbles his agreement. Simon gives the pug a long stare. ‘Behave yourself, little beast. I am counting on you.’

At length, he is persuaded to depart. Agnes is strangely charmed to have the house to herself. It is clean and uncluttered, full of gentle sounds like the fire sifting and the dog’s snorts. There are no magpies here.

‘Well,’ she says to Morpheus, ‘it seems you are King of the Bean and I am Queen of the Pea. We will find a way to have a merry Twelfth Night of our own.’

Morpheus sits down and chews his foot.

Despite her cheerful prognostic, the novelty soon wears thin. She reads, she eats, she sews a little; there is not much else to do. Without Simon’s conversation, the day drags. There are only so many times she can throw the ball for the dog.

Her hands itch to make a papercut, but she has given all that up. They have agreed between them that she will paint watercolour landscapes instead, when they go abroad; that will give her a creative outlet free from associations with Miss West and murder. Yet in the meantime … Her fingers tug at her skirts. She really does miss the occupation.

But she promised Simon, and besides, she has no scissors. Although perhaps there is a surgical pair kept in the house for emergencies … She brushes the thought aside.