‘A patient.’ He sits opposite her, placing the dog upon his lap. ‘This snow has caused a flare in all the rheumatic complaints.’ The dog yawns. She suspects he would rather be home by the fire than trussed up for her benefit.

‘Well, you see how extravagant I have been in your absence: a whole box of marchpane!’

‘On the anniversary of your birth, I believe you may do whatever you wish.’

This is not something she often hears, especially from Simon. ‘Anything?’ she teases. ‘You would let me order a cup of coffee without a warning that it excites my nerves?’

Concern flickers across his brow. He quickly wards it off with a smile. ‘For today, I believe I would.’

But Agnes can be kind too, and she places an order she knows he will approve of: ginger tea and a small apple tart in honour of the occasion. If one can call it an occasion.

They amuse themselves by feeding sugar lumps to the dog while they wait for their refreshments. She wonders why it never seems to strike Simon that this is also the day that Constance was born. That would be reason enough to dampen the celebrations. Yet each year they re-enact this charade: him, so desperate to treat her; she, trying to appear pleased for his sake, as if growing older were a privilege rather than the burden it feels.

She has stopped counting her age with any accuracy. Simon could probably tell her the exact figure, but his gallantry would never allow it.

‘That is enough, now, Morpheus,’ Simon finally says as the dog’s tongue works busily at his fingers, trying to lick off every stray grain of sugar. ‘We are both of us portly already.’

‘But you are strong,’ Agnes tells him. ‘Whereas I do not think Morpheus can say the same.’

The dog answers with a burp. They laugh.

‘It is true, of course,’ Simon chuckles. ‘I indulge him. He is a greedy, lazy little brute. But I do so enjoy seeing him content.’

Morpheus is content, she thinks, because he never met Simon’s wife. His previous dogs were not so fortunate.

She gestures to the box beneath the tablecloth. ‘Perhaps I am the same with Cedric. Taking home treats although he never remembers to wish me a happy birthday. And Mamma cannot remind him. You know how her mind wanders these days.’

He shifts uncomfortably, but is prevented from replying by the arrival of their victuals.