There seemed to be a technical problem with the camera, which delayed the taking of the photograph, and the solving of which required Mr. Giles’s total concentration. His son, meanwhile, wandered closer.

“I remember you from last year,” he said quietly. “You’re very photogenic.”

“Thank you.”

“I’d like to take your photograph. I’m usually at the shop on Sunday afternoons doing my developing. Alone. You should come by.”

Mr. Giles straightened up. “Right then. Let’s get on with it.” Mr. Giles had white skin and a prominent widow’s peak, which made him look like Count Dracula. “Miss Samuel, I’d like you to sit at slightly more of an angle—very good—and fold your hands in your lap. Yes, fine. Turn your face a little towards me.”

Alexander, who also had a widow’s peak, though less pronounced, gave Genevieve a sly, secret wink.

Mr. Giles tutted. “Alexander, do stop fraternizing and get over here, there’s a good boy.”

It seemed all the girls in the dormitory had new and exciting romantic possibilities. Millicent Hornby (at seventeen, one year older than Genevieve) had just received a letter from her young man, Edward—formerly a childhood friend—and insisted on reading it aloud to the rest of the dormitory and talking about him incessantly. Sophia Harker (one year younger than Genevieve) would not stop bragging about her blossoming friendship with one Julian Chesterton from the boys’ school in the next village, with whom she was due to have a secret rendezvous on the weekend.

Irene Nicholas was talking about Alexander Giles. She claimed he’d been trying to pass her a note at the photography session.

“Are you sure?” said Genevieve.

“Of course I’m sure.” Irene was lying on her bed with Jane Eyre. She didn’t even bother looking up from the page as she spoke. “He couldn’t take his eyes off me.”

“But you didn’t actually get the note, did you? I mean, it could have been a shopping list, for all you know.”

“Genevieve.” She laid the book down. “Don’t be jealous. He’s just not worth it.”

“Jealous? Me?” She tried to laugh, but it didn’t come out right.

Sunday afternoon found Genevieve catching a bus to town, flouting the rule about not leaving school without permission. She didn’t really intend to go to see Alexander—she just wanted to get away from those girls and their incessant boy-talk for a few hours. But when she got off the bus, her feet carried her straight to the tatty little photography shop. She chose not to see the Closed sign and tried the handle.

The door opened onto a reception room with an unmanned desk, on which sat a telephone, an appointments diary, a pencil and a bell to ring for attention. She ignored the bell and wandered along the narrow corridor. At the end was a door marked No Entry.