He handed her one of the bamboos and she leaned out and poked the thing sticking up behind the joist. She got the tip underneath it and flicked it. It flew up and settled.

‘Oh, it’s a skin,’ said Alex.

She lifted it again. The snakeskin was rigid, like parchment, and crispy. It wavered on the end of the stick, weighing less than a glove, split and dried out. She imagined the small princely snake leaving it behind to make his legless journey, and wondered if he felt the splinters on his tender body, like the green wood of a peeled stick.

‘I wonder if it hurts them to shed their skins,’ she said. She didn’t feel afraid, standing there in the darkness, imagining snakes, even with the smell of death in the air.

They heard Dan in the corridor then he came cautiously up the ladder, shining his phone beam around. Details popped into the light then disappeared.

‘I’ll stay here,’ he said, ‘and shine the torch.’ His voice was tight. ‘That smell is horrible. You should do this in daylight.’

Alex and Bea went about with sticks and bags while Dan watched, wincing in disgust as he pointed the beam into the corners. Tucked away, where the smell was strongest, they found a dead rat. It was big and soft, and fell apart when Alex picked it up.

‘The guests wouldn’t like this,’ he said and Bea laughed, but Dan didn’t.

When they had gone away from Paligny, perhaps she’d tell him everything. She pictured them on the bridge at Avignon, saying unsayable things in the safety of a postcard view.

They laid new traps which Alex had honeyed earlier and took the old ones away, except one, tucked right into the join where the roof met the walls.

‘We can leave it. It’s probably empty anyway,’ said Alex.

‘You will let them go, won’t you?’ she asked. ‘You do release them?’

‘To tell you the truth, I’ve never caught one.’

Bea picked up the snakeskin to show Dan.

‘Christ!’ he shouted, recoiling. ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Alex. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘Here,’ Dan held the bin bag open. He didn’t believe Alex thought the thing was beautiful, he was just being pretentious.

‘No, I want to keep it,’ said Alex. ‘I collect them.’

Bea took the skin, like a fish from a hook, and gave it to her brother.

‘Thanks. I can oil them and make a jacket. Is snake oil a real thing?’

‘No, Alex,’ said Dan, ‘snake oil is not a real thing.’

They went back downstairs, relieved, but Alex’s night was only just beginning. He ran back and forth, fetching whisky and trays of food, putting on music, asking them what they wanted then ignoring them, lost in his hyperactivity and seeking oblivion. He found his phone and a speaker and fumblingly set it up. The speaker was small and distorted the music as he forced the volume up. It blared Pink Floyd from the small mesh oval hugged beneath his arm as he ushered them out into the garden again. Pink Floyd changed to the Flaming Lips.