Quickly, I wash my hair in the bath, dunking my head beneath the water – careful to keep my face above the surface – then I clamber out, gripping the sides of the bath tightly because my legs feel like they’re made of cotton wool. I dry off using a soft white robe that’s hanging on the back of the door and then throw on some jeans and woollen socks, as well as a T-shirt and a thick jumper, glad I thought to bring warm clothes, knowing that the weather can be temperamental in the far north of Scotland.

On my way out of the room, I look in the mirror and notice with dismay how badly my roots are showing, my hair not so much blonde as the colour of dirty dishwater. I look alabaster pale, too, and for a moment I almost crumple in my resolve to be strong, but I take a deep breath and force a smile. New beginnings, I remind myself.

By the time I head back downstairs, the tea Liam has made is half-cold, but I sip it anyway and go and sit beside Liam on the sofa. He’s leafing through a book and I glance at the title: A History of the Isle of Shura. There’s a photograph of a grand Gothic castle on the front.

‘There’s a castle?’ I ask, gesturing to the picture.

Liam nods. ‘Yeah, it was built on the ruins of the medieval monastery.’ He keeps flicking through the pages of the book. ‘I didn’t know about it either – it wasn’t mentioned on the website. We should go and check it out. Maybe we can go inside.’

I look closer at the image. The castle looks like something out of a Brontë novel; lots of arched windows and towers and gargoyles. No wonder people think the island is haunted. If a ghost was looking for a place to haunt, it would definitely feel at home there.

Liam pushes a plate of shortbread fingers my way. I take one but find I can’t bring myself to eat it. I feel suddenly nauseous, flushed from the bath, my head spinning, so I set it back down on the plate.

‘The castle was in the McKay family for six hundred years,’ Liam says, reading out loud. ‘They probably had to sell because it was too expensive to keep up – I’ve read about that happening.’

He turns the page.

‘Is that them?’ I ask, peering at another photograph, this one of a man, a woman and a boy of about eight or nine standing on the steps of the castle. The massive wooden doors of the castle are open behind them, giving a small glimpse of a wood-panelled interior hall filled with portraits and stuffed animal heads.