Because for Rosalind, Aldermere had been more than some old English manor house. It was a place of stories, and mystery, and possibility, and she’d experienced the strangest sense that a secret world had been opened up for her, and she had to hurry in before the door shut behind her.

She’d visited Aldermere House on countless occasions in the decades that followed, but it hadn’t given her that feeling in a long, long time.

Behind her, Isobel bustled around the library, her powder-blue dress and matching cardigan almost glowing in the sunlight from the window, her pale pink lipstick still perfect as she pursed her lips, considering the glass jug in her hands, before placing it on a high-up shelf. Rosalind watched as she locked the drinks cabinet, and pocketed the small silver key.

‘Worried about the hoi polloi getting in?’ Rosalind joked. Isobel had embraced the Lady of the Manor role, the moment she’d gone from being Rosalind’s flatmate and friend to being Hugh’s wife. And now she’d had decades to perfect it.

Isobel rolled her eyes and groaned good-naturedly. ‘When we started talking about this whole convention thing, it was only in the grounds. But then suddenly Marcus – that’s the organiser, have you met him yet? He’s around here somewhere.’ Rosalind shook her head, and Isobel continued. ‘Anyhow, suddenly he was selling VIP tickets for people to stay here, and I was organising dinners and fork lunch buffets and all sorts. Honestly, I don’t know why Hugh agreed to it in the first place. He hates this sort of thing!’

‘Probably because he knows he can hide out in his study while you deal with all the Lettice Davenport fans descending on the place.’

‘True.’ Isobel sighed, but managed a smile all the same. Isobel was always smiling. While Rosalind had one of those faces that made people ask why she was scowling at them, Isobel’s lips seemed to naturally fall into a delighted smile without her thinking about it. ‘Still, at least it has been a good excuse to get you here for a visit, at last! Juliette’s been asking for ages when you’d be coming again.’

‘Juliette likes to grill me for backstage gossip about famous people,’ Rosalind said with a flap of her hand. Otherwise, being all of eighteen – no, nineteen now, wasn’t it? – Rosalind was sure that Isobel’s granddaughter had more important things to do than hang out with her grandma’s friends.