‘No problem,’ Posy said. ‘So, is that why you’re taking a tour of your own house? Looking for Kit?’

‘Not much else to do around here while this circus is going on, you know? And I promised Grandma I’d show my face.’ Juliette scowled at her grandmother’s back. ‘She was probably hoping I’d be wearing something like that, though.’ She waved a hand vaguely at Posy’s tea dress.

‘Trust me, this was not my choice, either.’

They shared a smile as, at the top of the stairs, Isobel began lecturing them on the history of the house again.

‘You’re in the China Room, right?’ Juliette said. ‘Let me know if you need migraine tablets. Grandma has a whole stash of them upstairs.’

‘Two nights with that wallpaper and I might,’ Posy admitted. ‘What on earth was anybody thinking, decorating it like that?’

Juliette shrugged. ‘It’s been like that forever. And after Letty put it in her book, they couldn’t change it, I guess.’

‘This place is so weird.’

‘Try living here.’

Isobel led them along the landing, past Posy’s room, and up the second staircase to the next floor. Here, the ceilings were lower, slanting inwards as the roof pitched, almost an attic space rather than another floor.

‘Of course this would have been the servants’ quarters, originally,’ Isobel said, as if having a house large enough to require servants was perfectly normal.

Posy had lived in a house that large, once. Maybe her parents still did, although they’d probably had to sell it to pay off the debts. She didn’t want to know.

‘Does the house have any, like, secret passages and stuff ?’ she asked Juliette instead, thinking again about how that note had appeared under her door.

‘Why?’ Juliette looked surprised at the question. ‘Aren’t the endless staring portraits, murderous dollhouse and spooky attic rooms enough for you?’

Posy laughed. ‘It just seemed the sort of thing a house like this might have.’

‘Yeah, I can see that. If you’re hoping for a quick escape route from your fans, there are a million places you can hide at Aldermere, but I’ve never found any secret passageways, despite all the summers I spent searching when I was a kid.’

The attics meandered along to a door at the back of the house, which opened onto a large room that had to be several servants’ bedrooms knocked together. Books lined the walls on all sides, even up to the windows that slanted in with the eaves. In the centre of the room sat a heavy, battered desk – complete with old-fashioned typewriter and a stack of papers set beside it, like a typed manuscript.