Pulling the Broomstick as far to the left side of the driveway as she could without actually knocking over the low stone wall that surrounded the cottage, she cut the engine and climbed nervously out of the car. The cottage was adorable: a tiny, storybook piece of perfection with a bright red door, an actual thatched roof, and a small, exquisitely tended front garden set on either side of a path of large flagstones. There was a tiny vegetable patch in one corner of the garden, with a handful of perfectly ripe squashes waiting to be harvested, and Mika spotted an old man kneeling among them.

He stood as Mika stepped on to the path, squinting against the sun. He was bald, Japanese, and in his seventies, dressed in jeans and a striped jumper with a gardening apron over the top, with broad shoulders slightly rounded by age and a warm smile that made it impossible not to smile back.

“You must be Mika,” he said, pulling his apron off and wiping his hands on it before holding his right out to her. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” said Mika, shaking his hand. It was calloused, very much the hand of a man who did a lot of gardening. “Are you Ian?”

At that, he laughed. Before he could answer, the front door of the cottage banged open and a hurricane in fluffy slippers whirled out.

“That’s Ian,” said the man, patting her on the shoulder with what she suspected might be sympathy. “Good luck.”

The cyclone turned out to be an old white man who was so exuberantly energetic that Mika found herself exhausted just looking at him. He was tall and skinny, with a shock of white hair, twinkling blue eyes, and a striped rainbow scarf wrapped around his long neck. Between the scarf and the fluffy slippers were, rather unexpectedly, a very ordinary pair of black trousers and a black jumper.

“Ian Kubo-Hawthorn, at your service,” said the cyclone, beaming as he seized Mika in a hug that almost crushed all her bones. His voice was deep and musical, with the kind of crispness that she associated with Shakespearean performers and BBC presenters. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“Ian,” said the other man.

“You’re right, of course, dear,” said Ian at once, the words rocketing out at the speed of light. “Now is not the time. You’ve met Ken, I see,” he went on to Mika, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the other man. “I’m his husband. Or he’s my husband. I’m not sure which way it goes.”

“Both, I think,” said Mika.

“Ian and I live here in the cottage,” said Ken, his calm, mellow voice an almost comical contrast to Ian’s.