Wearing a fresh nightgown, the white cotton patterned with yellow flowers, and her hair newly brushed and neat, Flo sits up in her bed. Once more, she’s silent and her expression is dour. Her eyes comb the darkened windows overlooking the garden.

Jess nods at Izzy who slips a red thong around Flo’s wattled neck. At the end of the cord hangs a white plastic oval. ‘SOS’ is imprinted on the front of the necklace.

Jess checks a handset that resembles an old mobile phone. She turns the screen to Izzy, who crowds her mum. A red dot is visible on the handset’s screen. ‘See that red dot? That’s Flo. I’ll be keeping my eye on it. I could lose her in this bloody mess and never find her again. Oughta put one on you an’ all.’

Jess presses a button and the device beeps, primed.

‘Now, come on. Jim-jams. Bed. Bit of story.’

* * *

Hours later, Jess returns to the landing from the staircase and plods to the master bedroom, a steaming cup of black coffee gripped in one hand. She walks through the treacle of sleep deprivation. Fatigue, compounded by her exertions in restoring light to Nerthus House, as well as cleaning the vicarage bathroom and kitchen, slows her movements to leaden. She pauses outside the door of Charlotte Gardner’s old bedroom and peeks in.

Izzy’s fast asleep and clutching Bamboo, her panda.

Jess sways as she walks to her armchair in the corner of Flo’s bedroom. Dim light from a side lamp angled down guides her unsteady passage to the chair. Her heavy eyes move to take in the ceiling, the walls, the open door. In anticipation of another night at the vicarage, she takes a deep breath.

As if it’s holding its own breath in anticipation, not a sound emerges from the vast house.

A fan of bills is spread on the side table beside the estate agent’s brochure of the new apartment complex. Jess tries to distract herself from her thoughts of the night ahead by making a list on a notepad: preparations for moving to a new home.

Within minutes, her head drops over her chest.

She snaps awake. Wipes her mouth. Blinks hard. Returns to her papers.

Nods again. Lurches awake. But against every effort and intention, the next time her eyes close they don’t reopen. Slumped in the armchair, she sleeps. And dreams.

* * *

Sunlight splices the foliage fringing the glade and probes inside the wood. From inside the copse, when standing beside the black pond in the grove, the vicarage garden appears enchanted: a soft focus of pastel colours, misted with pollen and made radiant by a celestial light. A chorus of birds and the drone of insects add weight to the soporific atmosphere.