Joan found Tessa’s bedclothes ripped off, piles of graphic novels knocked over, broken irreplaceable Victorian tiles on the hearth, but no Tess. The curtains were open. Tessa had a lovely view of the laburnum tree, now bleak and withered like an ancient flay, though in summer its blazing yellow flowers trailed to earth in long chains that shifted in the breeze, revealing vertical slices of the garden, the field where one horse grazed. The childhood Joan had offered them could not have been more idyllic. But what did it matter: what did it matter with girls. Claire had ridden off on the back of her own mood, she’d taken it with her, she’d spread it wherever she went, and Joan would not be permitted to defend herself.

A sharp tap, close by, made her whirl around, absurdly fearing an intruder. But the noise had come from the cupboard. So that was where Tessa had gone. Joan knelt and saw that the door was slightly open, and that the fairy lights, incredibly, were still operational, bathing Tessa in a pale glow as she lay on her back, her feet against the wall, the lights looping and swirling within touching distance above her face, the sloped ceiling receding into the eaves, into darkness.

‘Leave me alone,’ Tessa said. Her voice was hard, and Joan knew that she must have overheard everything. Tessa had a nasty habit of creeping around the house, listening to conversations that had nothing to do with her.

Joan crawled inside the cupboard; she somehow folded her legs underneath her, twisted around, and pulled the door closed. The sense of pleasure was immediate, primal. A cave. The light from each bulb was sharp, but didn’t travel far, and the darkness in the eaves was undisturbed. She could hear her daughter breathing. She wanted to touch her, but knew that Tessa would fight her off. Gently, slowly, she leaned against the door, and felt it click. Felt it hold.

‘You didn’t shut it properly?’ Tessa said, with disbelief.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you close it all the way?’

‘Should I not have done that?’

Tessa rolled over and put her hands flat against the door. It didn’t move. ‘You’ve locked us in.’

Joan laughed. ‘I can’t have done.’

‘You have. There’s no handle inside.’

The door wouldn’t give, whatever they tried. Tessa was laughing now, but differently, almost cruelly. She didn’t seem to care – she’d brought herself in here, hadn’t she? It was where she wanted to be. But Joan had things to do. Federico would be arriving. The lamb needed its rub.