I passed down the valley as if in a dream. The chimneys of Iskar were smokeless, the windows empty but for reflection, and I thought of my own room and the fire that would surely have fallen cold and the corridor with its precarious light that would now remain unwalked but for the living.

I entered through the chapel door, aware of the way my boots clicked on the tiles and the damp smell of the air. I passed by the library and into the hall where the aroma of supper was turning stale.

I paused. It was so still. They had truly gone, to lie in the cold earth, while time ate away at flesh and bone, and my heart sagged with relief. Removing my gloves, I placed my hand on the banister and began to climb. At the top the corridor stretched without malice and even the patch of darkness that fell from the garret stairs did not make me afraid. Wind whispered cleanly through the eaves above, empty and untainted but for rotting wood and the crumbling nests of summer birds.

I paused to look in on Mary; her face so peaceful that I imagined she too understood the ghosts had been returned to death. In my own room, the curtains were open and the moon was beginning to sink behind the ridge. Its bright skin had dulled to a pale yellow. Below, the sea lay nearly motionless and somewhere on its bed, the bag of dolls and pebbles rocked against the tide. Dead, I thought. They are dead, and although it was early, I was not tired but wide awake.

For some time I lay between the chilled sheets, my thoughts revisiting the night, and flashes returned to me, the twitch of the dolls beneath the cloth and the strange, other-worldly sense I had experienced, as if I had been reborn into a different landscape.

I woke to the sense that the house felt different and I hummed to myself as I washed and dressed, pinning my hair up with extra clips. I thought of Clara and I was proud. This time, I had thrown myself into the heart of the dog fight. And Mary, this must work in her favour. I imagined the day now that she would speak, no longer haunted by ghosts. And that soul-piercing sight I had glimpsed in my head of Mary in the water and the words scrawled on a piece of paper I am going to die. Without Hettie to do harm, that too must surely hold no more threat.

Mary lay asleep, her face as smooth as cream, and a shiver of joy went through me. What could Hettie or Greer do now? She stirred and sat up, her hair as cloudy as sea foam. With all the horror banished, I thought, what other reason might there be for Mary to remain mute?