My fingers went to the locket which held my sister’s image. Of all my losses, it was hers that I thought of most, and as we drew further from the mainland the pain came again and stung as hard as it had in those early days.

I scarcely recall the journey, only that, as we neared the island, I climbed from the cabin to watch our approach.

I had been told that Skelthsea was beautiful but the reality stole my breath. Here was the hulk of cliff, the sweep of valley and, high up, a curving ridge that caught splinters of the dying sun. The beach was crowded with people waiting for the boat’s arrival, chests and parcels ready for transport back to the mainland.

Sitting atop a hill lay a house larger than the others. Smoke rose and wound about the gabled roof. I surmised that this must be Iskar, the place that would now be my home. Leaded windows framed many rooms and with the setting sun behind it, the house cast a long shadow beneath which gorse and scrub shivered in the autumn chill. I tried for a smile but my face was frozen. The boat drew up to the pier and the engine fell to silence.

‘Are you Miss Swansome, the new nanny?’ A man came aboard and took my cases. He did not smile.

I nodded and, without a word of introduction, he carried my bags from the boat and waited as I was helped on to the barnacled pier. It was warmer on land but afternoon had begun to pool in the curve of the bay. The villagers’ attention turned to me with nods and tentative looks whilst the children regarded me with open curiosity. In spite of the temperature, most were barefoot.

‘This way.’ The man walked ahead.

I tried to keep up, my feet slipping on shingle as we began the steep path to Iskar’s grounds. Rose bushes blackened by frost grew wild and spilled over crumbling walls. Borders that had once, no doubt, been colourful and abundant had been reclaimed by sea grass and saplings and I became conscious of the smells – fish and peat smoke and a thread of sweetness: heather or gorse.

‘Have you lived here long?’ I asked.

‘All my days.’ And his eyes wandered to the beach, where fingers of orange were spreading across the horizon.

‘And are you in service to Miss Gillies?’

‘Aye, since I was thirteen.’

Birds circled the ridge and I looked up; a woman stood, curly hair and skirt flying. For a few moments, I felt her eyes upon me, and then my companion’s feet began on the path once again.

Rounding a bend, we came to the house itself and I could see now the rot in the timbers and the crumbling of stone. The carvings on the gabled door were worn nearly flat like ink lines on an illustration.