‘Evangeline was always the most beautiful, even before Miss Gillies’ accident.’ Her gaze lingered on her friend and although only in black and white, the colour of their happiness lifted from the paper and into the room. I could see its cheerful memory reflected on Mrs Argylle’s face. In the background, wind bent the sea grass where William and Mary were crouched over patch of sand in matching sailor suits.

The next was of the twins looking to be seven or so. Seeing Mary gave me a pang; the girl here was not the one I knew. This was a child with an open, interested expression and joy on her lips, unrecognizable from my charge.

‘That is their house, Gulls Cry,’ Mrs Argylle said, pointing to the cottage behind. ‘They lived there until Evangeline died and then moved to Iskar. It’s the one along the far end of the sands.’

I looked at it with interest. Mary and I passed it most days. Further back at the entrance, a figure stood on the path with a jug. I did not need colour to know that her hair was red. It was Hettie. She wore a top with a round lace collar and her hair was so loosely held that tendrils fell about her cheeks. The camera caught her looking up and I was able to meet her eyes, black in her white face. It seemed to me that her gaze passed through the paper and fixed me in its sights. She did not smile but her lips were full and well shaped, her figure good. She was prettier here even than in the photograph I had been sent by Miss Gillies. At her throat was a large cameo; one of her fingers touched the rim as if advertising her prize.

Mrs Argylle laughed. ‘How she loved her brooch. It was a fine piece, an heirloom,’ but her expression was playful and I wondered if she believed that Hettie had acquired it in another manner.

I thought of Hettie, the way her confidence showed in that direct look she paid the lens. She was not like me, I thought. She seemed like one for whom life had been easier and she had not had to question much.

Light was beginning to fail and the room was seeping into darkness. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed.

‘Goodness, is that the time?’ she said.

I rose, reluctant to leave. As if reading me, she took my hand warmly.

‘I like you, Miss Swansome,’ she said. ‘I am pleased that you have come to live amongst us.’