‘Can I ask you for a favour?’ I said. ‘I need to get inside the clubhouse. Reckon you could scoot back inside and open the door for me?’

Anneke lifted her dimpled chin. I could see her weighing up the advantages and disadvantages of helping me. She was probably working out which option would annoy her father more. The tension between them sparked and hummed, crackling with its own force-field.

‘If you help me,’ I said, ‘I’ll show you how to dye that jumper properly.’

She eyed me suspiciously. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘for starters, if you use a bigger saucepan next time, you won’t get such a splotchy result. You’ll be giving the dye a chance to settle into the fabric nice and evenly. And you could probably let the clothes stay in a bit longer. I’d leave a cotton jumper like that in for no less than an hour and a half, minimum. It helps if you have a friend. I imagine that’s how witches did it back in the old days. When they got tired of stirring their magical potions, they asked one of their coven-sisters to take over so they could give their arms a rest.’

I broke off, letting the idea sink in. It’s always a risk, negotiating with teenagers. After a moment, Anneke smiled and I experienced a dizzying rush of triumph.

‘Okay,’ she said.

Lowering her pack to the ground, she heaved herself back up onto the windowsill and appeared in the open doorway a minute later. Thanking her, I picked up her bag and held it out. It was heavier than I thought; the strap slipped from my grasp. There was a crash as beer cans spilled from the bag’s open neck and rolled away in every direction. Anneke swore and scrambled after them. I tried to help, but she snatched up the cans before I could touch them. Shoving them roughly back into the bag, she stood up to face me, her expression defiant.

‘I guess it’s too early for spirits,’ I joked.

She didn’t laugh.

‘Just so you know,’ I said, ‘I can keep a secret. I’m famous for it, in fact. And I grew up on this island. I remember how boring it can be. I’m planning to stick around for a while. Your dad says you’re good at sewing. I am, too. I could show you some things, if you want, some techniques I’ve learned over the years. Or we could just talk.’

‘Why would I want to talk to you?’ she said coldly. ‘I don’t even know you.’