‘Right you are,’ James said, leaning back against the trunk and crossing one booted foot over the other.

They sat together quietly for a while, watching the snail make its slow journey towards a leaf. Eventually the minutes turned into hours. James was not made for sitting still and fidgeted beside her, but he didn’t leave. Beatrice later wondered whether he would have stayed in the tree all night if she’d done so.

Finally, though, the light powdered into dusk and she needed to use the bathroom so badly that she knew she had no choice but to return to the house. She tapped James on the shoulder and pointed at the ground to indicate she was going down. He scrambled to help her, which she appreciated as her legs had gone to sleep. Soon they both stood beneath the tree, whereupon James dropped to one knee to retie a loose shoelace.

‘When my mama died,’ he said, without looking up, ‘the adults were always saying that it would get easier.’

Beatrice knew that James’s mother was dead, but he never talked about her and she was surprised to hear him do so now.

‘That was a while ago,’ he went on. ‘And it’s still … well, I miss her. And I hate that she’s not here. I feel like there’s a big central piece that’s been ripped out of me. I think the grown-ups lie to try to make you feel better, but it isn’t true. It doesn’t get easier. But you do get stronger. And that’s … well. It’s something.’

Beatrice nodded. She was grateful to him for telling the truth, and for staying with her. She wished she could remain in the garden with James and the snails forever, but it was time to return to the house and the reality of whatever had happened there over the last few hours. Beatrice knew it would be nothing good. So she raised her hand in goodbye and made her way back across the grounds. The flowers were closing up their petals for the evening and the purple sky became a vast ballroom for the bats.

As soon as she stepped inside, Beatrice knew that her mother was dead. The house was loud with the echoing silence of dozens of stopped clocks, and every mirror was covered or turned to face the walls. After using the bathroom, she tried to slip away to her bedroom, but the servants must have been told to keep watch for her because she was soon summoned to her father’s study.

‘I am ashamed to call you my daughter today, Beatrice,’ he said in a voice as cold and hard as iron. ‘Refusing to say goodbye to your own mother. You wicked child! Because of you, she left this earth broken-hearted. I hope you are pleased with yourself.’