I look to the baby monitor, where red arcs across the buttons and then I register the thin wail coming from upstairs. ‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘I was miles away. He probably needs feeding.’ But Rav doesn’t respond, already lost in legalese. I run upstairs to where the baby shouts in the cot, his tiny face growing red and sweaty and I scoop him close to me, latching him on before I’ve even sat in the nursing chair. ‘Shhhh,’ I soothe him, running my finger over the tiny dome of his bald head as he suckles greedily. I close my eyes, just enjoying the weight of him in my arms, when a thin breeze wraps its way around my ankles, and I remember the loft hatch. It’s still open. Rav was so eager to get back to his laptop that neither of us thought to close it. I let the baby finish feeding, change him, and tuck him back into the cot before heading out onto the landing and stepping onto the ladder.

The attic space is a little cooler now, and I half wish I had worn a cardigan as I crouch on the floor beside the tip of the feather. I’m not sure why it seems important to find out why the feather won’t just slide out, but as I tug at it again, I meet the same resistance. Something thunks against the underside of the floorboard, the feather stopping dead. Shining the flashlight of my phone onto the feather, I see there is what looks like a piece of string tied around the bottom of it.

Curiouser and curiouser. A beat of excitement pulses through me and I scrabble for the edge of the floorboard. When we moved in, I hoped that we would find something hidden away somewhere, a little piece of the past, and maybe this is it. Or maybe it’s just a feather and some string, a bit of old rubbish that slipped down between the floorboards. My fingernails bend back slightly as I tug the loose board away, almost losing the feather in the gap as it slips free, driving a splinter into my forefinger.

‘Shit,’ I whisper under my breath, raising my finger to my mouth. I taste blood, wrinkling my nose as I swallow. Sliding my other hand into the gap I pull out a tangle of string. Attached on one end is the feather and at the other is a stone with a hole in the middle, carefully tied to the bottom. Hag stone. The words feel familiar as they rise to my lips, as if I have heard them many times before. In between the hag stone and the feather sit two iron keys, spotted with rust. I turn them over in my hands, the keys leaving orange smudges on my fingers, the tang of metal in the air.