‘You know, if you want some more information on the house, you could always ask Mrs Sparks. She’s the woman I’ve been talking to for my next book. She lived in the house as a child. She was one of the last people to live there, as a matter of fact. Until you guys showed up, anyway,’ Miranda says. ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.’

‘Where can I find her?’

‘She lives on the outskirts of the village. Here …’ Miranda takes out her phone and taps out a text. ‘This is her address. Pop your number in and I’ll send it over.’

I tap quickly, something like nerves fluttering in my chest. It feels like a lot to take in and I wish I had just asked Miranda before, instead of trying to find things online. ‘Thanks. Mina, we should go,’ I call, holding up the book, before slipping the one about witchcraft underneath it. ‘I should go and pay for this. The baby will need feeding soon.’

‘Take care, won’t you, Allie?’ After I hand over my money at the till, Miranda follows me out on to the High Street. ‘Be careful near the woods.’

Now, as I hurry into the house, I keep my eyes averted from the woods, the trees visible through the window on the upstairs landing as I head up there to the nursing chair to feed the baby, Mina following behind me with her new book. It’s no use though, as I pass by the glass, the air around me growing distinctly chillier as it always does up here, my eyes flicker towards the rustling green leaves, suddenly sure that I will see that flash of white moving quickly, silently, searching for something lost.

I rock the baby gently in the nursing chair as he feeds, my mind turning over everything Miranda said in the bookshop. I think of the pearls, imagining them at the throat of Agnes Gowdie, four hundred years earlier, and shake my head. There is no way the pearls I found around the cottage could ever have belonged to her. Agnes Gowdie. A witch. A murderer. Still here? Movement from the hallway catches my eye, a flicker of something swift and fleeting, and my heart leaps into my throat, my arms tensing. The baby is still feeding but his suckle has slowed and his mouth gently falls open. Something isn’t right. I blink stupidly, waiting for my brain to catch up, before I realize what it is, what is wrong. Mina is no longer at my feet. She’s gone, just like Agnes’s child. A spluttering flame of fear ignites as the realization dawns, as I lay the baby in the cot, and walk into the hallway, the air around my ankles chilly and brisk as if a draught is blowing.