With her mum at her elbow, Merrin stood on wobbly legs, her feet feeling strangely disjointed, as if she had no control of them. With her parents either side of her, each holding an arm, keeping her upright, and her lily-of-the-valley bouquet now abandoned on the vestry floor, she stepped into the porch and out into the light of day. Her two beautiful bridesmaids were standing where she had left them. Their expressions of sorrow were at odds with their pretty lilac dresses. The cart, too, looked a little sorrowful, stripped of its beautiful flowers, but she thought it fitting. Word had obviously spread and with this realisation came a flush of hot shame that coloured her face.

The vicar flapped up and down the path, his long black cassock billowing as he moved. He seemed to be doing a good job of clearing the church grounds, waving off friends and neighbours, all of whom were staring at the floor or each other, seemingly at a loss as to what to do next. Embarrassed on her behalf. This she understood: they, like her, had expected a day of celebration, of fine food, good wine and a night of dancing, but instead they were being asked to go home without so much as a slice of wedding cake. Her dad checked the coast was clear as he guided her out along the path. She leant on him, unable to trust her body to stay upright without such a prop. Ruby and Bella ran forward, their tears loud and their distress raw. They held her, touched her hair and kissed her face, placing their arms around her shoulders as they murmured gently to her.

Little baby, it’ll all be okay . . . We’ve got you, Merry, we are right here . . . Let’s get you home . . . It will all be okay . . . Are you cold, doll?

Their words sounded to her like they were being spoken underwater, her breathing was loud in her ears and she could hardly remember how to take a step. She kicked off her shoes and left them on the path, barefoot now on the tarmac, just how she preferred it, grounded and able to feel the earth, warm beneath her feet.

Are you? Are you cold, doll?

It was only this repeated question that made her realise her limbs were trembling and her teeth chattering, but no, she wasn’t cold, more . . . in pain. She felt broken. Her chest hurt. Raising her fingertips, she ran them over the front of her dress and up to her throat, just to check that nothing was actually lodged there and no one had noticed; she would have been quite unsurprised to find a dagger, hilt-deep, sitting squarely in her breast.

‘Where’s the ladder?’ her gran called, drawing their attention to the fact that it was quite a step up for an old girl like her.