Maybe Betty Travers enjoyed her unique reputation as a woman with rather unusual talents for healing and, in a village fête kind of way, predicting the future, and didn’t like any competition in the realm of strange powers. Now that Gina thought about it, that sounded plausible. If, by following the instructions in a book, Gina could cast spells, then anyone reading the book and performing the strange rituals set out in it could do the same. Betty Travers wouldn’t hold a special place in the village if everyone knew how easy it was.

Satisfied that Betty’s anger had been because she was jealously guarding her own position, Gina closed her eyes and took some calming breaths. Better now … In a minute she’d be ready to go back to the fête as if nothing had happened. But she’d avoid that old baggage Betty Travers. And she wouldn’t be taking any notice of what she’d said, either.

A series of sharp showers brought the fête to a prompt close. By five o’clock the garden was deserted of visitors and the committee were already taking down wet tents and gathering up props and garden furniture. George Stellion, wearing a mackintosh, helped by lending a hand and voiced encouragement and thanks.

Gina was taking some crockery back into the kitchen when she saw James coming downstairs with one of the bags he’d brought in from the car the previous day.

‘Are you leaving already?’ she asked.

‘Why, Gina? Would you mind if I were going?’

‘I’d know your bed needed stripping, that’s all I meant,’ she said.

‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you but I’ll be staying, at least tonight. But I thought I’d go to the pub.’

Gina looked at the bag but he didn’t explain. Instead he said, ‘Would you like to come – that is, if you aren’t too busy?’

‘As it happens I’m not busy at all this evening, once I’ve plated up the cold food Mrs Bassett put by earlier for your family. Can you give me a few minutes, please?’

‘Ten,’ he said seriously, looking at his watch.

Gina rushed off with the crockery and hurriedly put the cold food on platters in the larder. Then she ran to her room to apply the lipstick she’d stolen from the chemist’s in Great Grindle and to comb her hair.

When she came out of the front door, she half expected to see James had gone, but he was standing by his car, smoking a cigarette.

‘That’s what I like, a woman who can tell the time,’ he said, and opened the passenger door for her.