‘Back stairs,’ barked Mrs Thwaite, pointing the way. Then, as Gina passed in front of her to reach the green door, she hissed, ‘And don’t you ever forget your place in future, Gina Arnold.’

Gina didn’t answer or look back, but went through the door, glad of the cooler air on the staircase against her burning face. She went down the corridor, past the kitchen and to the door at the end, which opened into the courtyard where the outbuildings were. She wheeled out the bicycle and pedalled away, not looking round, knowing she’d been well and truly bested by the housekeeper this time.

Mrs Stellion was usually very friendly – less so today because she was busy – but now Gina felt as if she’d had a wake-up call. She had thought she had a way into the lives of those at the Hall, only to have it brought home to her that she was merely the girl who walked the dog – the dog’s servant, as Mrs Thwaite had implied. Dora had the run of the house and was trusted, after many years of service, and Ellen was learning a proper trade and, from what Gina had seen of her in the garden, was going about it in a very competent manner. But she … oh, it was too bad: sacked by Mrs Beveridge and now practically thrown out of the Hall by the housekeeper. For a moment she wondered if she would bother going back this afternoon, but it was Mrs Stellion she answered to, and it was possible that the lady neither knew nor cared that her dog walker had sat down in her conservatory. Gina decided it would be worth returning to see how the land lay.

In the meantime she had a few hours alone at the cottage until it was time for Coco’s afternoon walk. She had avoided taking the little book of spells out from its hiding place since the incident with the sheep. Events had run away with her then, and she had felt unsettled by the suspicion that the power she could muster was not entirely under her control. Now, though, passing time had blunted her fear, and she decided she needed a little help if she were to teach Mrs Thwaite the lesson she deserved. She arrived at the cottage, unlocked the door and rushed upstairs to consult her book.

‘Good grief, Gina. What on earth is that awful smell?’ asked Ellen. ‘It’s like a singed perm, but it doesn’t look as if you’ve burned your hair,’ she said, staring at Gina’s long brown curls, which looked just the same as usual.

‘It must be bleach,’ said Gina, thinking fast. ‘I got a mark on my shirt and I’ve been trying to get it off.’