“I can’t believe you’re here! I’m so happy!” She dances from foot to foot and I suddenly feel … wanted. The feeling is so unfamiliar that it swamps me, too big for me to quite understand. I suppose I’m more used to feeling like I am in the way. I swallow and give myself a mental shake. I must be overwrought from the journey.

“I’m so happy too,” I say, pulling her towards me for another hug, resting my cheek against her blonde curls. “And you’ve grown!”

Hero laughs. “I should hope so. It has been three years, you know.” I remember the last time I saw her at her mother’s funeral, pale and pinched and small under all the black clothing that hung heavy on her slender frame.

“And it’s a good job too,” my cousin continues now. “Fancy being stuck with a name like Hero and being so short. What an embarrassment.”

Ah yes, Aunt Thea had been quite a fan of the tale of Hero and Leander – especially the part where the two lovers are punished for their “promiscuity” by being killed off. That woman never missed an opportunity to revel in the misfortune of others. I glance at my cousin – her easy good nature could not be more different from her mother’s.

“Don’t keep her out there all night, Hero!” a bluff, cheerful voice calls and we look back to face the doorway.

I turn and move forward to greet my uncle, heading through the open door and into a well-lit hallway that leaves me blinking as my eyes adjust. The room is chamber-like, with high stone walls and a brightly woven rug on a flagstone floor. A large wooden chandelier hangs above us like an enormous old carriage wheel: a touch of the old, though the lights attached to it buzz with electricity. Several doors lead off this room and I’m already itching to open them and explore what lies behind. The huge stone staircase that dominates the hall climbs one flight and then forks into two different directions, smooth, broad steps snaking away into the darkness.

It is chilly in here, almost the same temperature as it is outside. I turn to face my uncle and see that he is smiling. He also looks younger than the last time I saw him, stouter and happier with a rough red beard. I do remember him being fractionally warmer than his frosty wife, which is certainly not saying much – I think a block of ice would be warmer than Aunt Thea was – but I certainly don’t remember him being as relaxed and rumpled as he is now. In my mind’s eye I picture him, neat and particular. I hesitate, not quite sure how to greet him, but before I can decide on the appropriate words he folds me into a hug.