‘Sorry. It was nothing. My mistake. Goodnight.’

He grabs me and bundles me back into the room.

‘What the hell –’

He silences me with a look, then puts his arm around my shoulder and closes the door. We stand and listen to the groan of the staircase as my mother walks up the stairs, followed by the creak of the landing and the click of her door closing. He holds me tightly, so close I can feel the warmth of his body through my nightdress, and I pull away. Tom is going back to the mainland tomorrow. Whatever happens, I need to get used to being here by myself.

‘You heard someone scratching at the door, didn’t you?’ he asks.

‘Yes, but my mum was downstairs.’

‘I’ve been thinking. She must have been standing to one side so that I couldn’t see her. She had time to creep back down the stairs while we were talking.’

‘But why?’

‘I don’t know. To make us believe whatever crazy stuff she does. To make us think there’s something in the house.’

‘Like what?’ I glance into the murky corners of the room and wonder if he feels it too: that we’re being watched. He shakes his head and whispers, ‘The shadows she keeps talking about, the thing she’s been writing about in her diary – these demons.’

He points at the bookcase. ‘I’ve no idea what’s going on in your mum’s head, but these books can’t be helping.’ He walks over to his bed and gets in. ‘It doesn’t make sense. I mean, if you thought you were under attack from demons, would you take up witchcraft?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘If your mum’s not a witch, she’s doing a good impression of one.’

I jump into bed and pull up the covers. I don’t know why a group of witches would want to hurt me, but my mother is only trying to protect me. Besides, what does Tom know? Just because he’s spent an hour reading about the occult doesn’t make him an expert.

He adds more forcefully, ‘Come on, most people would use a Bible or a crucifix to protect themselves. Or they’d call in a priest.’

‘Are you religious?’

‘No, but I’m seriously thinking about taking it up.’

I make a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort of derision, and he turns over and props himself up on one elbow. He looks at me earnestly, his voice serious. ‘Your mum needs help, Ivy. Maybe the boatman can tell us something. He must know her history. Perhaps he can put us in touch with her doctor or someone else in the family.’

I purse my lips, feeling it would be a betrayal of my mum, but maybe I should go and see the boatman. I could confront him with my mother’s story about witches and ask him outright. He was happy enough to talk about the folklore of the island before; even if he hasn’t seen anything himself he can tell me what the other islanders believe.