It was quite large. There were paintings on the walls and a fireplace with a fire blazing, despite the season, brocaded chairs on either side. There was a smell of damp. He suddenly felt the cold and rubbed his arms. The silver-haired boy had vanished. Four lit candles stood on a windowsill. He stood uncertainly, his bag clutched in his hand.

A voice came from the shadows.

‘Thomas Swinton. Welcome, Thomas Swinton. Welcome home at last.’

The hall filled with his name.

Two people were standing on the further side.

‘Isn’t Kit a darling?’ drawled another voice, and one of them came forwards. ‘How splendid!’ It was a girl, with short dark hair tied with a white bow, wearing a black dress that didn’t look like it should be worn on a farm. She was thin and pale and had huge dark shadows under her eyes. ‘Oh, how spiffing, what fun we shall have!’ She clapped her hands and twirled. ‘What a party we shall make!’ She looked Tom up and down, making him feel uncomfortable. There was something familiar about her eyes. ‘I do hope your journey wasn’t too unbearable.’

Tom felt his tongue seem to grow thick. ‘Just now – an arrow, shooting at us? Shooting at – me?’ Nobody shot arrows any more – did they? Maybe it was some re-enactment thing. He’d seen pictures in the papers of men and women dressing up in the uniforms of armies gone by. Civil War stuff, maybe, or even further back. This was exactly the kind of place where they would do such things, he thought. It might even have been some costume drama, using the house as a backdrop. But there hadn’t been any vans or cameras.

The other person stepped forwards, and for a moment Tom’s heart rose. Something in the lineaments of the man’s face reminded him of his father: the way that the eyes, round and bright, were set above high cheekbones, the long, pale tapering hands, the set of the shoulders. He faltered.

It was obviously James Swinton. The girl’s lip curled faintly as James put a hand on her shoulder. He wore fawn britches and long white stockings and a white shirt that sagged loosely around his thin frame, with black leather shoes whose long tongues poked upwards.

‘Come nearer,’ whispered James. There was a strange, haggard beauty to his face. His cheeks were hollow, his blue eyes bright with energy, his hair white and thick.

‘You’re a Swinton all right,’ said James. The man’s voice was soothing. ‘Come nearer.’

Tom, a little relieved, inched forwards until he was within arm’s reach.

James peered and took Tom’s chin between his fingers and thumb.