‘Oh, is this your bed?’ Tom moved to tickle her under the chin, and she lay, luxuriously, allowing him to stroke her belly.

When he turned back to the door, Zita had gone. Tom unpacked his few belongings whilst the lurcher watched him, ears pricked up. Then, exhausted suddenly, he lay down on the bed next to her, and she curled into his side.

He was filled with a warmth he hadn’t felt for a long time. Maybe this was what he’d been looking for. Maybe this really was home. The house seemed to breathe gently around him, and the swaying of the trees outside lulled him. He drifted off into sleep, warmed by a patchwork silk-edged coverlet that he pulled over himself and the dog, her breathing steady, her legs twitching as she chased after deer in her dreams.

Chapter 5

18th April, 1846

The Samdhya see everything at once. He tried to explain to me, but I could not understand him. I told him my fears for the future. He said, ‘There is no future.’ I lost my pearl hatpin in the woods.

— From the diary of Margaret Ravenswood

Tom’s empty stomach woke him a couple of hours later. Downstairs, the grandfather clock chimed three times. The sun had come out fully now, and warm beams lay across the wooden floor and the dark red Persian rug that covered about half of it.

Leana had gone, and Tom, missing her, stumbled out onto the shadowy, dusty landing. A large spider scuttled away at his steps.

He wondered if there might be some family portraits or documents that he would be able to look into. Maybe there would be pictures of his father and grandfather. He hoped he might be able to find something; he knew so little about the Swintons.

Many wooden doors led off the corridor, and a rickety flight went up to what he assumed must be an attic. He had a curious sense that there were more doors than there had been when Zita had shown him to his room. There was plenty to explore, plenty to occupy him for the summer.

The whole house was lit with warmth. Delicious cooking smells were coming from somewhere, and he paused at the foot of the attic stairs, his stomach leading him on. He sprang down, hoping to find the kitchen.

On the other side of the entrance hall was a door that led into a bright, sunlit kitchen. It was kitted out like any farmhouse kitchen, with a large sink and a range. Pots and pans hung from hooks, and bunches of herbs. The scent was pleasant and welcoming.

Zita was sitting at the table, eating stew from a willow-patterned china bowl with a silver spoon, and Kit was with her. Zita nodded at a chipped bowlful on the table, and Tom helped himself, filling a bowl to the brim with the soft-looking meat and dark gravy.