‘Zita and Kit.’ Uncle Jack spoke from the shadows. He was standing by the fireplace, bolt upright. He smiled at Tom and bowed, his frail body shaking somewhat. Behind his head was a painting of a young girl in a blue dress feeding grain to a caged songbird. There was a mirror in the cage, and you could see the girl’s face in it. ‘You will have to suffer them. It is my sincere regret that they are not kinder, but – well. There are reasons,’ he added, and then, as if forgetting what he was talking about, turned to look fully at Tom, and Tom was struck again by the grandeur and haggard beauty of his features. A huge bundle of keys rattled at his waist and he clicked them against each other deliberately. ‘Observe them, please, as I have asked you to do.’

‘You want me to report back on them?’ Tom felt a little uncomfortable at his uncle’s request.

The old man regarded him beadily. ‘You will decide that. Have you perceived anything?’

Uncle Jack went to look out of the window. Tom followed him, and leant against the sill, an arm’s length away. Outside the fields stretched.

‘Nothing.’

‘When you did the wards – was there anything unusual?’

‘Oh, nothing. We went round.’ Tom didn’t know what to say. Then he remembered. ‘Kit stopped once.’

‘He did, did he? Where did he stop?’

Tom considered. ‘I can’t quite remember … by a tree.’ It didn’t feel as if that could be a bad thing to report.

‘Well, then.’ Jack placed his hands on the stone windowsill and gazed outwards.

‘You’ll see them out there. I have tried to keep them back, all these long years.’ He sighed and his weariness was evident. Tom strained, but could only see the leaves of the trees rustling.

‘You mean Kit and Zita?’

‘No. They are getting closer. Inch by inch. And I am getting weaker.’

‘The people who shot the arrow? What Kit calls the “Folk”? Who – who are they?’

Jack sighed and gripped Tom by the shoulder. ‘Enemies. Long enemies. It is my duty to keep them out. Only a Swinton can do it. Had my eye on you. The last one. Had my eye on you for a long time.’ He coughed and went to a bureau, from which he pulled a roll tied up in a red ribbon. He slipped the ribbon off and rolled it out so that Tom could see.

A genealogy was inked on it. There was Tom’s father, William Swinton, with a little crossed pair of swords by his name, which Tom guessed showed he had died. There had been many Swintons branching off in past generations, but Tom’s father and grandfather were the only ones in theirs.

Jack took the scroll from him surprisingly gently and rolled it up, leaving Tom feeling as if he had missed something.