Zita blew out her cheeks, rustling her fringe, and delicately ate a red berry. Then, when she saw that Tom would not be put off, she said, ‘There is a storm, you see. A storm in the world, and Jack is at the centre of it. James Swinton, Esquire, has something that belongs to the Samdhya, and they want it. They think that because you are of his blood you are going to help him and keep it all locked up, and they will never be able to get it back. They haven’t dared to attack fully – they know what will happen if they do. Watch what happens today.’

‘What will happen?’ asked Tom.

For once, the light expression left Zita’s eyes, replaced by a look of deep sorrow. ‘Oh, Tom.’ She touched his hand, gently and then withdrew it quickly.

‘What does he have? I don’t understand.’

Zita sipped her drink, touching her teeth with her tongue briefly. ‘One of them, Tom. He’s got one of them, captured.’

‘One of the Samdhya? Why? What for?’

‘It will come to you, after all.’ Zita stood and brushed down her red dress. She adjusted the scarf around her neck. ‘It’s important to look elegant, don’t you think? Even despite it all.’

‘You’re not answering my question.’

‘Wouldn’t we all want it? Wouldn’t you want it?’ Tapping her slender white fingers against the sides of her glass, she sighed. ‘Life, Tommy boy. Life. Life that lasts for as long as the Samdhya. As long as the sun and the moon.’

She went back to the pile of books, took a heavier tome up and passed it to him. It was a ledger, open at a particular page which had been marked down with a leather bookmark.

It was a parish register, inked in careful writing, faded now with age. She placed a finger under a name, then read it out.

‘Here we are. James Swinton. Father, William Swinton, gentleman. Mother, Anne Greenwood, daughter of Thomas Greenwood, worsted weaver. Place of birth, Mundham, Suffolk. Date of birth: fourteenth of March, in the year of our Lord, 1543.’

‘An ancestor,’ said Tom. ‘My ancestor. My father’s ancestor.’

Outside, the bird scarers. Inside, Zita’s gentle breath, her head bent towards him. Tom calculated. His thoughts whirled.

‘Perhaps that’s enough for today.’ Zita raised her eyebrows and closed the ledger, placing it gently down on a pile, and took a long swig of her drink, so that the ice tinkled against the sides of the glass.

The house seemed to bend and shift around Tom. He clutched onto a beam for support and then felt his knees trembling. ‘The drink – did you put something in it?’

‘Absolutely not, darling.’ Zita shook her head. ‘It’s a lot to grasp.’