The man gestured out towards the farm. “The machines in the fields are quite fascinating, and very unusual for a remote farm like this, if you don’t mind my saying – and I’m certain the engineer who made those,” he glanced down at the note again, “Francis, would be very keen to find out more about my offer.”

Hearing his name again sent Prue’s mind into overdrive, the thoughts of what had happened closing in, the lights turning out in her head. She forced it away.

“I’m afraid there is no one here who would be interested.”

Prue desperately wanted to jump out and say that she’d made the machines too, but it was as though she suddenly had her own restraining lock on.

“Oh, that is a shame,” said Craftsman Primrose.

Mrs Haywood didn’t answer him. Dad would maybe have invited him in at least.

“It’s getting rather late. I’m looking for bed and board. Do you happen to have…?”

“I’m afraid we don’t take in strangers.”

“Perhaps you know of a local establishment?”

“There’s an inn back in Staplefield.”

“There’s nowhere closer?”

“It’s the nearest there is.”

Apart from the bed and breakfast lodge in North Owlcot, Prue thought.

Craftsman Primrose put the card back in his pocket. “You really do have some impressive machinery on the farm. It would be a pity for young inventing talent to—”

“Good day to you, sir. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of help.”

Craftsman Primrose dipped his head respectfully, turned, and began walking back down the path. Mrs Haywood watched him until he was out of sight, then she exhaled a long breath. Prue pushed herself deeper into the shadows as her mum took a few steps outside of the doorway and turned in her direction, towards the west field.

“Proo-ue!” she called, in a sing-song voice. “Tea’s on the table!” Then she sighed and said under her breath, “It’s for the best.”

There was the soft click of the latch closing and the waft of warm sourdough loaf. Prue counted to twenty, making sure her mum was well out of hearing range, then she ran down the path. Craftsman Primrose had already disappeared around the bend in the lane. Prue began jogging after him, but a flicker of silver caught her eye in the wall. She slowed to a stop, then pulled out the card and a rolled-up piece of paper that was beside it.

The card was a beautiful shade of midnight, embossed with a silver symbol: three interlaced arcs enclosed in a circle. She flipped it over – in silver print it stated:

Charles Primrose

Craftsman of the

Imperial Personifate Guild of Medlock

By appointment of the Sovereign Chancellery

Prue unrolled the note. In neat handwriting it simply said: I leave for Medlock tomorrow morning.