Woody sat up straight and, to Nat’s distress, started to rake himself with his powerful claws. As he scratched, blood splashed copiously onto the rocks below, and the pellets Nat had not been able to reach plopped out in a gooey mess. He had another, much more pleasant, shock a few seconds later when he inspected Woody’s wounds.

“They’ve nearly healed already!” Nat exclaimed. “If you weren’t covered in blood, it would be as though the pellets had never been there.”

Woody flashed Nat a look as if to say, No biggie. Me, I get shot full of lead all the time. He shook himself and, as though waiting for Nat to get a grip, stood expectantly. He badly needed Iona and the sanctuary of Meade Lodge.

Nat was confident that Teddy Davis had gone — from the weird look on his face, he’d thought Davis was going to puke. As he and Woody made their way to East Valley, Nat was still in shock, but he was also very aware of how strange they both must look, stained maroon with Woody’s blood. He hoped they wouldn’t see too many people.

The reached Meade Lodge in a daze, without meeting anyone on the way. But when they got to the house, it possessed none of the sunlit splendor they’d seen just a couple of days ago. Sheltered from the morning sun, the mullioned windows seemed to gleam with crafty malevolence, as if someone unseen were watching them from within.

Nat stared in dismay at the sight that greeted them. The gates were ajar and badly charred; it looked like someone had set fire to them to force entry. The garden was deserted and still, all the life drawn out of it. As they approached the little herb garden at the back of the house, they saw the kitchen door hanging off-kilter from one hinge.

“Oh, no, look!” cried Nat, his knees wobbling. On closer inspection, the door appeared to have been ripped off: Deep grooves ran through the ancient wood, as though someone with a knife, or maybe — and Nat didn’t dwell on this — something with long claws, had raked it. Nat was comforted by Woody’s body language, his cocked ears and tail carried like a banner confirming his feeling that whatever had been here had gone. But where was Iona? Woody’s claws clicked on the stone floor as he led them through the ruined kitchen door and into the banquet hall.

There were no delicious spicy smells, no trace of the excitement they had felt on their first visit. Iona was the heart and soul of the house, and without her presence they might as well have been in a mausoleum.

“It’s so cold in here,” said Nat, shivering. “It’s like the house has died.”