The porridge was almost cold. My stomach rumbled. Ellen was watching me anxiously.

‘Is it all right?’

‘Delicious,’ I mumbled, chewing on a big lump of oats. At least the tea washed it down.

She smiled. ‘Mama is out of spirits today,’ she said, sliding onto the kitchen bench beside me. ‘She has taken a chill. Mrs Grant is sitting with her. But she is anxious to meet you, Catriona. I promised to take you up directly after you had eaten.’

I had done my best with the porridge, and, remembering that Mrs Grant was supposed to have brought food with her that morning from Kinlochewe, looked around hopefully for something else to eat.

‘Did you wish for oat cakes?’ Ellen asked. ‘There is some homemade marmalade.’

There was a smidgeon of butter to cover the cake, and some whisky marmalade which, once I had scraped the mould from the top of it, proved surprisingly tasty. I wondered how Mrs Grant had taken the whisky bottle away from my Uncle Ebeneezer for long enough to put some into the marmalade.

‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ Ellen said, and I nodded, mouth full.

‘We take luncheon at eleven and dinner at four,’ she continued. ‘As I said yesterday, we keep early hours.’

‘Shall I wash the pots?’ I asked, gesturing to the sink.

Ellen looked horrified. ‘Gracious, no! Mrs Grant does the pots. No, no…Mama is waiting, and she becomes a little impatient.’

I left the pots for poor Mrs Grant, who it appeared had no maid to help her about the place, and we hurried upstairs. I had the impression that my aunt must be a tyrant, ruling the house from her bed. Ellen was certainly anxious that she should not be kept waiting any longer.

Aunt Madeline occupied the room opposite mine, and when the door swung open it was like stepping into a fairy tale boudoir frozen in time. The bed, the delicate cherrywood wardrobe, the linen chest, the dressing table crowded with beautifying pots and potions…They were all tiny, fragile pieces of furniture. A collection of china dolls with pretty painted faces sat crowded together in a rocking chair. The drapes that kept out the sunlight were thin and fraying, their bright colours faded. And Aunt Madeline was faded, too—a golden beauty whose colour had drained to grey. At last I could see from where Ellen had inherited her glowing prettiness. Aunt Madeline must have been an accredited beauty in her day.

The room was stiflingly hot, for a fire burned in the grate even though it was high summer. All the windows were closed, sealed shut with cobwebs.

Aunt Madeline was sitting propped against lace-trimmed pillows, and when we knocked at the door she turned her plump, fallen face in our direction and bade us come close. She had been crooning softly to one of the china dolls, which she held in the crook of her arm. Everything about her drooped, from the lacy nightcap on her curls to her mouth, which had a discontented curve. She did not smile to see me.

‘So,’ she said, ‘you are Davie Balfour’s daughter. Come closer, child, so that I can look at you.’

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