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candles, the coffin rested on the table in the hall. She would always remember the sickly-sweet aroma of lilies, strewn and wilting upon the floor. Hesitating, she lifted her lantern and tiptoed towards the coffin. She closed her eyes and, squeezing them tightly, lifted the lid. When she opened her eyes, her brother was there, amongst the waxen flowers, his arms crossed upon his chest, his face as grey and immobile as her dolls’. When she put out her hand to touch him, he was cold like marble. Recoiling, she let the lid fall and ran from the room. She hid in the corner of her sister’s bedroom, her arms folded around her knees as she rocked to and fro.
    ‘They have all lied to me,’ she whispered.
    The following day they buried John. To the villagers who lined the street they made a small sad procession: Lady Keyt, inconsolable in black lace; Miss Byrne, walking with a poker back and an unfathomable expression; Dorothy, who dragged Hastings along the ground, letting his coat trail in the mud; and Thomas, who held his sister’s hand within his own. Sir William refused their help and carried the coffin alone.
    As the wind tugged at his coat and scattered the funeral flowers, Dorothy wondered why her father rebuffed them. They all suffered. Did he think that he had the exclusive right to unhappiness?
    After a simple service her father lifted the coffin once more. They followed him along the nave and over the graves of their forefathers, but when they reached the chancel steps he turned.
    ‘Stay here,’ he commanded. ‘I wish to be on my own.’ When he finally emerged from the newly built vault Dorothy ran to his side.
    ‘Not now, Dorothy. Not now.’ If he saw her tears, he ignored them. He strode down the aisle, slamming the church door behind him.
    The months aged Lady Keyt. Small lines formed around her mouth, and the clothes which once skimmed her body now hung in loose folds. When Dorothy tried to talk to her she would answer vaguely, ‘Not now, Dotty, later.’
    Every day, Lady Keyt went to the nursery and selected John’s clothes.
    ‘You will launder them as usual,’ she instructed the maid, ‘and each morning you will lay the fire.’ The intention behind her words saddened Ruth, but she did as she was told.
    ‘What are doing, Ann? Why torture yourself?’ William said as he entered the room. ‘He is gone. John is never coming back.’
    She nodded at her husband. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. They need to be aired, that is all.’
    ‘But you never did this before. Why are you doing it now? He’s dead, for God’s sake.’ He pushed the rocking horse, letting it swing to and fro. ‘Come out of here, Ann. It’s time you took care of the rest of your family!’
    When he had gone, banging the door behind him, she sighed and lay on the child’s bed. The ceiling spun around her. It must be the medicine, she thought. How soft the bed was, how cosy for John. Her mind wandered.
    ‘I have seen three of those birds this week, Mama. What is it?’ John’s hand tugged at her dress.
    ‘It’s a kite, my darling,’ she had replied, shading her eyes to look up at the large bird that circled above them. ‘Do you see the forked tail? Once upon a time they were admired, now they are killed as vermin.’
    ‘We don’t kill them here, do we?’
    ‘Of course not. How could we, when our own name is Keyt? Listen to them, to their strange mewing call. Since the time of King Alfred the Great, we have been linked to this majestic bird by name and by legend.’
    ‘Tell me the story, Mama. Please tell me.’
    ‘Yes, my love. Lean against my shoulder and I’ll begin.’
    When Ann opened her eyes it was dark; she hadn’t seen Lizzie and she hadn’t thought about her younger daughter at all.
    It seemed to Dorothy that no one wanted her. Her mother’s universe had narrowed to the confines of Lizzie’s bedroom; and if she felt guilty at her own survival, with one son dead, and one daughter a cripple, she seemed to have