The police ordered everyone to convene at the Black Castle. There was more room there. The de Courcys were pleased by that; it gave them an element of control over the proceedings, or so they believed. The castle was their fortress. And they needed it. Their unblinking self-confidence had been shaken. There were things they could not control. There were miracles their money could not buy.

Auberon de Courcy stood before a roaring fire, eyeing the assembled throng. Anne de Courcy sat with James on a small green sofa. She had her son’s hand clamped in hers like she’d never let go. She kept flicking him glances as if she didn’t quite believe he was there. James smiled back at her, squeezed her hand. He looked exhausted and cold but strangely tranquil in the way that those who have overcome appalling danger sometimes can be. His sister, Lady Alicia, sat beside the fire, glancing nervously from her father to her brother.

Caradoc and Elinor Owen sat on a plush plum-coloured velvet sofa flanking Merry. They looked worn out, ecstatic, relieved, and fiercely protective.

Gawain snuggled in Merry’s arms, warming her. He beamed up at his sister and gazed around the big room in wide-eyed curiosity.

Merry felt deliriously exhausted and relieved. The ruthlessness that she had drawn on, that had gushed up inside her when needed, was hidden back down deep inside.

Mrs Baskerville, still wearing her apron and a look of stubborn determination, hovered by the door, trying to make herself invisible. Nothing was going to keep her out of the room.

Seren Morgan sat in a tub chair, glancing from Merry to James with her quiet scrutiny. The local policeman, PC Griffiths, stood, feet planted, arms folded behind his back, off to the left of the Earl de Courcy. He was flanked by the two senior detectives who had been responsible for the major manhunt to find Merry Owen and James de Courcy: Detective Inspector Williams and Detective Constable Evans.

‘So, let me get this straight,’ began DI Williams nasally. ‘Having spoken to you both separately, what I’m to gather from each of your stories is the following: Merry Owen and Lord James ran away four nights ago. You slept rough in the mountains because you both like living rough so much.’ At this the detective raised his eyebrow and scanned the opulent drawing room, all velvets, brocades, Persian rugs and oil paintings . . .

‘Then, on the fifth day, you decide you’ve tortured your families enough and you come back. Seren Morgan, out for a drive, finds you hiking back along the road on a black Arab stallion with a fleece top as a halter, both of you in filthy costumes, looking fit to drop, covered in cuts and scratches like you’ve been in a brawl.’ Williams raised his arms in a shrug of disbelief.

Merry and James just nodded.

‘But back to first things. Your disappearance,’ continued the detective, eyes flicking between them.

They said nothing. It was the countess who spoke.

‘Why?’ she asked in a desolate voice. She gave James’s hand a shake, as if to liberate the truth. ‘Why?’

James looked deeply uncomfortable. Twelve people turned to him. Even Gawain was riveted.

Finally, he uttered a kind of strangled sound. ‘I can’t say. Just can’t say.’

‘Can’t. Or won’t?’ asked Williams. ‘You need to answer for the heartache you’ve caused. Not to mention the manpower used searching for you.’

‘It’s not like that!’ shouted Merry. ‘Don’t blame him.’

‘No!’ agreed the countess in a voice of ice. ‘Don’t blame my son!’ She pointed at Merry. ‘Blame her! She’s a bad influence on my son. Always was!’

Elinor Owen jumped to her feet. ‘How dare you! Don’t you dare judge my daughter!’

‘Quiet! Please. Stop it!’ Now James de Courcy was on his feet. Gawain looked from participant to participant with goggling eyes. This was huge fun, the grown-ups shouting.

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ James told his mother.

The countess’s mouth dropped open. She moved to say something but the earl clamped his hand on her arm and gave her a warning look.

‘Merry and I ran away to have an adventure. Simple as that. Nothing else went on.’

‘And it’s going to stay that way!’ declared the countess, wriggling out of her husband’s grip. ‘As from now, you two shall never meet!’

‘Well, that’ll keep them happily to their homes, won’t it?’ observed Seren.

The countess turned on her. ‘So what would you do, then?’

‘I would let them be free. Let them follow their destiny,’ she declared.

The earl raised his eyebrows almost to his receding hairline. ‘What the devil does that mean?’ he asked crisply.

But Seren just smiled. She saw the images in her mind as time scrolled forward: the portrait hanging in the hall: the blonde beauty, part witch, part horse whisperer, part longbow girl; the one-eyed countess . . . In this very drawing room, she saw James and Merry, in their sixties, just as much in love as ever, chatting animatedly with their five children.

The images swirled and disappeared. She looked at the young James and Merry. She wondered if they had any inkling. She’d seen the love in their eyes when she found them riding back along the road, but she wasn’t sure either of them acknowledged it. She supposed that for them, living in the moment was going to be just fine.