Braxton Balfour looked at his watch. By his calculations he’d have just enough time to drive to the cottage and back before the afternoon games, provided the parcel was ready. He rushed down the path, through the woodland glade and across the lawns to the courtyard and then down to the kitchen, where he picked up the hamper that was waiting by the door.

He dashed to the garages behind the stables and jumped into a tiny red hatchback, then tore off down the driveway. As the crow flew, the cottage was just up and over the ridge, nestled in the valley below and shielded by a dense thicket. But on the ground it was a forty-five-minute round trip that involved negotiating six locked farm gates. There were days when Braxton happily made the trek over the hill, but not today. Mr Langley was already in a foul mood and the man didn’t need any more excuses to bay for Braxton’s blood.

It all began a month ago, when Vincent Langley had spent a short stint in hospital for an emergency appendectomy. Mrs Marmalade had taken Braxton with her to the cottage one afternoon and had given him explicit instructions to pick up a package from the gate every Saturday. He was to tell no one and, in return, Her Majesty would look favourably upon him. The trouble was that it had been a job previously assigned to Mr Langley, and it didn’t go down too well when the head butler returned to service and discovered that a former role of his had been usurped. Though Langley never said as much, it was obvious he resented the younger man.

He frequently made outrageous demands on Braxton’s time, often requiring that he complete jobs well after the rest of the household had gone to bed. But Braxton was determined not to let it get to him. He had wanted to be the Queen’s butler ever since a very special visitor had taken tea with his parents when he was a boy. Langley was getting on, and although he said he didn’t plan to retire anytime soon, Braxton was sure Her Majesty would insist upon it one of these days.

Braxton drove as quickly as he dared, hopping out to open and close the gates. He hoped the parcel would be there. If it wasn’t, when he’d have time to go back later was anyone’s guess, given that Langley had him on games duties in addition to finalising preparations for the ball.

He parked the car in the usual place next to the oak tree with a giant knotted branch and walked to the edge of an overgrown garden. To the naked eye the undergrowth was impenetrable, but Braxton knew where the vines gave up their stranglehold and pushed his way through. Once on the other side, the grounds opened up to a surprisingly pristine cottage that was bordered by a low stone wall.

There was something odd about the whole picture but Braxton had long ago come to understand that it was not his place to ask questions. He didn’t even have an inkling about the contents of the packages he collected, nor of the inhabitants of the cottage. As a butler of the highest order, his job was to do as he was bid and ensure complete confidentiality.

Braxton walked over to the gate and looked inside the rusted metal cabinet. Annoyed to find the parcel wasn’t inside, he paused to consider what to do next. Mrs Marmalade had been very clear that he was never to approach the house or try to talk to the inhabitants, but this was an emergency. If Braxton didn’t get back soon, Langley would string him up.

‘Is anyone home?’ he called from the gate. ‘I have to take the parcel to Her Majesty and I really don’t have time to come back later.’

Braxton scanned the grounds then glanced up at the roof, where a beady-eyed raven was glaring at him. It was often there. He wondered if whoever lived inside had befriended the creature.

‘Hello?’ Braxton called out again.

He thought he could hear coughing coming from inside the cottage. It wasn’t a small cough either, rather a desperate hacking that he didn’t like the sound of at all. He waited and listened, then did something he’d been instructed never to do. Braxton opened the garden gate. He hesitated, holding the basket in his hand. What if the person inside was choking? He’d never forgive himself. Braxton ran towards the porch.

The raven dived at him, flapping and cawing, its beak snapping like castanets. Braxton fought it off, his arms flailing as he smacked it away. He dropped the basket on the path, its contents spilling everywhere. But the creature persisted. It came at him again and again, striking Braxton’s cheek.

Braxton took one last swipe at the bird and pushed open the front door, slamming it hard behind him. A single shiny black feather fluttered down inside the hall.

‘Where are you?’ Braxton called urgently, his eyes scanning the hallway with its narrow staircase. The house was now eerily quiet. He turned to his right and saw a woman slumped on the floor of the sitting room, a bowl of nuts scattered beside her.

Braxton rushed over and picked her up like a rag doll, her long brown curls spilling behind her. The woman’s dark eyes begged as she struggled for breath. He spun her around and laid her over his knee, bringing his hand down hard, striking her between the shoulderblades. All of a sudden a large walnut flew across the room, pinging against the glass-fronted bookcase on the wall.

Braxton stopped and turned her around to face him. He held her in his arms as he watched the colour slowly return to her ashen face. Then he gently set her down on a sofa. He couldn’t help staring as a memory tugged at the corners of his mind.

‘Water?’ Braxton asked, giving a small sigh.

The woman shook her head.

‘But you need something to drink,’ he said softly. ‘I thought you were going to die.’

Braxton decided the kitchen would likely be down the end of the hall at the rear of the cottage. He began to walk towards the door but the woman quickly gathered herself together and ran to block his path.

She held up her hand and motioned for him to stay where he was. Braxton did as he was bid, at the same time realising that just being inside the cottage could land him in desperate trouble.

The woman scurried down the hall and disappeared through a doorway at the end. Braxton could hear a tap running. He glanced back into the front room. Two comfortable-looking sofas sat at right angles to one another, while two matching timber bookcases sat in perfect symmetry beside an open fireplace with beautiful ceramic tiles. Braxton hadn’t known what to expect when he entered the cottage, but this house could have been anywhere, on any street, in any village. Neat and well cared for, he couldn’t understand why it was so deliberately hidden. For some reason he’d always imagined it would be untidy and cluttered, and quite simply strange.

Braxton spotted a small scrap of material on the floor and bent to pick it up. He studied its pretty peacock pattern, wondering what it was doing there. When the woman reappeared holding a brown paper package, he quickly stuffed the material into his pocket and took the parcel from her. It was the same size as every other one he’d ever collected, with almost no weight to it at all.

She glanced up at Braxton, studying his face.

‘It’s nothing,’ Braxton said, touching his bloodied cheek. ‘I’d better get going.’

‘Wait,’ the woman whispered, her voice catching in her throat. She raced away again and this time returned with a cloth and a small basin of water that smelt powerfully of antiseptic. She reached up and gently dabbed at the scratches on Braxton’s face.

The man flinched. ‘I know I’m not supposed to come past the gate. I promise not to tell anyone, but just so you know, I’m Braxton Balfour and I’m one of Her Majesty’s butlers.’ For a fleeting moment, their eyes locked and Braxton realised something. ‘Lydie?’ The name floated from his lips on the softest of breaths.

She looked at him like a lost child.

‘Is your name Lydie?’ he asked again.

She nodded.

‘Don’t you remember me?’ Braxton frowned, his eyes searching her face for a glimmer of recognition.

She shook her head.

The way she stared at him, Braxton felt as if he were a ghost. There were so many questions. ‘What happened to you?’ he asked.

‘Please go,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Braxton said, backing away.

The moment he opened the front door, the raven flew past him into the hallway, where it perched on the woman’s shoulder. Bewildered, Braxton stumbled down the path, past the basket and its spilled contents, and didn’t once look back.

Lydie stood in the doorway, staring out. ‘Who is he, Lucien?’ she said, stroking the bird on her shoulder. ‘And why can’t I remember?’