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‘The stuff of fairy tales,’ Henry replies softly, indulgent almost.

‘And what of the tolaeth?’ asks Lady Pennant, looking very much as if she is enjoying this absurd back-and-forth and here Henry hesitates, lowers his fork.

‘What are the tolaeth?’

Linette’s pulse thrums heavily in her neck.

‘The tolaeth are omens of death,’ she provides softly. ‘There are many different kinds, but the most common are corpse candles.’

Henry frowns. ‘Corpse candles?’

‘If one were to see a candle flame suspended in mid-air,’ Linette explains, ‘then it means a death is imminent. It could be your own or someone else’s, but if a canwyll corph is seen then the outcome is always the same. Someone is fated to die.’

Henry shakes his head with a wry smile. ‘I’m sorry, Linette, but you know I cannot believe in any of it. Not fay folk, ladies of lakes or stone women. Or corpse candles.’

The tips of Mr Dee’s fingers dance together as if he is composing a psalm in his head.

‘My dear boy, just because you do not believe does not mean they are not real. I’ve seen a corpse candle myself.’

Henry blinks. ‘You have?’

‘Once, many years ago. Darkest red it was, a large flame that bobbed along the road before me as I journeyed home from the tavern. Three days later, my father died.’

‘The tavern?’ Lady Pennant laughs. ‘Are you sure, vicar, you had not imbibed too much?’

‘No indeed, madam, for I only ever partake of one cup of cwrw. I assure you, I still had my wits about me.’

‘Then you must have seen something else,’ Henry says. ‘Candle flames are not red.’

‘Neither are they blue or white, but a corpse candle is a very different thing.’

Henry pales, goes very still.

‘I do not understand.’

Mr Dee smiles patiently. ‘The colour of the flame denotes the gender; red represents a man, white a woman, blue for a child. One for each impending death.’

Henry looks then to Linette. Two red, one blue.

He knows, then, she thinks. Finally, he sees.

‘Dr Talbot?’ Miss Carew asks. ‘Are you well?’

He does not look well. Linette wonders if he will admit to it, wonders if he will mention the bodies of Pedr, Hywel and Afan. But Henry says nothing, instead forces a smile.

‘Yes. Yes. It’s just fascinating, that’s all.’

‘Fascinating indeed,’ the reverend says. He takes a long sip of wine and licks his lips before continuing. ‘Magic could be considered a kind of science, as yet unexplained. We sometimes use stories of myth and legend to rationalise that which we do not understand – rainbows become a bridge to cross realms, earthquakes are put down to the thrashings of fighting beasts, the strange sounds of the forest are considered to be the hauntings of lost spirits. Such stories help us make sense of strange phenomena.’

‘Is that so?’ Lady Pennant whispers, and Mr Dee nods vigorously.

‘Take Harlech, for instance. Some years ago a blue mist rose from the marshes causing a fire that destroyed the barns and the hayricks. Soon the grasslands withered, the crops failed. Some believed that mist to be ghost lights. There may well be a scientific explanation but such ancient stories persist in many forms. Heroes battling giants have become a metaphor for Christian saints besting the Devil, whereas in other cultures another belief might be held. But of course,’ the vicar adds, ‘they could still be as real as you or I. Science might not have anything to do with it at all.’

The last of the sun disappears behind the towering trees outside, and the dining room shifts into flame-lit shadow. Julian coughs throatily into his napkin. This time, Linette is sure she sees blood on its white hem.

‘I commend your thinking, vicar,’ he says, ‘that science and magic can be considered the same entity depending on the conviction of the individual, but as you know I subscribe to a different philosophy.’

There comes upon the table then a shifting. It is a subtle thing, like when rain clouds edge across the skyline to stamp out the cumulus, and Linette finds herself holding her breath.