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The trees have marked the month russet and gold, the woodland awash in rich honeyed colours. Along the forest floor pine cones have begun their seasonal drop and acorns litter the path, brown glossy bodies peeking from within their capstone cases. One has fallen loose from its cupule and Henry bends to retrieve it, presses it into the palm of his hand a moment to feel its grounding warmth before tossing it into the dying bracken of the bank. A rabbit bounds from the ferns, and on the path ahead Merlin’s ears prick up as he watches it dart deeper into the undergrowth, white tail bobbing.

He does not chase it. Instead Merlin sits back on his haunches, twists his fine head around to look at Henry as if asking permission. Henry smiles, scratches the wiry fur between the lurcher’s ears.

‘Not today, old boy.’

Merlin licks Henry’s hand, thunks his long tail, appears almost to grin.

His wound was wide and deep. By the time Henry had carried the dog back to Plas Helyg he himself was soaked with blood and Merlin barely breathed. Linette proved to be a worthy surgeon’s assistant; she did not so much as flinch as she held the torn flesh and pelt together so Henry could stitch it shut. It took twelve sutures, six tightly bound bandages and a splint before the job was done, before he could begin to process everything that had happened all those hours before.

Henry had grown up without family, had the freedom to make his own way in the world; his professional success was all his own doing, no one else’s. Still, it was galling to discover his life had already been mapped out for him. The fact that Julian was the reason such measures needed to be taken at all, Henry still struggles to accept. If not for him, Hugh Tresilian would still be alive, and to treat his cousin’s wife with cruelty and Linette with such contempt was truly wicked. And then, for Julian to have robbed Henry of a career he loved and to contrive so carefully to bring him to Penhelyg to satisfy the demands of a demon that cannot possibly ever have existed …

Henry’s grip tightens on the walking staff he carries, the rough bark of oak grazing the soft pad of his thumb.

Even now he cannot explain what he saw that night, why the torches went out all at once or why the cavern collapsed at the very climax of Julian’s ritualistic words, for nothing in particular had set those rocks falling. Some believed, it was later said, that it was the doing of the bwca or coblynau; others simply believed that the mines had been worked too fiercely and the collapse was inevitable, especially so soon after the last.

Yet.

Henry thinks of that overpowering stench of sulphur, the unearthly growl he heard just before the rocks began to fall.

Whosoever breaks a covenant with Almighty Berith will be devoured by a beast of darkness, and that sinner’s soul shall belong completely unto Him.

Was this ‘beast of darkness’ the mine? Berith himself? Could it all really have been the demon’s doing? Logic dictates it cannot be so, but though Henry will never be able to relinquish his reliance on science he now no longer turns his nose up at the old superstitions.

Some things simply cannot be explained by logic alone.

But it is over now. Life in Penhelyg has begun to find some semblance of normality. For Enaid, for Cadoc, for the rest of the servants at Plas Helyg, Julian Tresilian’s death came as a relief, as if a dark veil had been lifted from the old Welsh stones and the mansion could once more breathe. For Lady Gwen and Linette especially, Julian’s death was a longed-for release, a chance for them both to finally heal.

As the last lingering remnants of Rowena’s tinctures wore off, his mother became (according to Enaid), more like her old self and grieved for her husband, for the lost years. She will always be weak – the toxic herbs did their damage and did it well – and only time will tell how far her health can sustain her. But she accepts it all with a grace and dignity that Henry did not expect, and Lady Gwen’s good nature softened Linette in turn, the frustrations and bitterness she felt for so long fading as the relationship between the three of them blossomed and grew. The path to recovery is a lengthy one, but it is now free of obstacles and pitfalls.

The way ahead is clear.

Henry sighs, pats the lurcher’s neck. Merlin’s recovery is taking much longer. Over a year later the poor thing still experiences painful twinges in the muscles of his thigh which Henry must patiently massage out, and it is clear the dog will always walk with a limp. Merlin’s hunting days are over.

‘Tyrd,’ Henry says gently. ‘Come along.’

Merlin tosses his nose, sniffs the autumn air, rises carefully, begins a slow plod toward Plas Helyg. Henry follows close behind.

News of the mine collapse travelled fast along the coast and beyond; perhaps it was the deaths of so many gentry that fanned the tale and prompted Francis Fielding to come directly to Penhelyg rather than send a reply to Henry’s hastily written letter. The Bow Street man listened to Henry and Linette’s story and the testimonies of their mother, Cadoc and Enaid, and the Reverend Mr Owain Dee with quiet contemplation, but though he did not dismiss their wild claims he could not support them either. ‘What’s done is done,’ he said, a line simply drawn underneath the matter. Still, Henry is sure that had it not been for his prior relationship with the Runner the aftermath might not have been quite so neat; the ownership of the mine was transferred back to the Plas Helyg estate and Julian’s own personal riches handed over to Linette, all without dispute. A neat job, Francis assured, no questions asked.

And so it was.

The tunnels were cleared, the bodies retrieved. Julian was buried in the Cadwalladr tomb beside his cousin much to Linette’s chagrin, but tradition meant she could not object. The Pennants and Selwyns were returned to their families, Mr Lambeth transported back to Dolgellau, Dr Beddoe taken across the estuary to Criccieth. As for Rowena, Henry and Mr Dee buried her before anyone could see the bullet wound and question why it was there. She lies now within the cromlech where he first kissed her, and he hopes she rests peacefully in the lands in which her kin once lived.

Rowena. Henry’s stomach twists. That thick flame-red hair, those round amber eyes he thought so innocent. He remembers Mr Dee’s words all those months ago – Be mindful of a pretty face – and grimaces. Henry thought the reverend had been warning against the temptations of the flesh, espousing Christian morals, but now he is not so sure.

Perhaps he truly has the ear of God.

The gates of Plas Helyg come into view. Merlin wags his tail at the sight, and Henry finds himself smiling at the lurcher’s excitement to reach home.

Home.

It took Henry a long time to fall in love with Wales – to truly fall in love – but it had, it seemed, been creeping upon him in degrees from the very start. He did not expect to warm to Penhelyg so completely, especially after all that had happened, but as the weeks passed and the villagers finally accepted him as one of their own, a sense of belonging washed over him. No longer did Henry crave the bustle of London or the cold dark halls of Guy’s Hospital, not even after Francis secured him his pardon. No longer did Henry feel bitterness or regret over what he had lost, or resent the wildness of the Welsh countryside and its quietness, its changeling weather. He did not realise his heart had lost itself to this place until, one evening late in August, he left the Morgans’ cottage and caught sight of the sunset across the sea.

The sky was shot with flames that dipped into gradient shades of mauve and indigo; the clouds whispered across the purpling water like skeins of cotton with seagulls dancing in their wake, and across the water the proud mountains stood silhouetted against the gold-spun sky.

Henry had never seen anything more breathtaking in his entire life.

Linette knew – as only a twin can – the moment he arrived back at the house. As she took one look at his face something changed in hers, and Linette reached out to cup his cheek.