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‘You will stay.’

‘Yes.’

‘You are home.’

‘I am.’

She smiled then in a way she never had before. It was a smile free of the reserve that had always darkened it, a smile of true happiness.

‘Mamma will be pleased,’ she said and Henry smiled back, teasing almost.

‘But are you?’

Linette cuffed his cheek lightly with her knuckles, grey-green eyes sparkling.

‘Ydw. Brother. Besides, if you left, who else would I argue with?’

Now Henry grins at the memory, digs his thumb harder into the crook of his staff.

Of course, it meant he must think of the future. Really think of it. It soon became clear that despite his acceptance that Wales was now his home, Plas Helyg was too large for him. Henry had grown up in confined spaces – the claustrophobic quarters of the Foundling, the narrow halls of hospitals, the compact rooms of lodging houses – and while he did not want to return to those restrictive measures, he did not feel comfortable within the mansion’s cavernous walls either. He could never act like a Tresilian lord (even if the title was his birthright), would never manage the estate as Linette did (he was perfectly content to leave such matters in her more than capable hands). So, despite its sordid history, despite Linette’s most strenuous objections, Henry chose to remove permanently to the gatehouse.

‘But why?’ she demanded. ‘You belong here. Plas Helyg is your home as well as mine!’

But the villagers did not know that, would never know that (for how could it possibly be explained?) and he was, after all, still their doctor. He needed somewhere that suited his status, Henry explained to Linette, somewhere the villagers would feel comfortable coming to if they ever felt the need.

Somewhere an assistant could live, as well.

Henry considered offering the role to one of his old students in London, for there were many who would fill the position admirably. But then he remembered Cai’s careful interest at the mine, and then at his father’s bedside; the cramped room he shared with his parents, the independence he might crave. Why not one of Penhelyg’s own? It made perfect sense. Still, he had been surprised when Cai agreed, even more surprised that he took to his training so easily. Their relationship is still a tenuous thing; Cai’s wilfulness is just as strong as it ever was, and Henry’s patience with him sometimes lacking, but they manage well enough together. Henry speaks more than passable Welsh now, and time will only strengthen the bond between student and teacher.

It had taken time for Linette to accept Henry’s removal to the gatehouse. She had argued with him, lectured him, but none of it did any good – his mind was set. It was their mother, in the end, who convinced her to see reason.

‘Henry is a free spirit, cariad, just as you are. Would you listen to him, if matters were the other way around?’

Of course Linette would not.

Henry pushes Plas Helyg’s gates open. They no longer squeak – Cadoc takes his new post as estate manager very seriously indeed – and Merlin, tongue lolling, ambles through. Up ahead there is a trickle of laughter. Henry picks up pace, gravel crunching loudly beneath the heels of his walking boots, and follows the sound to the side of the house.

There, across the pond, arm in arm, walk Linette and Lady Tresilian. His sister no longer dresses in their father’s old clothes but has instead ordered her own masculine pieces from an Aberystwyth tailor, looking every inch the lord of the manor much to Enaid’s growing despair. Indeed, she is as far from being ‘a lady’ as she ever was; now that Julian and Mr Lambeth are dead the mines are her sole responsibility and Linette has taken to the task like a duck to water – the copper mines have been closed and the slate reopened, with stringent safety measures employed and new equipment to ease the workload. Penhelyg’s miners are content. Still, it was a lot for Linette to take upon herself, despite her obstinate insistence that she could cope. Promoting Cadoc had been Henry’s idea to alleviate the pressure of managing both the estate and the mines, and Lady Gwen insisted on reclaiming the running of the house; next year they will open Plas Helyg’s grounds to the public one day a week, and there is much still to prepare in readiness.

Henry looks to his mother. Her white hair is pinned high on her head, her slim figure dressed exquisitely in a gown of pale lilac. She looks nothing like the haunted wraith Henry met the year before. She is happy and – for now – healthy. A bright and shining star.

With pride he watches them, his mother and sister. Both strong women, stronger than he will ever be, stronger than anyone he has ever known, and Henry releases a contented sigh, raises his gaze to the horizon. Beyond the wide expanse of willow trees the edges of the clouds are trimmed with pink light, the woodland on the far side of Cwm Nantcol retreated into deepening shadow. The autumn air is as soft and warm as gentle breath, and thin glints of sunshine have shifted behind the fountain, making the spring of water soaring from its base a beam of gleaming gold.

Linette sees him. Waves. He waves back. His mother smiles brightly and beckons him. All is as it should be, Henry thinks as he approaches, Merlin still at his side. Even so, there is something that he can never tell them, for Henry will not ruin their hard-fought peace.

He is happy at the gatehouse. He made the right choice to remove there, he knows that. The tunnels to the mines have been sealed and there is no way in or out. At Enaid’s behest the Order’s temple has been stripped bare, blessed with holy water and cleansed with the smoke of burnt rowan, scattered with the protective flowers of dandelion, garlic and gorse. But sometimes – just sometimes – when he is lying in bed at night, when the sea air wends its way sharply over the salt marshes and up through the forests of Penhelyg like a sigh, Henry is sure, is absolutely positive, he can smell the distinct and pungent scent of sulphur.