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They look to the woman in question. Linette’s mother lies pale and dazed in the bed, a mound of pillows propped up behind her bony shoulders, and a knot tightens in Linette’s chest like a snakestone. If it were not for her steady breathing and slow-blinking eyes – focused now at the window from where only a slit of light escapes the half-drawn curtains – Linette would think her an effigy or a porcelain doll, no life in her at all. She exists, rather than lives. Sometimes, when Linette feels particularly melancholy, she wonders if perhaps it would be better if her mother was dead. Would it not be a release? For both of them? All Linette’s life she has wished for a mother who knew her, who recognised her face and voice, the touch of a hand, a kiss on her cheek. A mother who did not scream like a cyhyraeth and keep to her bed like the invalid she so clearly is.

‘Good morning, my lady. May I sit down?’

Henry has moved to the other side of the bed, and in answer to his question her mother’s gaze shifts from the window. She looks at him with childlike interest, eyes wide, pupils deep black pools.

No answer, of course. Henry sits, places his medical bag on the bed between them.

‘Please open the curtains.’

He could have been speaking to either one of them, but it is Enaid who answers.

‘No.’

Henry blinks at the curt reply.

Linette stares in astonishment.

‘Enaid!’

But the old woman stands firm, Bible still clasped to her bosom.

‘No,’ she says again. ‘The light hurts her eyes.’

Henry regards her with barely laced patience.

‘Even so. I should like you to open them all the same.’

Still, Enaid does not move.

‘Enaid,’ Linette says, still staring. ‘Do as he says.’

The housekeeper bites her lip. Then, with as much reluctance as a cat pushed to water Enaid crosses to the window, slips behind the harp that stands there gathering dust and violently pulls the curtains open, flooding the room with bright sunlight.

The change is instant. With a loud cry Lady Gwen flings an arm over her eyes, twists her body away from the light, thin legs thrashing beneath the sheets.

‘Na!’ she moans. ‘Na!’ and Linette rushes to the bed, helps Henry keep her still.

Shadows return almost instantly; Enaid has shut the curtains again, leaving only a small fraction open in the middle with which to see by. The white strip of light cuts the room in two like a blade, and within it dust motes spot the air brightly like tiny fireflies before gliding out of sight into the gloom of the chamber.

‘See,’ the housekeeper says quietly. Triumphant, almost. ‘It hurts her eyes. She prefers the darkness. Always has.’

Beneath her hands, Linette feels her mother relax. Slowly she lowers her arm from her face and Linette looks into it, marks her paleness, her trembling lip.

‘Forgive me, my lady,’ Henry murmurs. ‘Forgive me.’ Then, to Linette, ‘Has she always suffered from an affliction to light?’

Linette takes a moment to catch her breath.

‘It comes and goes. Dr Evans could never discover why.’

‘So it’s easier,’ Enaid cuts in, ‘to keep the curtains closed.’

The old woman is standing now at the bottom of the bed, silhouetted against the blade of daylight. Henry straightens to address her.

‘Sunlight would do her good,’ he returns. ‘Your mistress is far too pale, and keeping to the dark will not help her in the long run.’

Enaid ducks her chin in assent. ‘I quite agree, but since it pains her I can hardly force the issue.’

Linette heaves an inward sigh. It is not like Enaid to be so difficult.