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If Henry had been asked to imagine a traditional Welsh cottage, Mr Dee’s might be what his mind would conjure up. Not ten minutes’ walk from the crypt it is a small, whitewashed house with a low lintel which Henry has to duck under to avoid bumping his head. A tiny entryway divides the cottage in two – a small kitchen to the right, a sitting room to the left, with a set of poky stairs leading upwards to the first floor. It is pleasantly furnished for a man living on his own, with rustic wooden furniture happily situated, woven rugs lining the stone floor. The house feels too small for the reverend’s bulk, but that man moves through it with ease and directs Henry left, gestures to some high-backed wooden chairs and a circular table set under a window overlooking the lush green valley. The mine is visible through the open window, and Henry can even hear the faint sounds of pickaxes on stone, the shouts of miners hard at work. If he squints, Henry can just make out a wagon filled with timber resting near the spoil-heaps.

Lord Pennant, then, wasted no time.

‘I only have nettle, Dr Talbot,’ Mr Dee calls from the kitchen. ‘Will that suffice?’

‘I’ve never had it,’ Henry calls back.

There is the clatter of pots and pans, then the reverend appears at the sitting-room door, wiping his big hands on a cloth.

‘I’m afraid a lowly vicar like myself cannot afford such luxuries as brown tea. I’m sure the Tresilians serve better fare, but I’m happy enough with my simplicities.’

‘I assure you, nettle tea will suit nicely.’

Mr Dee nods, retreats back into the kitchen.

Henry had been startled to see him at the crypt. The reverend too looked surprised but then his face broke into a welcoming smile, and he lifted himself from the forest floor by his crude walking stick.

‘Dr Talbot!’ he exclaimed, ambling over, grass stains on his knees. ‘What a pleasure to see you.’

‘How d’you do?’ Henry answered, hesitant, for it is not common to meet someone in such a strange otherworldly place. Mr Dee seemed to understand his reserve, for he gestured across to the crypt with his lantern jaw.

‘The Cadwalladr tomb. It’s where Hugh Tresilian is buried as well as Lady Tresilian’s parents, her ancestors before them. I bless their resting place every week.’

‘At Linette’s request?’

‘Oh no.’ He laughed low in his throat. ‘I’ve never even known the Lady Linette to visit here, and she has no fondness for prayers. Indeed, she only attends the Sunday service at church because it is her duty. No,’ he sighed, raising his eyes up at the sheer bank, ‘I do it because I feel compelled to. As a man of God.’

‘Ah.’

The vicar regarded him. ‘Are you a man of God, Dr Talbot?’

‘I am not.’

‘A pity. Are you a man of tea?’

It had not taken much to persuade Henry to return to Mr Dee’s cottage with him. Henry was, he realised, parched and hungry for he had not yet taken breakfast, and so was gratified to accept the invitation. Together they crossed the clearing, took another willow-lined path on the other side. Within minutes they had emerged onto an open field, and Penhelyg’s church came into view.

The large man – tall and blocky rather than fleshy and round – had walked briskly, wooden staff swinging between the long grass, and Henry had to rush to catch up with him. The sun disappeared behind a suspect-looking cloud.

‘It will rain soon,’ the vicar said, eyeing it dubiously. ‘It’s in the air. Too hot by half, and the sun doesn’t seem to know what to do with itself.’

Henry tripped over a hard clod of earth beneath the grasses. Mr Dee reached out to steady him.

‘You’ll need a staff if you plan to stay here, Dr Talbot. Mighty handy if you like to walk, as I do.’ He tapped his own. ‘Good solid oak will do you right. Sturdy, stalwart. The forest provides plenty of broken branches in the storms.’

They climbed a stile, reached the church on the other side.

Tucked behind a border wall it was small and pretty, with pointed arched windows and trefoils that reminded Henry of clover leaves. Trees stood tall between the gravestones, and lush green ivy coated the walls, spilling over onto the slate roof of the lychgate. He thought Mr Dee might take him through for a closer look, but instead the man gestured to a path on the opposite side of the lane, leading to the cottage Henry finds himself seated in now.

Penhelyg Church can be spied through a smaller window on the opposite side of the room. He means to look at it again, but as Henry steps toward it his attention is drawn to the stone wall that has, until he stood up, been concealed by a wooden beam. Henry stares, transfixed – hanging from hooks top to bottom are row upon row of wooden spoons.

Mr Dee returns with two stoneware mugs. Henry takes his, still staring at the wall.

‘What are they?’

‘Lovespoons,’ the vicar replies, a note of pride in his voice. ‘A little hobby of mine.’

‘Lovespoons?’