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‘If I may,’ he says, ‘the mines will not be safe for quite some time. It’s impossible to carry out any further work until the site has settled. Aside from the danger of subsidence, the effects of dust on the lungs can be fatal. The miners cannot possibly work in such conditions. Mr Lambeth should be able to tell you that.’

At the mention of his name Mr Lambeth takes a step back, as if he might be safer if he stood further away.

‘With all due respect,’ her cousin replies tightly, ‘I shall defer to my agent’s greater knowledge of the subject, not yours.’

‘Please,’ Henry says, and Linette can hear his impatience, ‘you do not understand.’

‘I understand perfectly. But the fact remains we cannot afford a delay. Not now, not when …’ Julian appears to rein himself in, proffers an insincere smile. ‘Forgive me, Henry. But you cannot be expected to understand mining business.’

Henry stares. ‘Surely the safety of your workers is more important than the demands of your pocketbook?’

Her cousin narrows his eyes, touches the signet ring on his finger. It is casually done, as if a subconscious gesture.

‘You and Linette are more alike than I anticipated. Without the demands of my pocketbook, as you put it, my workers would not get paid.’

‘Without the workers,’ Henry counters, ‘neither will you.’

Linette smirks, cannot help it. Lord Pennant clears his throat.

‘Now now, Dr Talbot, there’s no need—’

‘With all due respect, there is every need.’

The placating smile that was drawn across the older man’s lips sours. The curls of his brown wig wobble in the breeze.

‘My dear doctor, you are attracting an unwelcome audience.’

Together, Linette and Henry turn. The villagers are indeed beginning to gather – mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers. Linette spies Rhiannon Einion, Meredith Parry, Gareth Griffiths, Arthur Lloyd. They watch the group with a mixture of curiosity and anger, and she can imagine what ugly thoughts must be picking themselves apart in their heads. At that moment Miss Carew pushes her way to the front of them, and Julian’s upper lip curls.

‘If you insist on being here, Linette, move them along. They’re only in the way.’

‘’Tis easier said than done, Cousin,’ she murmurs.

‘They are in the way,’ he says again. ‘I want them gone. Now.’

Black eyes meet grey-green. Neither Tresilian speaks; the air thrums with a tension that seems to stretch and ebb like the pull of waves on a rocky shoreline and Henry takes Linette’s elbow, draws her close.

‘I hate to say it,’ he murmurs in her ear, ‘but your cousin has a point. They cannot stay, they’re only hindering progress. I still have miners to treat. Can you not direct them back down to the village? There’s nothing they can do except wait.’

In that instant Henry’s words – so rational, so grounding – make Linette overwhelmingly tired and she sags against him, rubs her fingers over her eyes. They feel tight and dry with dust, and she is conscious now of a headache beginning to tease the roots of her tangled hair. Henry is right, of course, but it galls her to bow to Julian’s demands no matter how justified they might be.

She looks between them – Julian, Lord Pennant, Mr Lambeth. The agent seems less caustic now that he has been cowed by his superiors but the echo of disdain still lingers beneath his countenance, and with an expulsion of air Linette turns her back on them.

‘Please,’ she calls to the growing crowd in Welsh. ‘Return to the village. Everything is in hand. I promise we’re doing all we can.’

‘But what of my husband?’ a voice calls out. ‘Where is Pedr?’ another shouts. Linette can only offer words of condolence, words she knows mean nothing to the families of those still to be saved, but at length the people of Penhelyg soften, reluctantly begin to disperse. Henry offers his body as support to a limping miner with a nasty cut on his thigh, and it is as Linette is trying her best to steer Cerys Davies away from the cavern entrance that she hears a familiar word.

Sharply, Linette turns; Julian, Lord Pennant and Mr Lambeth stand close together by the spoil-heaps, heads bent in conversation.

‘This is an omen, surely?’ she hears Lord Pennant utter, low and urgent. ‘But we cannot bring it forward, the timing … it’s not right. The solstice is not for another five days. We cannot act before then.’

‘No,’ Julian replies, ‘we shall continue as planned. But our success is of even more import now.’

On the lower reaches of the path, Henry calls her name.

‘Coming,’ Linette calls back, and the three men clamp their mouths, bestow on her a look of contempt. With a frown Linette presses Cerys to her, guides her down the uneven stone path with a sense of deepest unease.

Of what success did they speak? And why – more intriguing – would they say such a word? What part could it possibly play in their conversation? It is a word her mother has uttered a thousand times over the years, a word that Linette always considered to be part of her nonsensical ravings, nothing more.