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‘It feels like Stevie is going to be like a grown-up version of our summer friends, you know?’ Susie pulled on a pair of chunky gardening gloves before she started rummaging through one of the new stock boxes.

The gloves were essential kit when you have the Molland powers.

Sticking your hands into a box full of old clothes when you could absorb all of the emotions tumbled in there was a risky business, a Russian roulette.

‘She has to come to FairyFest, get to know everyone. It’s only a few nights away, though. I doubt she’s got a Kraken costume wedged in her holdall.’

Susie shook her head. ‘She never a Kraken. She’s a sprite. Maybe a little pixie. There might something in all this lot that she could wear.’

‘Mum said this was from a really good estate sale. Should get some gems.’

Susie ripped back the brown packing tape. ‘I still can’t believe she’s going tonight . I mean, it’s great for her – she should live a little. I bet she’ll love Berlin, the music there and . . . Woah!’ Her tone suddenly went from low and flat to squeaky and slightly out of breath.

The arch of a back. Words whispered urgently against her neck. Something red and silky tied to the headboard. Shadows moving, hearts racing, oh—

‘What is it?’ Temperance stood up just as Susie flopped back down into her chair, panting, the back of her gloved hand pressed against her forehead as her skin came alive with an all-consuming energy.

‘Something . . . deeply . . . so . . . filthy .’

Temperance winced. ‘Ew. I hate it when things haven’t been at least through a washing machine. I’ll get the tongs and the black bag—’

‘No,’ Susie was still trying to recover her breathing as her chest heaved up and down.

‘Not filthy like it has old food stains. Like good filthy . Like spicy filthy . I must have . . . phew . . . only caught it on my forearm, but,’ she fanned herself, ‘I felt an erotic thunderbolt like Pedro Pascal had just cracked his whip around me or something. I saw some moves. Holy shit! I need another go.’ She got slowly to her feet.

‘Suse!’ her big sister admonished.

‘What?!’

‘That’s somebody else’s private memory – you can’t go and gawp on it like a magical peep show!’

‘You don’t mind when it’s someone else’s happiness left behind, or pride, or confidence. What’s the difference?’

‘People show off their new baby in a pram, or their new fancy suit and they invite you to admire them. People have sex behind closed doors because it’s private . There is a massive difference.’ She twisted the ring on her little finger. ‘Was it really that good?’

Susie nodded slowly. ‘Like all the actors who’ve ever played Mr Darcy at once. That good.’

‘Oh.’

‘I didn’t see a face or anything. No identifying features so . . .’

Temperance held fast. ‘No. No. It’s still wrong. But we do need to work out what’s carrying that memory so we can clean it. You’re going to have to stick a bare hand in again and find it.’

Susie waggled her eyebrows. ‘Avert your eyes, babe.’

After a few minutes of swashing her arm about in corduroy, chiffon and the odd tablecloth, Susie closed her eyes and gave a low, guttural groan. ‘Oh, that’s the spot. Oh yeahhhh.’

‘Just pull it out, quick!’

‘That’s what they all say!’ her little sister cackled, dragging out a slippery satin kimono-style dressing gown.

It was short and red and looked like the kind of garment designed for anything but practical reasons.

Skimpy, tactile, sexy. Temperance guessed that if she were to put it on it wouldn’t even cover most of her bum.

Not that she was going to put it on. She wasn’t even going to touch it.

Because it wasn’t right. Definitely . . . not.

Susie held out her palm and floated the robe over to her desk. ‘I have no idea what kind of herb mixture this one will need. If we really do need to wash it off?’ she muttered hopefully, only getting a hooded look in response.

‘I don’t know either. People usually have their sauciest memories with no clothes on. I haven’t actually come across this before. And it’s not like I can Google it. I could ask Mum before she goes.’

Susie leapt back to the box. ‘Fingers crossed the same person had something else saucy in here . . .’ she started to move her hands through the contents, purposefully leaning so far in that her elbows were touching all the fabrics. ‘No, nope. Ew, no. This is . . . ahhh!’

With both hands she started to pull out a dress that Temperance could hear before she could really see. It was rustling and crinkling like mad: a huge white ballgown of Shantung silk, with a huge, voluminous skirt and small but poofy sleeves. No, not a ballgown: a wedding dress.

‘Maybe the red gown is from the honeymoon?’ Susie said, holding the dress up to herself. ‘I can check.’ She went to pull her right glove off with her teeth, but Temperance swooped in quickly.

‘Let me check this one. I don’t want you fully swooning while we’ve still got work to do tonight.’

‘A likely story,’ she replied sardonically.

As the older sister put her hands to the almost-spherical sleeves, her vision was flooded with royal blue, like the most concentrated firework ever had exploded just a few feet from her eyes.

She felt warmed by the colour, strengthened.

Every muscle, every tendon in her body woke up and reminded her she was lucky to be alive.

Energy floated through the dress like it was a new cosmic river diverting a flood of emotion onto Temperance , all of it bright and strong and electrifying.

Temperance felt like she could climb a mountain, paint a masterpiece, sing an opera.

But it wasn’t just confidence in this dress, there was curiosity and playfulness and loyalty and excitement and . . .

‘Love,’ she said, holding the dress against her chest. ‘It’s actual, pure love.’

There was a buzzing tingle in her fingers as she closed her eyes again and saw a carousel of memories play in her mind: a man opening a fancy car door for her, one white shoe emerging from under the rustling skirt to step onto the churchyard gravel.

The scraping of pews as an organ played and she stepped into the aisle.

A beaming smile from the altar, bouncing back her own.

Glittering eyes. Champagne, paper confetti, her heart swelling beyond any rational size. The start of an adventure.

‘No way,’ Susie breathed, reading the look of awe on Temperance’s face.

‘I’ve never felt anything like it. Not even on our baby clothes. That love was just as strong, but the colours were all different, the energy was very different.’

Susie pulled off a glove, reached out and gently put one finger to the waves of the layered skirt.

Her eyes closed slowly and her head dipped.

‘Oh blimey. I see what you mean. That is crazy strong.’ She pulled her hand back and let out a long breath.

‘If it’s the same woman as the satin number then she lived a good life . Well done her.’

Temperance begrudgingly laid the dress down on the desk, covering the robe. She laced her fingers behind her neck, as if resting them from the intense load of emotion they’d just carried. She could still see the odd spark of blue behind her eyes.

‘You know the awful part?’

‘What could possibly be awful about true love, Tee?’

Temperance ran her hand along the scalloped hem, another burst of deep blue taking up her senses with the most deeply comforting tingle.

It was a giant meringue of a dress, the kind of heavy thing that needed all the bridesmaids lifting from their knees to manoeuvre.

Puffy sleeves; corseted bodice of damask silk with tiny rose buds sewn on the neckline; about seven layers of swooshy skirting.

‘It’s an eighties wedding dress. We’ll never sell it. It’s like a pure love genie trapped in a bottle wrapped in barbed wire.’

Susie groaned. ‘Oh, that’s so sad. We could have given some bride out there the happiest wedding day known to man. Not to mention the happiest wedding night .’

Temperance nodded. But she wasn’t thinking of some bride out there. She was thinking of how ironic it was that she had the magic to read the echoes of true love some forty years on, but not the practical skills to track down her own for even five minutes.