Maybe that was why she felt so drawn to the Lost Boys. Maybe Gargle had seen the outsider in her, and that was what had made him confide in her.

She went out into the yard, eating the oatcake, careful not to get honey on Mum’s shirts. Dad was setting small logs one by one on the chopping block and cutting them in half with the wood axe. He had his old straw hat on, because his brown hair didn’t quite cover the top of his head anymore and his bald patch sometimes caught the sun. He stopped work when he saw Wren, putting one hand to his chest. Wren thought he looked as if he was glad of an excuse for a rest and wondered if his old wound was hurting him again, but all he said was, “So you’re up at last?”

“No, I’m just sleepwalking,” she said, kicking a few sticks of wood out of her way and sitting down beside him. She kissed his cheek and rested her head on his shoulder. Bees buzzed around the hives at the end of the yard, and Wren sat and listened to them and wondered how to broach the subject of the Tin Book of Anchorage. Then she decided to ask him something else instead.

“Dad,” she said, “you remember the Lost Boys?”

Dad looked uneasy, as he always did when she asked him about the old days. He fiddled with the bracelet on his wrist, the broad red-gold wedding bracelet on which his initials were entwined with Mum’s. “Lost Boys,” he said. “Yes, I’m not likely to forget them…”

“I was wondering about them,” she said. “Were they very wicked?”

“Well, you know Caul,” said Dad. “He’s not wicked, is he?”