“Some of them got very agitated early yesterday evening,” Norah replied. “They started calling out in ways I’ve never heard before and tearing around their pens. We couldn’t understand it. But I know it was about the time of the crash.”

“Coincidence,” Gavin snapped.

“Perhaps. When someone discovers exactly how their senses work, maybe we’ll know. I’ll show you upstairs.”

He’d slept in the house for a week after he’d bought it, lying in the great master bedroom and reveling in making plans which had come to nothing. As they reached the top of the stairs he turned instinctively toward the door of that room, but Norah steered him away. “That’s where they slept,” she said. “It’s full of their things.”

“Of course,” he said curtly, and followed her down the corridor to a room at the end.

“This is always kept made up for guests,” she explained. “This door here is your bathroom. It’s been put in since you were last here.”

“Thank you.” It was hard not to resent her proprietory air. With an effort he stopped himself from pointing out that this was his house and she was the guest, and moreover a guest who would soon be departing. He was glad when she left him alone.

The room looked out over the grounds. Standing at the window he could see Peter moving among the animals, stroking them, resting his head against them. He feasted his eyes on his son. He loved him so much, and it was wonderful to have him back at last.

But did he have him back? He was suddenly dreadfully conscious of the distance between them. And his son hadn’t run to him, but to Norah. He’d stared at his father with the eyes of a stranger and almost seemed to shrink from him.

No! Gavin stopped himself on that thought. His son hadn’t shrunk from him. He’d merely been taken by surprise. But they would put it right, just as soon as he could remove Peter from this place and have him to himself. And that was going to be at the first possible moment.