“Never rains,” he remarked to no one in particular on his way out.

For the longest time I stood awkwardly staring at my feet, trying to think of something to say. I dared not look the Gypsy in the eye.

“I’ll pay for the tent,” I repeated. “Even though it was an accident.”

That set her off coughing again and it was evident, even to me, that the fire had taken its toll on her already shaky lungs. I waited, helpless, for the gasping to subside.

When at last it did, there was another long, unnerving silence.

“The woman,” the Gypsy said at last. “The woman on the mountain. Who was she?”

“She was my mother.” I said. “Her name was Harriet de Luce.”

“The mountain?”

“Somewhere in Tibet, I think. She died there ten years ago. We don’t often speak of it at Buckshaw.”

“Buckshaw means nothing to me.”

“It’s where I live. South of the village,” I said with a vague wave of my hand.

“Ah!” she said, fixing me with a piercing look. “The big house. Two wings folded back.”

“Yes, that’s it,” I said. “Not far from where the river loops round.”

“Yes,” the woman said. “I’ve stopped there. Never knew what the place was called.”

Stopped there? I could hardly believe it.

“The lady let my rom and me camp in a grove by the river. He needed to rest—”

“I know the spot!” I said. “It’s called the Palings. All elder bushes and—”

“Berries,” she added.

“But wait!” I said. “The lady? There’s been no lady at Buckshaw since Harriet died.”

The Gypsy went on as though I’d said nothing.

“A beautiful lady she was, too. Bit like you,” she added, peering at me closely, “now that I see you in the light.”

But then her face darkened. Was it my imagination, or was her voice growing stronger as she spoke.

“Then we got turned out,” she said angrily. “They said we wasn’t wanted there no more. ’Twas the summer Johnny Faa died.”