We were soon inside, seated on great burgundy armchairs and bundled up with blankets by the fire.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. McCarthy,” I said, sipping at a glass of lovely mead. Ah, cinnamon…

“Don’t mention it, dearie. It’s the least I can do.” Mrs. McCarthy bent down and opened Scooter’s travel cage. Without fear (as always) she yanked out a very shocked Scooter.

Scooter blinked in surprise, as if he hadn’t registered what had just happened.

In fact, Scooter was a combined present from Seamus (Mrs. McCarthy’s husband), papa and her on my twentieth birthday – they thought I was lonely after mama passed on.

“I remember him being jus’ a little kitten,” Mrs. McCarthy said, stroking him fondly. “He’s grown so soft!”

“Yes…and if you see what he eats,” I joked feebly, and then went back to staring at the tongues of flame that danced within the fireplace.

Raine was being quiet, apart from the occasional ‘thank you’. I decided to leave him be.

He always has a good reason for silence.