The deeply set, leaded windows of Goose Cottage let in the rising sun at curious angles so that the pale golden squares of light seemed to melt over the arms of sofas and around the frames of doorways with Daliesque abandon. Ellen clutched her mug of tea in both hands and cocked her head as she watched the dust and pollen dance in the square spotlights, disturbed by the swish of her dressing-gown as she moved around the house. It wasn’t yet six, but she’d woken as suddenly as she’d fallen asleep, the tight mousetrap lids that had snapped shut six hours earlier instantly pulled back and pegged open, her eyes taking in the unfamiliar room before her mind had registered that she was awake. She’d slept in the big attic room under the eaves, among the boxes of Jamieson possessions already packed ready to ship to Spain. She preferred it to her parents’ old room, with its surfeit of Victoriana and candle smoke, and the official spare room reminded her too vividly of Richard and their rare but difficult visits to Goose Cottage.
