Taste came next. As if she were a newborn, her brain learned flavours slowly at first, though it remembered them all the same. The tang of a slice of cake, sour and tart, took her back to the first sugary-lemon crêpe she’d tried, down a sunny street on her first trip to Paris. A spicy sausage from a market the next day down in the village took her back even further to a memory she’d all but forgotten, when her mother offered her a taste and her blue eyes danced with laughter at Emma’s expression.

Salt came next. She dipped her fingers in the grains and popped them on her tongue. Was there any dish it didn’t help improve, anything better?

Sugar, probably. The day she could detect that things were sweet, it felt a little as if she’d found her own pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. She licked teaspoons of honey and peanut butter and sat at the table smiling to herself, buzzing on a sugar high.

‘That’s an easy way to get fat,’ Aggie said, getting a spoon and taking a seat to join her.

Emma looked up, laughed. ‘Then I’ll get fat.’

Aggie grinned. ‘It’s worth it for this,’ she agreed.

‘Did you know this was an accident?’ Emma asked, pointing at the jar.

‘Nutella?’

She nodded. ‘Yeah. It was in Italy during the war – they crushed hazelnuts to make the chocolate go further.’

Aggie shook her head at the genius of the Italians. ‘Meanwhile Britain had things like mock chocolate.’

‘Some things just aren’t fair,’ Emma agreed.

With Christmas Day steadily approaching, Evie and her aunts were busier than ever, and Emma was happy to at least help keep them fed, though she hadn’t quite crossed over to helping them with a recipe. She watched as they made the final layer of the Good Cheer Christmas Cake, where it would rest until at last it would be distributed in small boxes to each and every one of the hundred plus villagers who lived in Whistling.

---

Emma couldn’t seem to stop baking. It was like a dam had burst; she was waking up in the middle of the night with new ideas. Perhaps it was because it was Christmas – it always put her in the mood to bake, to create new things, or at least it used to. She gave in to it again now, making lemony cinnamon buns with white chocolate shavings. Gingerbread biscuits. Caramel roulade with caramelised apple slices. Pumpkin spice muffins. She filled the house with what she made, sent them off into the world, happy to see a face light up when they tried one.

Evie was glad to see the change, but she worried too. ‘You’re being careful?’ she asked.

Emma shrugged, nonchalant. Of course. She knew what Evie meant, but why worry? ‘I’m not making our recipes – it’s just a bit of baking,’ she protested.

Evie wasn’t so sure. She knew you couldn’t switch it off and on, like a tap. When it came to food, it was never simple, never straightforward, not for a Halloway. They had to be mindful of whatever they made, the way an alcoholic would; every sip counted. But still she didn’t want Emma to stop. Later she wondered if she shouldn’t have insisted that she followed the old rituals, paid the cost, or that perhaps Evie herself should have done it on her behalf; but she was busy, she told herself, distracted by all that needed to be done before Christmas.

Because odd things started to happen to the people who tried Emma’s baking. After eating two cinnamon buns, shy, bookish Jenny Hughes found herself slipping her number into a library book taken out by Jonathan Martin, who’d been a few years above her at school and who she’d always had a secret crush on.

After she tried a slice of Emma’s apple-pie, the ever-practical Maggie found herself signing up for an after-hours course in floristry.

When she made ginger snaps, Aggie got in touch with her old agent, and painted until midnight; and lazy-stay-in-her-pyjamas-till-noon Dot decided to become a rambler after she tried one of Emma’s mince pies.

Evie found herself thinking about lost love too. Emma found her in the sitting room one day with an album on her lap, looking at a photograph from the fifties, showing a handsome man with black hair leaning casually against the wall of the teashop in town.

‘Who’s that?’ she asked, curious.

‘Your grandfather.’

Emma blinked. ‘My grandfather?’ Evie never mentioned him. She crept forward to get a better look. Saw the way he had a slight dimple in his chin, like her. He’d only ever been a subject that resulted in sad eyes and changed subjects, till now. Emma wondered at the change.

‘What happened to him?’ she asked now. There seemed to be a pattern to the men who were involved with the Halloway women – there were men like her Uncle Joe, who stood at Dot’s side come what may; there were ones like her father, who’d whisked her mother away and tried in his own way to get her to be someone else, and then there were the ones who walked away. She’d always assumed he was one of them.

‘He died.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, surprised. ‘Why don’t you ever talk about him?’

Evie took a shuddery breath. ‘Because it’s hard to talk about it – we didn’t have an easy relationship, he didn’t really accept this, our way of life here. He wanted us to get married, but when I told him that if we had a girl it meant that she would have to keep my surname – well, he just couldn’t understand.

‘I fell pregnant, and of course, he was a good man, wanted to do the “right thing” by getting married, but I wasn’t going to change my mind – I wasn’t going to be the one to break up Hope Cottage, and he wasn’t going to let a child of his walk around with his wife’s surname. It was the fifties, back then it was unheard of, so we never did. It’s silly now when you think of it. Still, he was a good father in his way, though he became resentful that I’d put the cottage before him, and that started to influence what he said to Margaret, I think. It’s hard when your parents have two such different views.

‘He died, when she was about twelve. It affected her, changed her I think. She grew up fast after that – maybe too fast. There were other things too, but perhaps that laid the groundwork.’

‘Why are you telling me this now?’

Evie shrugged, looked out the window, watched the snow falling on the cobbled street, saw a couple walking past bundled in coats, wearing thick gloves and scarves. ‘I don’t know, I just couldn’t stop thinking about him today.’ She set her coffee cup down, frowned and then looked at Emma. ‘What were you thinking about when you made those buns yesterday?’

‘Nothing really. There was this scent I was trying to capture… I suppose it reminded me a little of first love.’ She blinked. ‘You don’t think…?’

Evie laughed. ‘I do. Who else tried them?’

Emma folded her lips in thought. ‘Jenny.’

‘Jenny! Shy Jenny Hughes, who gave her number to Jonathan Martin….’

Emma’s eyes widened in realisation.

‘What were you thinking when you made those ginger biscuits Dot and Aggie tried?’

She thought. ‘Nothing, I don’t remember thinking anything strange. I was happy that I could taste things again, and it made me feel…’ She trailed off.

Evie grinned. ‘Like you could do anything, perhaps?’

Emma nodded, and sat down with a frown.

Evie shook her head, amazed. ‘I gave one of those cinnamon buns to Sue Redmond when she came past for a moan, saying that she was struggling to find a way to come up with an amicable solution for dealing with her husband’s half of the bridal shop in the divorce. She wasn’t sure if she should ask for a recipe or not, so I told her to go home and think about it.

‘The next day I saw her on the high street holding hands with him. Completely nonchalant when she saw me, as if she hadn’t, just the day before, been looking for a way to cut him smoothly out of her life.’

Emma frowned. ‘But I mean, that’s love, isn’t it? That doesn’t necessarily mean that the buns did it – I mean, one day you hate someone’s guts, the next—’

‘They’ve been separated for three years.’

Emma blinked. ‘Oh.’

Evie looked at her. ‘I asked you if you’d been careful. You know that there’s a cost.’

Emma closed her eyes. ‘But they’re not the recipes. I didn’t think it would apply to a bit of baking. How can there be a cost even to that?’

Evie patted her shoulder. ‘Because there is one, there always is – yours is recognising how much of what you feel goes into what you make.’ She smiled, with a trace of pride and sadness. ‘You are your mother’s daughter, that’s for sure.’

Emma half laughed, half gasped, sinking into a nearby chair.

---

‘So, you’ve been baking?’

Emma jumped as if it were an accusation.

Dr Norton looked at her from the edge of the medical bed, his foot in her hands as he cut off the cast.

‘Easy!’ he admonished.

‘Oh – um, just a little,’ she said, reddening slightly.

‘Great. It’s like I said, it feeds the soul, quite magical really.’

She blinked. ‘You have no idea,’ she said truthfully.

Then she stared at her foot, free of its cast, and beamed at him. ‘I can’t believe it.’

He winked at her. ‘Believe it.’

---

A text pinged on her mobile later that afternoon.

Dinner to celebrate your cast being off? What do you think? Jack.

Love to she replied. Then grinned like an idiot. She still couldn’t believe this was finally happening. It was everything she’d wanted for years. She put down the tea towel she’d had in her hand, and looked for something to wear that didn’t look like workout gear. It would be so wonderful to wear something nice and not have the cast on her leg.

There wasn’t much in her suitcase, just a pair of black jeans and a soft cashmere jumper. It would have to do – she’d left all her best things behind in her flat in London; it hadn’t occurred to her that she might need them here.

Her hair was in need of a wash and it was hard to do it in the shower with her hand still injured and in the sling. She reasoned washing her hair in the sink would probably be easier – it was what Evie usually did, but today she wasn’t home to help.

She cursed as she got soap in her eyes. It wasn’t really any easier this way, she realised. She wished she’d waited for Evie. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ she exhaled, waking up Pennywort, who snorted at her and then climbed down from the table and made for the bed, apparently not eager to witness her meltdown.

‘Pajarita? You okay?’ came a soft, melodic voice from behind her.

Emma looked up through one eye. The other was stinging and squeezed shut. ‘Um? I’m fine, thanks.’

Sandro snorted. ‘You don’t look fine,’ he said, putting down a blue sports bag on the table.

He took a clean tea towel from a drawer and ran it under the water, then placed it over her eyes. Then he pulled a chair next to the sink, and said, ‘Sit. Now lean back.’

She did as instructed. His fingers were firm, yet gentle, as they worked the shampoo into her scalp, massaging the skin near her neck.

His fingers sent shivers down her spine and she felt her toes curl in response. ‘Your hair is really long,’ he said, his fingers working the shampoo into the ends, and she felt herself sink back, melting into the pressure of his hands, the gentle weight of his arm against her neck.

He stopped and she felt her eyes snap open in surprise as he moved away and the cool air replaced his touch. Then the tap was being turned on and he was telling her to lean her head back against the sink as he rinsed her hair under the spray, the water warm, blocking out all sound, his fingers sluicing the shampoo out of her hair.

When he was done, he picked up the towel that she’d left on the back of the chair and wrapped it round her head. ‘Do you need help to dry it?’ he asked.

She was about to say yes, just so that he would keep touching her, when her phone flashed. A text came through. They both glanced at it.

Looking forward to tonight. Jack xx

Emma blinked. A shadow seemed to fall across Sandro’s eyes. He stared at her for a moment, like he wanted to say something, and then picked up his bag. ‘Enjoy your date,’ he said, and then left.

She held her hands up to her flushed skin, staring after him, feeling utterly confused. Fighting the impulse to call him back. She frowned, looking at her phone, lost in thought.

---

Jack arrived early for their date. ‘You look nice,’ he said taking in her long, shining hair, her smart clothes.

‘Thanks,’ she said, smiling and smoothing down her jeans.

‘I thought we could go to Martels,’ he said, coming closer, giving her a kiss. Martels was one of the oldest restaurants in town. A part of her was a little disappointed that he didn’t want to go to the Tapas Hut – Martels was nice, but a little shabby – but she didn’t say anything, telling herself it didn’t matter. Besides, after what had happened with Sandro, perhaps it was better. She felt her cheeks flush as she thought of it, and told herself she’d read too much into it.

Jack helped himself to a biscuit from the rack before they went. ‘I haven’t been able to stop thinking about those buns since you made them. They’re heavenly – any chance of some more?’

She laughed. ‘I’ll make some just for you.’

He seemed pleased at the idea.

‘I’ll probably get fat, dating you,’ he said.

She grinned. ‘I don’t really do low-cal, sorry. Not now, anyway.’

‘Now?’ he asked as they climbed into his car, the heaters slow to warm the interior so that she shivered. As she put on her seatbelt, she saw a couple walking on the hill. She frowned when she realised it was Sandro, talking to some woman, who was wearing a dark green coat and had long blonde hair beneath a green bobble hat. She had a mittened hand on his arm. They seemed to be having a rather animated conversation.

Was this one of the many girls who were always calling? Holly? Sarah?

She felt herself deflate slightly, like she had a slow puncture.

‘Earth to Emma?’ asked Jack.

‘Sorry?’ she said, tearing her gaze away, looking into Jack’s somewhat confused eyes. She blinked, then forced a smile.

‘You said now you don’t do low-cal?’

‘Oh?’ She looked back at the figures in the street, walking towards the snow-covered heathland and out of sight, trying to remember what they had been talking about earlier, giving herself a mental shake. Enough of this, she told herself.

‘Um… Oh, it’s just that I’ve just spent the last few months not being able to taste or smell a thing, and now that I can, well, I don’t want to waste it, you know? I’m not interested in being a glutton – but I’m just done with deprivation, life’s too short, you know?’ she said with a grin.

He nodded, put his hand on her knee and gave it a squeeze. ‘I know,’ he said.

She enjoyed their date. Martels was crowded, but cosy and warm; there were bands of green and gold tinsel strewn on the ceiling, like Christmas bunting, and in the corner was a very festive tree, twinkling with multicoloured lights, while soft Christmas tunes crooned by Etta James played in the background. They had been shown into a small, private booth by a waiter who was wearing a Christmas hat; the booth blocked their view of the rest of the restaurant, creating a private candlelit sanctuary, which lent the peeling paint charm and, along with the wine, helped the conversation flow all night.

It had been months since she wore anything that didn’t come with a drawstring, and it felt good. The food had been wonderful, pasta in cream with wine and garlic, and she’d found herself groaning in pleasure, deciding then and there to never diet again.

‘It’s funny how life works, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘I mean, I never thought we’d be given another chance, that one day I’d be brave enough to go on a date in public with you. If my mammy could see me now.’ He laughed.

She grinned, though a small part of her didn’t like the fact that he’d had to summon his courage just to go on a date in public with her. For a second Sandro’s words from the other morning echoed in her head. ‘You shouldn’t have to give up who you are to just to be loved, you should find someone who will love for who you are, not who you’re not. You deserve so much more than that.’

She blocked them out. Wasn’t that what Jack was trying to do now, wasn’t that what he’d said the other night?

She turned to him and smiled. The truth was she didn’t relish the idea of running into Mrs Allen either; there were some people who did nor mellow with age, and she suspected Janet Allen was one of them. For now, she was quite happy to keep the fact she and Jack were together between them.

Unfortunately, years of living in London had made her forget that coming to one of the oldest restaurants in town with Jack Allen, where everyone knew her name, was about as subtle as announcing their status via loudspeaker.

Especially considering that, unbeknownst to them, a table full of Leas had sat and watched them all night, looks of horror twisting their faces. But no one’s expression was worse than Stella’s; by the end of that night she had decided upon a course of revenge so cold, many would have been hard pressed to remember that she was the vicar’s daughter.