‘To be fair, the child doesn’t look scared any more,’ said Dot, cowering a little under Evie’s glower as the latter set down cups of tea in front of her and Agatha, with a heavy thud, then proceeded to pour a liberal amount of brandy into her own, despite the relatively early hour.

Evie pinched the bridge of her nose, closed her eyes and prayed for strength. ‘That’s only because I told her the truth.’

‘Emma,’ she went on, addressing the child, who had been watching the exchange like a ping-pong match since Evie’s face turned tomato red and she began shouting at her sisters from the doorway, arms gesturing wildly, pointed fingers shaking; a few nosy neighbours started craning their necks over garden fences to witness the commotion, so Dot had shooed the four of them all into the cottage.

‘You remember how I explained about The Book?’ said Evie.

Emma gave a hesitant nod.

‘Well, that’s really what Aggie means. It’s something all Halloway girls are born with – your mother too. We offer hope, which is a magic all of its own, and it affects the food we make.’

‘The boys get other things,’ chipped in Dot.

Aggie snorted. ‘Like the power of evaporation – they disappear at will.’

‘That’s not true,’ said Dot. ‘Anyway, Daddy wasn’t a Halloway, technically.’

Evie looked away. ‘It isn’t easy on the men, this, we have enough failed relationships in our family to attest to that, but that’s a story for another day.’

‘It isn’t easy on the women either,’ pointed out Aggie. ‘I mean look at your mother,’ she told Emma, whose ears perked up at her mention.

‘Oh, she was excellent in the kitchen, a real natural,’ enthused Dot, her eyes wide behind their thick lenses. ‘She cooked with her heart, and you often felt what she did in what she made. Which, of course, came with its problems, especially when she was a teenager, struggling with her emotions. And later too, really, perhaps it was harder for her because it called so loudly.’

They nodded solemnly. ‘It’s why she resisted it so much,’ said Dot, wisely.

To her credit, Emma didn’t look quite as frightened as a child in her situation would have had every right to be.

‘What do you think about this?’ asked Agatha.

Emma shrugged.

‘She doesn’t speak,’ said Evie, shaking her head in exasperation. It wasn’t like she hadn’t told them about it. They just kept forgetting.

Dot and Agatha shared a look. ‘Not a word?’

‘Nothing since the accident.’

‘Ah, poor thing,’ said Dot, standing up and consulting The Book. ‘I seem to recall an excellent recipe that Mother used on our evacuee from the Blitz, what was his name – Johnny?’

‘Jason,’ said Evie.

‘Ah yes, poor lad. He didn’t speak either, in the beginning.’

‘I’ve decided on the tomato tagine,’ said Evie. Gentle was best.

‘That slow burner?’ said Aggie, tutting. She stood up and went to stand next to her sister, skipping through the pages. ‘Why not something with a bit of zap, a bit of fizzle – how about this?’ she said, settling on one that promised quick-fire results. Lightning Bolt Lemon Pie was exactly the sort of recipe Agatha would choose, the sort of thing only someone with a gambler’s heart would try. ‘It worked on old Bob Hogson, remember?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Evie in exasperation, pinching the bridge of her nose again. ‘The family wanted a bit of peace and quiet from his constant moans—’

‘Well, they got it, didn’t they?’

‘Yes, only they realised that his constant griping was the only thing that had been keeping him alive! He withered away soon after that with nothing left to care about.’

Evie shook her head, took The Book from her sister and flipped it back to the tagine, giving the page a firm pat. ‘We just want a bit of calm. No whirlwind changes. Slow and steady wins the race,’ she said, decisively.

Aggie looked at her in disbelief. ‘Clearly, you know nothing about racing.’

---

Emma learned that Dot and Aggie were a part of Hope Cottage, just as much as Pennywort and The Book. Dot lived in a spacious bungalow with her husband Jo, who ran the used car dealership in town.

If you visited her house, you’d almost always catch her in her bathrobe and slippers, even at midday, though she always had her make-up on; she was a bit vain about her big, round eyes and full Cupid’s bow mouth and always wanted them to be seen at their best. As soon as you were inside she’d ply you with tea, then dash off to get changed, all the while telling you secrets through the closed bedroom door. Dot liked nothing better than telling stories, and she could suck you in and make time go past faster than you could blink. Before you knew it, you were agreeing to another cup of tea and listening to the latest gossip. Some said that Jessica Flynn, the newscaster on local radio station The Whistle Blower, kept Dot on speed-dial for her nightly round-up of the village news, because no one knew more about the residents of Whistling than her.

She told her stories with drama and intrigue and an uncanny knack for voices. Emma learned, like many of the residents of Whistling, that you visited Dot when you had time to spare – and at your own peril if you didn’t. Minutes and hours and afternoons could pass without you realising you’d fallen under Dot’s spell. She served endless pots of tea and old-fashioned cakes that left your mouth watering for more; there were Eccles cakes, rich with nutmeg and currants, mountains of singin’ hinnies, hot and rich with honey, and before you knew it, even though you’d just come for a cuppa you’d left after the last game of cards, well after dinner and well past dark.

But she was more than just a storyteller. Dot was the one you called when you needed calm and cheer, when it felt like all hope was lost. Aggie was the one who brought luck. Though, somehow, she’d never managed to stumble on any of it for herself. After husband number three, one would imagine she’d given up, but she was a romantic at heart.

‘Aggie is the oldest,’ said Dot. ‘And should have been the one to run Hope Cottage—’

‘Only I ran away with a drummer when I was eighteen,’ said Aggie. She’d married Stan straight away. His band had had a few hits back in the sixties. Michael was next – he became a professional poker player. And Bill, in her thirties when she thought that maybe it would be a good idea to date another artist like herself. The short version was that it had not been.

Aggie lived in a flat just off the high street, where she painted enormous canvases filled with rushes of black swirling paint that she said sometimes reflected her moods. Shadow art, she called it. The first-time Emma visited her flat and stood in Aggie’s studio, she realised she recognised them, or at least ones like them; there had been several hanging in her old London flat, her home with her parents.

‘You know these?’ she asked, as Emma stared at them in wonder. Tears came to her eyes as Emma nodded.

Aggie stared at her. ‘Your mother was one of my first customers – we used to be very close, she and I. Same temperament,’ she said, with a grin. ‘I just wish she’d told us about you,’ she went on, squeezing Emma’s shoulder.

‘That makes two of us,’ said Evie.

‘Three,’ said Dot, who was wiping away a tear. They’d been doing a lot of crying and talking about Emma’s mother, which was something that Emma found helpful; at least she wasn’t alone in her grief.

‘And I got married soon after, to Jo,’ said Dot, who didn’t have any children of her own. This had been a devastating blow; of all of them, Dot was the most motherly.

‘So, running the cottage fell to me,’ said Evie, ‘but it’s all of ours really – yours too.’