“It’s so beautiful,” I say breathlessly. “I haven’t been here for years and years.”

I can’t see Jase, who’s closing the gate behind us, but I can hear a lilt in his voice as he says, “Yeah, it’s lovely, in-nit? Seems a shame that nobody gets to use it. Your gran comes here sometimes. Oops, sorry”—he corrects himself as he comes up to stand next to me—“Lady Wakefield, I should say.”

I giggle. “No, it’s fine. She gets cross with me when I don’t call her that too.”

Jase stares at me incredulously. “Your gran makes you call her Lady Wakefield?”

I pull a face. “In term time, yeah. She says if I don’t, discipline will slip.”

“Right. Your gran could be in a coma and she still wouldn’t let discipline slip.” Jase gives a belly laugh.

It’s horribly true. But looking at Jase, standing on the little slope that leads down to the glittering surface of the lake, thoughts of my grandmother mercifully fade from my mind; the excitement of the moment is too much for me to think about anything negative. It’s a glorious autumn day, and the oak trees around the lake are deep shades of russet and gold, like quiet fires. The weeping willows dipping into the water are exactly as I remember them, their branches bending so elegantly they look like dancers leaning over the water. And the lake itself, with its central fountain of leaping dolphins, is one of the most calming sights I’ve ever seen in my life. There’s something about still water shining in the sun that instantly makes you feel peaceful.

Or it would, if I didn’t have Jase standing next to me, and every nerve ending in my body wasn’t jumping, wondering when he’s going to kiss me again.  .  .  .

“We used to go out boating on the lake,” I remember. “Me and my dad.”

“The boathouse is over there,” Jase says, pointing to a small building in the same gray stone as the balustrade that runs around the border of the lake.

“Oh yeah. Wow, everything looks so much smaller now.”

“How old were you when you came here with your dad?”

“Only about four.”

“No wonder it seems smaller now, eh?” he says. And, to my surprise, I feel him taking my hand. “You miss them a lot, do you? Your parents?”

I don’t know how to answer this. No one’s asked me that question that I can remember. I’m amazed that Jase is asking it, actually. And I’m really touched.

I clear my throat.

“I can’t say I miss them, I suppose. They died when I was very little. I think I’ve sort of made up memories from looking at photos, if you know what I mean. But I miss having parents. My life would be so different if they were alive.”

Jase squeezes my hand.

“And I can see from the photos that they loved me,” I say, to my horror. Why am I telling him this? Tears are pricking at my eyes as I say the words. “So, um, that would be nice.”

I mustn’t cry. I mustn’t cry. I’m sounding pathetic enough as it is. I stare ahead, blinking fast and breathing deeply, and manage, just about, to get my tears under control.

“I’m really sorry,” Jase says after a few moments. “I shouldn’t have asked you that.”

“No, it’s okay.” I take another deep breath. “No one ever does ask about my parents, so I liked that you did.”

“Can’t be much fun for you, living with old Scratchface,” Jase says.

I turn to look at him, feeling safe to do that now I’ve got my tears under control.

“What did you call her?”

He grins at me, unabashed. “Old Scratchface. Your aunt. That’s what I used to call her when I was little. I was never allowed onto the Hall grounds proper—we had to keep to our garden. But I used to sneak in sometimes, to explore, and God, wouldn’t she tear me off a strip if she caught me! I used to have nightmares about her, tell you the truth.”

I giggle. “Scratchface,” I say appreciatively. “That’s perfect for Aunt Gwen.” I realize something. “That’s why we never met before, when we were little. Because you weren’t allowed anywhere on the grounds. I never even knew there was another kid here.”

“I knew about you,” Jase says. “Saw you wandering all over the place, actually. But I never let you see me when I was exploring, because then I’d really get into trouble. With my dad too. No fraternizing with the Wakefields, they’re too posh for the likes of us, that’s what he always said.”

Oh dear—Jase has mentioned his dad. I can tell he didn’t mean to, not after the incident a couple of nights ago, but now he’s all tensed. He must still be embarrassed about it, because his hand slips out of mine. It’s my turn to feel sorry for him about his parents.

Sensing that we need to change the subject to something a lot lighter, I walk down the slope to the edge of the lake, and jump up onto the balustrade. It’s only about a foot high, and wide enough to walk along easily.

“I wish we could come here more,” I say wistfully. “We could buy some boats and row, or punt, or something.”

Jase runs down the slope and jumps up next to me.

“It’s all health and safety now, isn’t it?” he says, reaching for my hand again, his momentary gloom forgotten. “You can’t do anything, because if something went wrong somebody would sue you.”

“That’s really stupid,” I say.

“Well, maybe you should change things. Talk to your gran.” Jase looks at me. “This’ll all be yours one day—you should have some say in what goes on.”

I goggle at him.

“I can’t even think about that right now.” I stare over the lake. I suppose I will own all of this one day. But the responsibility feels completely overwhelming like a huge coat thrown over my shoulders, one that’s much too heavy for me, and I can barely stand up in it, let alone walk.

“Sorry,” Jase says, squeezing my hand. “I just completely freaked you out, didn’t I?”

I nod.

“Scarlett—”

It’s so nice hearing him say my name that I involuntarily turn to him and smile. The sun is behind me, and the sunlight melts in his eyes, turning their amber into liquid pools of gold. Just like the sunlight, I melt looking at him. His hand clasping mine is warm and strong, and on his palm I can feel the calluses from all the gardening he’s been doing. He raises his other hand to shade his eyes from the sun, and I say, idiotically:

“It’s very bright, isn’t it?”

Jase just smiles. He takes a step toward me, and I find myself taking one toward him, till we’re nearly touching. He lowers his head, and I tilt mine up. It’s like a dance, we’re so smoothly choreographed. His lips touch mine and we kiss, very gently. My heart bounces in my chest as if Taylor were playing basketball with it. We drop each other’s hands—again, just as if we were choreographed. I reach my arms up to his neck and Jase’s arms lock around my waist. We pull each other closer. Our feet shift, and Jase must have gone a little off the edge of the balustrade, because he wobbles, which makes me wobble. The next thing I know we’ve torn our arms away from each other, because we need them to balance with.

I’m okay—if there’s anything I’m used to after years of gymnastics, it’s balancing, and the balustrade is much, much wider than a balance beam. But Jase actually teeters for a couple of seconds, his arms flailing wildly in the air, and I can’t help it—I start giggling. And this one isn’t a girl-to-boy giggle, it’s a full-on, you-look-silly giggle.

In an effort not to fall into the lake, Jase leans way over to the other side, so far he overbalances and has to jump back down onto the grass again. He stands there looking up at me, and I can see he’s a bit cross. I try to stop laughing.

“Sorry,” I say. “You just looked a bit funny.”

“I’m a lot taller than you,” he says grumpily. “It’s harder to balance when you’re taller.”

I jump down too, not wanting him to stay grumpy.

“I did balance beam for a long time,” I say, hoping this will salve his wounded pride. “I can balance on anything.”

“Oh really?” His face creases into a huge smile. “Come on, then!”

He grabs my hand and pulls me into a run. We tear across the grass, around the wide curve of the lake, past a drooping cluster of weeping willows trailing their leaves in the water, all the way round to the far side, where a large and majestic oak is standing close to the water’s edge.

Jase grabs a branch and swings himself up, finding knotholes in the trunk with his feet. I can tell he’s climbed this tree many times before, because he knows the way up as easily as if he were climbing a ladder. I’m right behind him, careful to avoid his feet. Wow, men’s feet are so enormous—Jase’s, in his trainers, look like boats. He reaches a fork and straddles it, reaching down a hand to help me up. But I don’t take it.

“I’m fine,” I say, grasping a branch above me and letting it take all my weight as I walk up the trunk to a branch I can stand on.

“You don’t need me, do you?” he says, and there’s disappointment in his voice as well as grudging approval.

I’m supposed to need him, I realize. I’m not supposed to be strong enough to climb this big tree on my own. But I didn’t want to take his hand, I wanted to do it all by myself. Ricky, our gymnastics coach, would only spot you if you really needed it; he’d watch you like a hawk to make sure you were okay, but he would never just help you for the sake of helping you. But then, Ricky was our coach. Whereas Jase might, maybe, one day, be my boyfriend. Big difference.

And maybe it’s nice that someone who might one day be your boyfriend wants to help you?

But by now I’m standing on the branch, so it’s too late. I smile at him, and thank goodness, he smiles back.

“That’s the one,” he says, grinning. “Want to try balancing properly? I used to walk along that when I was smaller.”

I look down the branch where it grows away from the tree. Wide and sturdy-looking, it reaches out over the water. Wow. That would be exciting.

“Is this a challenge?” I ask.

“Yeah. I thought I heard you just say you could balance on anything,” he says, his eyes glinting.

“Okay,” I say, “what do I get if I do it?”

“Anything you want.”

“And what do you get if I don’t do it?” I ask, knowing the answer already.

“You have to kiss me.”

“Ewww!” I say. “Yuck! I don’t want to have to do that!”

For the first time, I’m allowing myself to really enjoy this. The teasing and the flirting. It’s even more fun than it looks in films and on TV, because in real life, you have to come up with the dialogue yourself, and there’s a whole adrenaline charge in trying to be funny and clever and sort of sexy, pushing someone away to bring them closer.

Which is what I’m doing now. I could tell that when I said, even teasingly, I didn’t want to kiss Jase, that made him want to kiss me more. He’s sitting in the fork of the tree, legs wide, leaves dangling past his face, one arm curled round a branch, grinning at me, and I put my chin in the air and stand up straight, take a deep breath and let it out—you should never hold your breath while balancing, it makes the body nervous—turn my back to him, and set out along the branch.

I wish I weren’t wearing trainers. I’m used to balancing in bare feet, and the trainers don’t let you feel the surface beneath you half as well.

An overhanging branch. I duck my head and move beneath it, slow steady steps, and as I emerge the full panorama of the lake is stretched out before me, silver water shining in the sun. I wish the marble fountain in the center were switched on. There’s something so lovely about water playing in a fountain. But the sight is still beautiful enough to make me catch my breath. I stand there, soaking it in. And a warm rush of pride fills me. This is the Wakefield Hall lake, on Wakefield Hall grounds, and one day, probably, it will be all mine. I can’t imagine my grandmother leaving it to Aunt Gwen—she’s so mean to Aunt Gwen, making her live in the tiny gatehouse, treating her like just another teacher.

I would feel sorrier for Aunt Gwen if she weren’t so mean to me in her turn.

I’m a Wakefield, I think, and this is where I belong. My great-great-grandfather built this lake, and one day, maybe, I’ll inherit it. And if I do, I’ll turn the fountains on every day and watch water shoot out of the dolphins’ mouths and up into the sky—

“What the hell is going on?”

Totally shocked, I jump and nearly topple into the water.

I look down. There’s a man standing below me, hands on his hips. His face is bright red with rage: he’s glaring up at me, his eyes squinched into puffy slits of fury. I know who he is by the sound of his angry voice and his stance, his hands in fists by his side. But I would never have guessed otherwise that he was Jase’s dad. He doesn’t look anything like him. Nothing at all.

“Dad!” Jase yells. “It’s Scarlett! She’s—”

But Mr. Barnes totally ignores him.

“You get down from there right away, you little tart!” he screams while reaching up and grabbing the lower leaves of the branch I’m standing on. Then he does his best to shake it.

Mr. Barnes must be mad, I think. Completely mad to do something this stupid. Because even someone as trained and as skilled as I am at the balance beam can’t possibly stay upright while some maniac is shaking the branch I’m standing on. In a split second, I assess my options. I can’t run back down the branch, not with him shaking it. If I fall backward, I could crack my head open, or land on the ground and really hurt myself. The only safe thing to do is  .  .  .

The branch rocks dangerously beneath me. One foot slips out from under me.

“Scarlett!” Jase shouts desperately.

With the other foot, I push away from the branch, diving forward. As I fly through the air, I realize I have absolutely no idea how deep the lake is. I know you can row in it, which means it has to be a few feet deep—I hope—I pray—because by now I’m completely committed to my dive, aiming out into the middle of the lake, avoiding the fountain—

I hit the water. The cold shocks me like a slap. Immediately the water pulls down at my clothes, and the next second my hands bang into the bottom of the lake. Terrified that my head’s going to be next, I manage to push away into a sort of somersault, rebounding off the bottom. My heavy, water-soaked limbs flip over my head, and I splash and land awkwardly, clumsily, but more or less safe.

I get my feet under me and stand up, gulping air. I reach up to push my hair out of my face, my arms weighted by the water in my clothes. My lovely cashmere sweater that my grandmother gave me, which I wore to look pretty for Jase! I hope it’ll be okay. And then I think what an idiot I am for even remembering my sweater at a time like this. I look over to the edge of the lake. Jase has jumped down from the tree and is running toward me. His dad grabs him, and they grapple together.

Jase is yelling, “Dad! Let go! I have to see if she’s hurt!”

“She’ll be fine,” Mr. Barnes shouts. “She was asking for it, silly little mare! Dancing around on that branch, showing off for you!”

“I dared her to—Jesus, why does it matter why she was doing it?” Jase struggles to get free from his father’s grip. “You could have killed her, Dad, you stupid bloody—”

“Don’t you talk to me like that!” his father bellows, raising one hand.

Jase grabs him by the wrist, stopping the blow. They stand there, strength against strength, locked in a weird kind of stasis. I don’t move either. I stand there in the middle of the lake watching them, unable to believe my eyes. Unable to understand why Mr. Barnes is acting like this.

Jase suddenly lets go of his father’s wrist and ducks. The pent-up force in his father’s arm makes him fly forward, over Jase’s bent back, and he hits the grass as Jase pushes him away and sprints toward me. I should move. I’m up to my chest in cold water, freezing, but I stand here and watch Jase as he takes a flying leap and lands in the lake.

“Gaah!” he yells, shaking his head, water droplets flying from his tight curls. “Cold!” He wades toward me, taking long strides which the water impedes, so it’s like watching him walk in slow motion.

Behind him, his dad is getting to his feet.

“Jase Barnes! Come back here right now!”

“Are you okay?” Jase calls urgently to me. “Scarlett?”

I look down at my palms, which are grazed and just starting to bleed a little from being scraped along the rough bottom of the lake. The water must be slowing the bleeding down a little, so maybe the damage won’t be so bad. It doesn’t look terrible. But then, I’m probably in shock.

“I think so,” I reply.

“You flipped!” he says.

“I did that deliberately,” I explain, “so I wouldn’t hit my head—”

“God, I thought you hit something in the water.  .  .  .”

His face is so anxious, so concerned, that despite the drama and craziness of the situation I can’t help but feel happy he’s so worried about me.

“Jase!” His father is still shouting from the edge of the lake. “Get away from her!”

“Dad, do you know who this is?” Jase says, slow-turning to look at him. “This is Scarlett Wakefield! Lady W’s granddaughter! If anyone’s got a right to be here, she does!”

For a moment, I think it’s all going to be resolved. Mr. Barnes, standing so bullishly glaring down at us, his fists on his hips, his face red and swollen, is going to realize what an awful mistake he’s made thinking that Jase had brought one of the Wakefield Hall girls to a place that’s so strictly out of bounds. He’s going to apologize and reach down a hand to help us out of the water. He’s going to—

“I know exactly who she is!” he yells. “Scarlett Wakefield!” He points at me. “If I ever see you hanging round my son again, I won’t answer for my actions. You stay away from him, or it’ll be the worse for you!”

That’s it. That really is it. I stride through the water, amazed at how fast I’m moving, anger giving extra power to my legs. I grab at the balustrade and haul myself out of the pond with a whoosh of water flooding off my clothes, the lake catching at my completely drenched trainers and refusing to let them go till I kick it away from me. I climb up and stand on the balustrade, where I’m taller than him: I’m not jumping down onto the grass, where he can tower over me.

“This is my land,” I say. “Mine and my family’s. I’m a Wakefield, and you’re nothing but a bully. And when you tell me what to do on my land, you’ve gone too far.” I raise one sodden arm and point at him. “If you ever threaten me again, if you ever come near me again, I’ll tell my grandmother and you’ll get sacked.” I’m panting for breath after my near run through the lake, but I can hear how serious I sound nonetheless. “Don’t think I won’t do it, because I will. I swear to God I will.”

Mr. Barnes is staring at me with his jaw dropped. I stare back, my eyes narrowed, refusing to let him intimidate me.

Finally he mutters something that I’m sure I don’t want to hear, and turns away.

“Jase!” he screeches over his shoulder. “Lock up and get back to the cottage. I’ve still got words for you!”

He’s walking away. I’ve done it. I’ve bested him.

But as I look at Jase wading across the lake, I know it’s been at a heavy cost.

Because Jase won’t meet my eyes. In order to stand up to his father, I had to remind both the Barneses that we’re not equal here. I’m a Wakefield, and the Barneses are the gardeners who’ve worked for my family for generations. We’re not equal at all.

I blame Plum for behaving like a spoiled princess, but isn’t that what I just did? Okay, I may not exactly be spoiled, but didn’t I just use my princess status? With my rank, I intimidated Mr. Barnes, and even though he definitely needed to be intimidated, it still feels like a hollow victory, because it may have ruined everything between me and Jase.

If there was anything left to ruin, of course. Because his psycho dad might have succeeded in doing it all on his own, even before I jumped up on my pedestal and started laying down the law.

Jase and I part ways after he locks the gate. I walk down the path that will take me round the tennis courts, behind some hedges. Hopefully, I’ll be concealed all the way back to Aunt Gwen’s house.

I don’t turn back to look at Jase. What would be the point? He certainly won’t be turning back to look at me.

I squelch home, my feet so wet that I eventually take off my socks and trainers and carry them. The tarmac path is rough underfoot, but I barely notice. I can’t believe how bad this afternoon has turned out. How could this happen? How could something so nice go so badly wrong? Why does Jase’s father mind so much that we’re hanging out together? My head’s spinning with questions and I have no way of answering any of them. I want to cry. I want to lie down on my bed and burst into tears and never stop crying.

I can’t help wondering if Mr. Barnes knows anything about me and Dan’s death. Could he have heard my grandmother and Aunt Gwen talking about it? Is that why he doesn’t want me around Jase? I could understand that, I guess. But that wouldn’t explain his incredible hostility, or the fact that he could have killed me when he shook the branch I was standing on. It wasn’t as if he caught me kissing Jase and dragged me off him, after all. That would make sense. But putting me in that much danger—it’s insane.

My phone rings as I let myself into the gatehouse, and I sprint upstairs faster than I’ve ever run, thinking it might be Jase. No one else will be ringing me: I don’t have any friends but Taylor, and she wouldn’t want to risk interrupting me in the middle of my date with Jase. I’m counting the rings desperately as I hurtle upstairs—there are five and a half before it goes to voice mail. I tumble into my room and snatch at the phone at four and a half rings. There isn’t enough time to see who the caller is, just enough to thumb the Answer button and say, breathlessly, “Hi!”

“Is this  .  .  . Scarlett Wakefield?”

It’s a woman’s voice. Not Jase. I bite back the tears and say, “Yes,” wondering who it can be.

“Scarlett  .  .  .” She takes a long, slow breath. “This is Flora McAndrew. Dan’s mother. My husband and I got your letter by this morning’s post, and we’ve been talking things over.”

I want to sit down, but I can’t, and not just because I’m soaking wet and dripping on the floor. I’m totally gob smacked as I go through to the bathroom, the phone clamped to my ear, not wanting to miss a word Mrs. McAndrew’s saying. I can’t believe she’s ringing me so soon: I posted the letter only yesterday morning. I didn’t expect to hear from her for at least a day or so—that’s always assuming she decided to get back to me at all. The first-class post must be a lot better than I realized.

“It was  .  .  . nice to hear from you.” Her Scottish-accented voice is hesitant. “We were wondering—well, what you wrote about wanting to meet us, and talk about his last minutes, really struck a chord with me. I know we saw you at the inquest, but we were so overcome with grief that we barely took in anything you said. And if you have something of Dan’s that you’d like to return to us  .  .  .”

I sit down on the edge of the bath, clutching my mobile tightly, like I did with her son’s limp body.

“So we were wondering,” she goes on, “would you like to come up here for a few days? To the castle? Dan’s brother and sister will be back for half-term, you could meet them and maybe answer any questions they might have about Dan’s”—she gulps hard, but recovers herself—“about Dan’s last moments?”

I can’t say anything. My throat has temporarily closed up.

“Scarlett?” Mrs. McAndrew asks, sounding very nervous. “Would you like to come? I thought this Friday to next Monday, a long weekend. Or maybe you have plans for half-term already.  .  .  .”

Through some act of God, I finally find my voice.

“No,” I say, swallowing hard. “I don’t have plans.”

I also don’t have any time to think about whether or not I can go through with this, which is what I told myself I’d do before sending the letter to the McAndrews. Honestly, I thought I’d be capable of taking this next step, but now I’m unsure and scared.

None of that matters, though, because Dan’s mother is waiting patiently for an answer.

My teeth are chattering with bitter cold and anxiety, but hopefully she doesn’t hear that when I say, “Thank you very much for asking me, Mrs. McAndrew. I’d really like to come.”