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there was something crumpled up in Donald’s hand. It rather spoiled the moment as she prized it loose. It was a ‘Trespasser’s will be prosecuted’ notice, with the black castle turret logo of the McKriven company all over it.
    “This was on the gatepost. There are more of them along the fence. He’s got a bloody cheek, with poor Beatrice not yet in her grave!”
    The angry Donald was back again. China couldn’t cope with him when he was like that. Back in Manchester she’d had one too many macho boyfriends who thought raising their voices and sometimes their fists solved every problem. She hadn’t come all this way to fall for another man like that.
    “You said Aunt Bea’s solicitor could help,” she said, standing back from him a few paces, giving him some space as she made the excuse of fussing Morgan.
    Donald looked confused at her sudden offish tones. “Aye. He’ll winkle out the truth if Beatrice signed something she shouldn’t have had. I was over in Balivanich village this morning and told him about your letter. Hope that’s OK.”
    He could feel her growing cold and he wasn’t sure what he’d done. After all these years apart it was so good to see her again, all grown up. He’d just hate it if he drove her away.
    “Fine. I’m sure that will be OK. You must have work to do. I’ll have a bit of a look around and then lock up. See you later at the pub?”
    “Sure. Can’t waste all my day with a tourist, can I?” he snapped. “Be careful upstairs. There are a couple of ceilings down at the back where the roof’s at its worst. See you later.” Before he said something he’d regret, he ducked through the front door and left her alone, his face a mask of suppressed anger.
    Morgan barked once and ran around in a circle, eager to be off doing something, whilst China chewed at her thumbnail, wondering what had just gone wrong. But that was the chance she was taking, wasn’t it? She didn’t really know this Donald Dart. She had half-forgotten childhood memories of a sweet young boy who’d been a large part of her early life, but maybe too many years had drifted by. The city girl and the island boy just didn’t seem to have anything in common any more, except clouded memories.
    For some reason she found herself crying as the dog whined around her, sensing her disappointment and confusion, and the house creaked and shuddered in the returning wind, as if it were trying to join in the conversation. What had she been thinking of? A whirlwind romance? She was here to bury her aunt and maybe it would be best to sell to this McKriven company and get back to civilization as swiftly as possible.
    What was a pile of rotting old stones, a great smelly dog, and this weather-blasted island to her?
    But then her mother would have won. Having poisoned the childhood memories and put a barrier between herself and this wonderful place, she would have finally got her way. Somehow China had to get past this and work out what she really wanted from life. Whether she had really come home, or was only visiting a place she had long since outgrown.
    There was a faint fluttering in front of her as she ascended the wide bare staircase to the first floor. She could hear a frantic beating of wings. In the tall, arched window at the head of the stairs, she watched, entranced, as a single butterfly fluttered weakly against the windowpane. It was still too cold for the island’s secret inhabitants to hatch from their chrysalises en mass, but sometime soon, within a couple of weeks, the island would become covered in a variety of bright fluttering wings. This solitary butterfly must have hatched early within the slightly warmer environment of the house. As she held her hand up to try and capture the frantic insect, it settled on one finger, wings twitching nervously.
    For a second, she knew how it felt. Alone, confused, but fighting for a purpose in life. Then it was away, its wings flashing small beats of colour, flying