The storm vanished as swiftly as it had arrived. With a gust of sea-damp air at her back, Rita stepped into the coat-filled hallway, slammed the front door, and pulled off her filthy wellies.

  The farmhouse was quiet, but as with all old homes never truly silent. Floorboards creaked. The Aga ticked. Somewhere above, a gull cried out as it wheeled past the chimney.

  With a deep sigh, she headed through to the warm and welcoming heart of the farmhouse. The flagstone floor, smoothed by decades of footsteps, stretched beneath a much-scrubbed pine table scarred with knife marks and ringed by mismatched chairs. Copper pans hung from a rack above the Aga, which radiated a steady, dependable heat. A vase of bright daffodils added a splash of much-needed spring sunshine to the windowsill.

  Stripping off her muddy clothes, she put them and her old raincoat straight into the washing machine and pushed the hot cycle button. As she flicked on the kettle, she stood naked for a moment, staring out of the back window over the orchard, where a post-storm mist eerily clung low to the ground.

  Trying to push down the familiar wavering panic she had felt since Archie’s death, she took a deep exaggerated breath. There was so much to do! The orchard was going to ruin; the goat field fence needed repairing. The vegetable garden was growing weeds on weeds. The house needed decorating. A complete sadness washed over her. It was a lot. It had been a lot. This place. This house. It had seen her through everything. Her magical courtship in her early twenties, a not-long-enough marriage, the raising of her now twenty-three-year-old twins, the premature death of her father-in-law from a sudden heart attack. Her parents’ deaths. The laughter of summer guests, and the tears from terrible crop years. Beloved pets and livestock had come and gone. Life had come and gone as if in an instant. Then, six months previously. The accident. Followed by the insurmountable grief and anger that she hadn’t quite learned how to let go of.

  She fed a hungry Henry then made her way slowly upstairs to the bathroom. As the bath filled, Rita studied her reflection in the full-length mirror. At five foot six, she was a reasonably toned size twelve. Her finger traced the faint line of her caesarean scar – a quiet reminder of an exceedingly difficult birth. Grey roots peeked through her wavy, light brown hair, which just skimmed her shoulders. Her eyebrows were out of shape. The skin on her cheeks dry. Oh, to be able to book herself a regular facial like she used to.

  She leaned in closer to examine her face and, without warning, thought of Archie behind her. His strong arms wrapped tightly around her. His tall, six-foot frame leaning down to kiss the back of her neck, an unspoken invitation that always led to something more. He had been so handsome, and he knew it, but never in a showy way. He had got his quiet confidence from his mother, a woman who taught him to stand tall, speak kindly, and never need to boast. That lopsided smile of his always hinted at some private joke, but he was never a flirt. His dark hair had stayed thick and strong, not a grey in sight, as if ageing had politely passed him by. And those green eyes, always watching. They’d shared a great sex life: intimate and attentive. Even when the kids were young, they carved out time for each other. Their monthly ‘date night’ was a constant. Even if they couldn’t get a babysitter, they would cosy up in the big lounge, with a bottle of wine and a takeaway.

  They had a long-running joke between them: Archie had nursed a not-so-secret crush on Keeley Hawes as Louisa Durrell in The Durrells, and insisted Rita was her spitting image. Rita would just laugh and say it was a pity he didn’t look like Spiros, Louisa’s ruggedly handsome love interest in the show. Ironic that, just like Louisa, she was now managing her own dilapidated farmhouse and menagerie, only without the kids at home.

  She sighed at her reflection. She hadn’t had her hair cut or coloured once since Archie had passed. As for the facials she used to enjoy, these days her only luxuries were a dab of cheap face cream and a smudge of Vaseline on her lips.

  Despite the chaos of farm life, she had always made an effort with her appearance. People often said she looked young for her age. She and Archie, without ever trying, had been a beautiful couple. She’d put it down to fresh air, constant movement, and a life that had once been filled, mostly with happiness.

  But today, with her coccyx twinging from the earlier fall and the weight of the world pressing down on her, she felt she looked more like Eddy from Absolutely Fabulous after a three-day champagne bender than the elegant Keeley Hawes.

  Turning slightly, she lifted her still perky breasts with both hands and gave a small, approving nod. She then homed in on the dried mud smeared across her face, hands, and somehow even up her arms, and her thoughts turned to the tranquillity of the health retreat on the White Lotus programme she had watched the night before. Clearly in need of an escape, she had also recently watched a series about luxurious hotels around the world and how at one of them in the Caribbean, mud wraps were a huge part of their offering as well as pampering their guests with lavender-scented towels, monogrammed slippers, and breakfasts delivered on floating trays in private infinity pools. Oh, how she could do with a holiday. Or maybe it wasn’t a holiday she was after; she just wanted to run away from this mess.

  But running away wasn’t the answer. If she wanted to stay at Seahaven Farm she needed to act, and soon. Finding an office job of some sort had crossed her mind, but after twenty-five years away she wasn’t sure she had the technical skills, or that it would even pay enough to drag her out of the mire. She’d also considered sprucing up a few farmhouse bedrooms to offer B&B, renting out the top field… or even opening a children’s petting farm.

  But in the midst of grief, nothing had stuck.

  She was stuck.

  FIVE

  There was something about a Sunday, even on a farm where animals still needed feeding and chores never truly stopped, that felt different. Softer somehow. The air seemed quieter, the light gentler, as if the day itself were asking for a pause. Rita called it her ‘Sunday feeling’. It wasn’t about rest, especially when there were chickens squawking for their breakfast and the goats were kicking their tins. But there was a slowness to it, a rhythm that invited reflection.

  The sunshine that had drenched the farm all week had been replaced by a dull grey sky. The hens clucked and rustled like gossiping aunties the moment Rita unlatched the gate. Nigel, the resident cockerel, strutted forward like he owned the place. With his glossy feathers, ridiculous swagger, and a comb that flopped to one side like a drunken hat, he gave her the usual once-over before letting out a proud, unnecessary crow.

  Archie always said that, since they were only after eggs and not chicks, Nigel wasn’t strictly needed. ‘He’s only really there to keep the ladies company and protect them a bit,’ he’d argue, threatening to get rid of him. ‘They’re perfectly safe in the covered pen from foxes and the like, and as long as you keep collecting the eggs, you won’t end up with chicks.’ But Rita liked Nigel’s unpredictable presence on the farm, strutting about like a feathered lunatic and picking fights with his own reflection. She also liked using him as a free, albeit noisy alarm cock.

  The Barred Rock hens were a striking bunch, their plumage patterned in smart, tidy stripes of black and white, like they’d been dressed in old-fashioned pinstripe suits. From a distance, they looked almost grey, but as they clucked and scratched through the straw, the detail in their feathers caught the light, crisp, orderly bars running from neck to tail. Their bright red combs bobbed cheerfully as they moved, a splash of colour, and their yellow legs stamped with purpose. Their eyes, sharp and knowing, missed nothing.

  Rita had initially worried she wouldn’t be able to name them as they looked so similar to one another, but as she got to know them, their characters soon emerged. Vera was the boss, a no-nonsense hen with a stare that could put anyone in their place. She was the one who wasted no time strutting forward to claim the first handful of feed, pecking with confident authority. Mavis was quieter but steady, the dependable type who liked to keep an eye on everyone else’s business. Deirdre was the dramatic one, her feathers a little ruffled and her eyes wide as if every meal was a performance demanding attention. And then there was Blanche, sharp-tongued and cheeky, always ready to steal a morsel from the others when they weren’t looking.

  Rita scattered grain across the ground, smiling at their familiar chaos. She topped up a water bowl, added apple cider vinegar to a water bottle that poked through the steel wire fence, gently retrieved four warm brown eggs, then cleaned out their coop, laying down fresh, soft hay.

  Rita smiled as Nigel picked, poked and strutted between his ladies. ‘I should have called you Mick Jagger with that swagger.’ Rita had a sudden sad pang that her beloved rooster was probably around the same age as Mick in human years. Nigel crowed again, loudly as if denouncing the absurdity of taking the moniker of a legendary rock icon.

  She was just about to head back to the farmhouse when she noticed out of the corner of her eye a white streak darting up the High Meadow. Her heart lurched – it was Camilla with no sign of a cut leg now, running fast and wild toward the cliff’s edge. Knowing how senseless her favourite goat could be, a cold knot of panic rose within her.

  ‘Shit! Shit!’ Rita shouted, the urgency sharp in her voice.

  She set off in hot pursuit as Camilla raced ahead, little hooves skittering dangerously close to the drop.

  By the time Rita had reached the top of the meadow and rounded the thick hedge of gorse, bristling with needle-like thorns and bright yellow blossoms, the goat had slowed, exhausted, and was peacefully grazing.

  Relief flooded through Rita, quickly replaced by curiosity as her eyes caught sight of a faded two-man tent nestled half in the tall grass at the field’s edge. A camping stove sat in front of it, a black cauldron-like pan bubbling gently on it. Archie would bellow at random campers to get off his land, but now Rita had so much on her plate, if they weren’t getting in her way, she tended to just ignore them. They rarely stayed for more than a couple of nights anyway.

  Then a woman appeared, crawling out of the tent as if she’d been expecting company. No make-up, no shoes, a wild tangle of blonde hair. And jeans and a sweatshirt that looked like they hadn’t seen a washing machine for weeks. Despite the rough edges, her face was striking, pretty, but with sharp, sculpted angles that gave her a fierce beauty. She looked straight at Rita with dark, unreadable eyes that seemed to see through things, past the clothes, past the weather, past pretence.

  ‘You’ve got a restless energy,’ she said quietly, her Mancunian accent soft but steady. ‘The earth feels it. I can feel it. People’s pain leaves a scent on the wind. Do you understand?’

  Rita blinked, caught between disbelief and an aching resonance deep inside her.

  ‘I’m Zenya, by the way,’ the woman added.

  ‘Rita. Rita Jory. And your new landlady, it seems.’ She smiled faintly.

  Zenya’s eyes flicked to the bubbling pot. ‘The nettles up here are perfect for tea. Best picked before the sun’s too high. Clears the blood, lightens the heart. Would you like a cup?’

  Rita hesitated, then laughed nervously. ‘No thanks.’

  Her gaze wandered to a battered rucksack just inside the tent, where a deck of tarot cards peeked out from a side pocket. The top card was face up, The Tower, depicting lightning splitting a crumbling building in two.

  Rita looked away quickly, a chill creeping up her spine at the image.

  Zenya caught her glance and smiled faintly, not moving to hide the cards. ‘I read for people sometimes,’ she said quietly. ‘Not to tell them their future, but to help them hear themselves. Most people already know what they need to do, but the noise of life drowns it out.’

  She gestured towards the ocean below, which currently mirrored the dull and uninviting drab sky above. ‘The air cleans you. The salt in the wind… it blows the grit out of your soul if you let it. The land holds you. If you listen long enough, it will tell you things.’

  Rita’s eyes dipped towards the tarot card on show. ‘What does that one mean?’

  Zenya leaned in. ‘The Tower is the card of upheaval. Sudden change. Destruction of what’s no longer true. Like lightning tearing down old, shaky foundations so something new can grow. It’s raw, it’s chaotic, but necessary. Sometimes, things need to fall apart before they can get better.’

  Rita swallowed hard, the weight of those words settling deep inside her.

  Zenya watched her for a long moment. The silence stretched between them, until the wild woman broke it. ‘Sorry for pitching up on your land like this. I never mean to be a nuisance. And I honestly didn’t think anyone would find me up here.’

  ‘Camilla does have her uses, then.’ Rita smirked, wondering if she should be more concerned about this particular trespasser, but equally feeling an unexpected pull toward the bohemian woman. ‘It’s OK. Come down for a real cup of my tea and a shower if you ever need one.’ Rita realised her mistake and backtracked, ‘Not saying that nettle tea isn’t… or that… you do need one, I mean, of course.’

  Zenya’s smile deepened. ‘Maybe, thank you.’

  Rita looked to Camilla, who was still happily grazing away. ‘I’d better get Houdini here back down to the herd and hope none of the others have followed her lead. They don’t usually, thankfully.’

  Zenya lifted her metal cup of tea aloft. ‘Until our starry paths cross again, Rita Jory. This place has a way of healing, of making things right. It’s going to be OK, you know. I can feel it.’

  With the goat pen fixed after a fashion, chores complete and a jacket potato cooking in the Aga, Rita sat with knees curled in her window seat in the Den, a steaming cup of Earl Grey next to her. Henry was snoring on the sofa. She was knackered from her unexpected sprint earlier but also weirdly felt a sense of calm after meeting Zenya.

  Her thoughts then drifted back to livelier days. She remembered the kitchen bustling with life on a Sunday, Archie carving their favourite beef joint. Yorkshire puddings the size of plates and crispy roasties, with thick gravy and fresh vegetables picked from the garden. A perfect meal amidst the comforting chaos of family chatter around the table.

  And then the kids had flown the nest, leaving just her and Archie. After the initial wrench of change, they’d slipped back into the rhythm of being just the two of them, almost like a second honeymoon. They could walk around naked again, have noisy sex without worrying who might hear. Dinner could be nothing but snacks if that’s what they fancied, and they could argue freely, without needing to keep their voices down.

  Now she had to work out how to be alone. Solitude could be beautiful but she was too gregarious for it to sustain her. As if trying to wash away these memories, she physically shook herself and sat tall. She was only forty-five and a young forty-five at that and despite waves of grief still engulfing her, there was a spark in her eyes that refused to dim, a restless energy humming just beneath the surface. She wasn’t ready to hang up her dreams or settle into quiet routines. Age was just a number; it was the spirit that counted, and hers was far from ready to fade.

  Outside, gulls shrieked across the grey March sky, as if offering their approval of her thoughts. And down in his pen, a crowing Nigel was trying to fight the wind.

  She opened the book Jude had pressed into her hands a few days previously with that knowing smile of his. It’s about walking, she remembered him saying… about grief and losing your way, and then clawing it back through nature, solitude, and sheer bloody determination. She’d meant to just dip into it. Just a few pages. Instead, she read for an hour. And if it weren’t for suddenly remembering with a jump her lunch in the Aga, she could have read for much longer.

  Maybe, she thought, slipping the book onto the coffee table, it was time to start clawing things back herself.

  SIX

  After lunch, the skies had brightened and, craving a bit of fresh air, Rita, with book and fold-up chair in hand, made her way towards the aptly named Singing Tree. The ancient sycamore stood alone above the cliffs, its broad green canopy forever whispering and murmuring in the sea breeze. On gustier days, the branches didn’t just rustle, they sang, a high, haunting note that carried across the fields like a hymn. Its silver-grey trunk, mottled and peeling in papery patches, looked as though it were slowly shedding the decades it had spent standing sentinel over the bay.

  She noticed how the meadow could do with a mow, but that had been Stan’s job and the trouble was, she couldn’t exactly ask Stan. Not now that she’d let him go as a farm hand as she couldn’t afford him and especially not now that she had heard he was working for Jago Jenken over at Hawthorn Acre.

  The feud between the Jorys and the neighbouring Jenkens had been simmering for as long as Rita could remember, though she’d never been involved herself. She’d quickly learned that even uttering the Jenken name was enough to make Hilda, her mother-in-law’s face harden and her voice turn to a growl. Archie, meanwhile, if she ever asked him, would just grow cagey, offer a stiff smile, and murmur, ‘It’s nothing to be worrying yourself about.’ Which, of course, made Rita want to know about it all the more.

  But she didn’t have time to be worrying about any of that now. With her home on the line and not wanting to leave it, it was time to swim, or she would most certainly sink. Troubling thoughts of how she was going to pay the next wave of credit card bills engulfed her.

  A sudden flutter of wings pulled her from her thoughts. A robin landed on a low branch, its russet chest puffed out as if it had something important to say. The sight of it brought an unexpected wave of calm, as though the little bird had been sent on a quiet mission to reassure her.

  From where she stood, she could see a faint ribbon of smoke curling up from Zenya’s cauldron in the distance, drifting lazily into the brightening afternoon sky. Oh, to be that free, Rita thought, suddenly wondering how the Mancunian had ended up in a field in Cornwall as she clearly wasn’t just on holiday.