Silence followed the initial hellos. Then Harriet said, “Well, this is scintillating. If I could get a word in edgeways, I’d offer to make drinks.”

Barty looked at her. “Oh good, we have a joker.”

“Clever. The living room is that way. Make yourself at home. Florence and I will make drinks. Coffee?”

“Please. Black.” He gestured to the closed living room door. “You trust me in there alone?”

“No, but I’d rather come back and find you’ve stolen the television than strangled Florence.”

“Pragmatic. I like it.”

“The television’s not mine anyway.”

“Nor is Florence.”

“That’s true, but I’ve grown rather fond of her.”

Barty retreated into the porch as Florence came downstairs. They made brief eye contact as she reached the bottom, then she rushed after her temporary guardian, and Barty stepped into the living room.

It was a neat, square room containing a plush purple rug, beige sofas, a TV, a closed-off fireplace and a beautiful wooden chest which acted as a coffee table. The chest was decorated with intricate, swirling patterns that drew the eye and made you dizzy. On the wall were family photos. These would have stolen Barty’s focus if not for what he considered to be by far the room’s most notable feature: the bookcase opposite the door, behind the sofa arm.

He walked over and examined the shelves, making sure he’d seen what he thought he’d seen.

“Wow.”

The word slipped from his mouth as the door opened, and Harriet entered, carrying a tray.

“Ah, yes,” she said. “Sometimes I forget about that.”

She sounded as though she wished she could forget it more than sometimes.

“It’s amazing,” he said. “This has to be almost every novel, novella and short story Stephen King’s ever written.”

“Not almost.”

Florence had entered after Harriet, and it was she who had spoken.

Barty looked at the child. “It’s everything?”

She nodded. “Even the out-of-print stuff. Most of it’s second hand.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Barty ran his fingers along some of the spines. Unlike his books, they were cracked and worn. Many of the covers were on the verge of detaching entirely.

“You like him?” Florence asked.

“King? He’s my favourite author.” He had another check, confirming no other author featured on the bookcase. Then he looked at Florence. “These can’t be my father’s.”

“No.”

Harriet and Florence spoke in unison. The reproach in Harriet’s voice and the eagerness in Florence’s eyes told him this collection hadn’t belonged to either of Florence’s parents.

“They’re yours?”

A nod. “Well, Mum and Dad bought most of them for me, but, yeah…”

For the first time, Barty properly looked at Florence. He knew no twelve-year-olds, but he would hazard a guess that she was slightly on the tall side for a girl that age. She was slim, wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved grey top. She had long, dark brunette hair and wore black-framed glasses over bright blue eyes. Barty saw the similarities between them in hair colour, facial shape and eye colour. Yet, somehow, it was the books that drove the reality of his situation home.

“You’re my sister,” he said, knowing that he was smiling like an idiot.

“You knew that,” said Harriet, but Barty shook his head.

“Not really. My dad left fifteen years ago. I suppose it makes sense he started a new family. To be honest, it wasn’t something I considered. Hearing I had a sister was hard to believe, but this…”

“What a big family you must have if every Stephen King fan is your sibling.”

Ignoring Harriet, Barty looked at the shelves and spoke to his sister. “Are you the only one who reads them?”

“Yup. Dad didn’t read at all. Mum did, but she hated Stephen King. Said they were gruesome, dark books.”

“They can be.”

“Sometimes, but they’re so much more.”

“I agree.” Barty ran his finger along the cracked spine of The Shining, smiling at how talking about King had transformed his sister’s voice. Gone was the trepidation. In its place was the eagerness of a collector discussing their precious collection. “You’ve read them all?”

“Yes. Some more than once.”

“And you’re twelve?”

“Yes.”

“Amazing. Which is your favourite?”

“Firestarter.” She answered without hesitation. “Yours?”

“Lisey’s Story. Though I’ve not read them all. More’s the pity.” He touched the spine of another book. “Gerald’s Game, for example.” He tilted it towards him by an inch, then looked at Florence. “May I?”

She nodded, and he pulled the book out, handling it carefully, although it was not as damaged as some of its siblings. Peeling back the cover, he looked at the title page. Behind him, Florence took a big step in his direction and spoke in a breathless rush.

“You can borrow it if you like. Any of them, any time.”

“I’d like that, thank you.”

He put Gerald’s Game back and smiled at his sister. She smiled back, and what a beautiful smile it was. He glanced at his watch.

“It’s almost midday.”

“Do you expect your time-telling abilities to impress us?” Harriet asked. “I can’t say I’m blown away.”

Barty looked at Florence. “I’d love to take you to lunch somewhere, my treat. Get to know you a bit better over some food.”

Florence’s smile became even more radiant. “Yes, please. Can I, Harriet?”

The tray was on the chest. Barty’s coffee and Florence’s water sat on it untouched. Only Harriet had taken her drink, situating herself on the sofa cushion furthest from the bookshelf, cup in hand. From here, she examined man and child.

“Why would I allow that? I’ve made my concerns clear. That your brother seems to like Stephen King doesn’t change the facts. Just because he’s a blood relative doesn’t mean he won’t spill your blood. I’d say his love of Stephen King makes it more likely he’s a psychopath.”

“I love Stephen King,” was the response. “Do you think I’m a psychopath?”

“I don’t know. You did once pull the head off a doll.”

“I was three!”

“And ignoring the early warning signs always comes back to bite those who do the ignoring.”

“Harriet,” said Florence, sounding less like a child than a reproachful librarian. “Dad wanted this.”

“No one expects to disappear. I don’t know what your father was thinking, but we can say for sure he doesn’t know his son. When did he last speak to you?”

This was directed at Barty.

“Fifteen years ago.”

“Exactly.” She returned her gaze to Florence. “Intentionally or not, your father left you in my care. He could reappear tomorrow. What if something happened? What would I say? ‘Sorry, Vincent, I let the son you abandoned go off with your daughter. It turns out he was far more bitter about said abandonment than you guessed. Also, he’s into taxidermy. Perhaps we could pop Florence on the mantlepiece.’”

“That’s a vivid picture you paint.” Barty picked up his coffee. “I’m not into taxidermy, for what it’s worth.”

“You would say that.”

“Harriet, please,” said Florence. “We’d go to Imranio’s. They know me.”

“And if he drags you into the woods and chops you into pieces on the way?”

“That’d be the taxidermy plan out of the window,” said Barty.

This made Florence giggle, and she looked at her brother with the broadest smile. Harriet observed this moment, perhaps saw in it the futility of her current strategy. She had to work within the confines of Florence’s wishes to control the situation. Rejecting them outright would lead to resentment and possibly rebellion. Barty would never allow Florence to disobey Harriet. He could see the octogenarian only wanted to protect the girl. Still, if her thinking he might encourage disobedience led to a change in strategy, that would be okay.

As Florence faced Harriet, her beaming smile becoming imploring puppy dog eyes, the guardian heaved a sigh.

“Here’s what we’ll do.”

“Yes?” Florence could not hide her eagerness.

“The three of us will walk to the restaurant. When we arrive, I’ll speak with Imran, making it clear that if the two of you attempt to leave before I return, he’s to do whatever it takes to detain you. Even if that means beheading Barty with a kitchen knife.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Florence, hugging Harriet.

“Yes, yes, no need for all that.” Harriet eased Florence away. “You’re lucky I have errands to run in the village, or I’d be putting my foot down.”

Sensing that this was not the case, Barty smiled at Harriet.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t be too pleased with yourself,” she said. “I’ll be taking a knife in my bag. You may decide to attack us in the woods. You may even kill us. If you do, I promise success will come at the cost of at least one testicle.”

She left the room, and Florence met Barty’s gaze.

“She doesn’t mean it.”

Barty wasn’t so sure. Nor did he mind. He had no intention of harming Florence. In fact, as he looked into the eyes of this child he had only just met, his sister, he realised with something close to alarm that far from hurting her, he would go to almost any lengths to keep her safe and to protect her heart.