Shadows in the Moonlight

Chapter Four

Pixie Tate was nervous. Not scared nervous, more like excited nervous. Pablo was coming home today after spending Christmas with his family in Spain and she was going to sneak into his apartment and surprise him.

She cut a slim figure as she strode purposefully down Gloucester Road. With an orange beanie pulled low over her brow, long pink hair cascading down her back, a grey knitted coat that was elegantly waisted and showed off her small frame, and a pair of black biker boots, she certainly didn’t look like anyone else. Pixie Tate, impish face and vivid sapphire eyes that had seen more than a person should, was her own woman.

The pavement was wet after a night of heavy rain, but this morning the sun was dazzling, hanging low in a sky washed clean to a shimmering blue, and the air refreshingly cold. Pixie never complained about the weather. She accepted whatever nature threw at her, for there was beauty even in the bleakest winter’s day. Only human beings managed to make things so ugly.

There was little traffic. The week between Christmas and New Year was always quiet. Pixie had spent Christmas Day in the countryside just outside Leicester with her grandmother, who had brought her up, but one night was as much as Pixie could tolerate. Family was complicated, even if she had only one member – well, two to be accurate, but the second one didn’t count for she hadn’t seen her mother since she was a child.

Just then she heard the buzz of her phone. She delved into her handbag and pulled it out. She read the text with a smile. Good luck, Pix. I hope he takes you to the moon and back. Ulysses – with emphasis on the y – who was from Brazil, was the family she had chosen. Currently, he was in Paris with a man he had picked up just before Christmas at an art exhibition in Mayfair.

Right back at you, darling , she replied, then returned the phone to her bag.

Pixie and Ulysses had met at Manchester University, at a society for students interested in the paranormal who gathered once a week in the dingy basement of an unfashionable pub, in an unfashionable part of town. Pixie hadn’t made friends in her history classes, nor in the hall of residence where she’d spent her first year; she just wasn’t like anyone else. Yet, she’d found kindred spirits at the society – likeminded people who were interested in phenomena beyond the scope of scientific understanding. She and Ulysses had bonded at the first meeting – Pixie had displayed an undeniable psychic gift, but Ulysses was searching for his, and they had laughed over his comical and unsuccessful attempts to find it.

They had lived together in their second and third year, and then rented a flat in London when they’d graduated. For the past six years, they had been sharing a small apartment in Little Venice. Ulysses was hardworking and made good money in journalism. Pixie had tried and failed at various conventional jobs – she couldn’t bear to work in an office and anything on a computer turned her blood cold. She knew her life’s purpose was in a different area. Eventually, she had found herself drawn to the College of Psychic Studies in South Kensington and gradually earned a reputation for being a trustworthy and effective psychic. She hadn’t, as yet, told Pablo what she did for a living. But she would tonight. Tonight, she would tell him everything.

Pixie purchased some flowers at a stall outside Gloucester Road Tube station and then nipped into a shop to buy milk and other essentials so that Pablo wouldn’t arrive to an empty fridge. She’d cook him a simple pasta and open a bottle of wine. She pictured his face as she put the items through the till. His raffish smile and sensitive brown eyes, his sensual lips, unshaven chin and cheeks. His thick black hair. Her spirits fizzed at the thought of his return. She had missed him. They’d only been going out since the summer, but he’d already told her that he loved her. No one besides Ulysses had ever told her that. But Pablo’s I love you , was in a totally different category to Ulysses’, whose love was platonic. Pixie had absorbed those three words greedily, like a dry sponge soaking up water.

Pixie stepped lightly over the shadows and turned into the mews. Pablo’s apartment was a converted stable, which had been built into two residences. His was the top half and the most luxurious. Below him lived an elderly lady who smoked marijuana and had a feral cat. Pablo was an aspiring scriptwriter, but had yet to produce a script or find an agent. Notwithstanding, his parents believed in him to the point of compensating for his lack of income by giving him more money than he needed. Hence his apartment was in one of the most expensive boroughs in London.

Pixie glanced up to see that the curtains were closed. She wondered why the cleaner hadn’t come while he was away. She sighed with irritation, anticipating spending the next hour doing the cleaning for him. However, she rallied at the vision of him returning to an immaculate home, with the dinner made, flowers on the table, and she, Pixie, lying in wait on the freshly made bed in pink satin underwear. Her irritation evaporated. She placed the flowers and shopping on the ground and then lifted the cobblestone to retrieve his spare key. She’d noticed he kept it there one night after he’d drunk one too many martinis and left his keys in the cab.

She unlocked the front door and pushed her way in. She would have picked up the post piled on the hall table, but she didn’t have a free hand. She made her way upstairs and managed to unlock the door at the top without having to put everything down again. The lights of his apartment were off, the blinds closed, the place shrouded in semi-darkness. She went to the kitchen and put the bags and flowers on the table, then switched on the lights. The place was a mess, as she had expected. She cursed the cleaner but channelled her annoyance into action, focusing instead on the delighted look on Pablo’s face when he’d arrive later that afternoon to find his home so clean and tidy. She took off her coat and hat, selected a playlist of Lana del Rey songs on her telephone and put on her headphones.

Pixie set to work. She pulled up the blinds and threw open the windows, allowing the crisp winter air to blow in. She could smell Pablo’s aftershave and it brought him back to her in a delicious wave of memory. She almost felt his arms around her and his body pressed against hers; solid, warm, energetic. With Lana del Rey’s sultry voice in her ears and the growing anticipation of the night to come, she opened the bedroom door.

Something stirred beneath the duvet. A lump moved like an awakening creature in the gloom. Pixie stared, aghast. At first, she thought it was an intruder; someone using Pablo’s apartment while he was away. Then she thought he’d come home early without telling her. She was about to back away so as not to disturb him when she caught sight of a tendril of blonde hair spilling out over the pillow. There wasn’t just one person in the bed, but two .

Cold fingers squeezed her heart. She felt for the switch and turned on the light. Two faces shot out of the duvet: Pablo – and a woman Pixie didn’t recognise. They stared at her, horrified. Then Pablo put out a hand. ‘This is not what it looks like, mi amor …’ he began, blinking at her in panic.

Pixie noticed a pair of stilettos on the carpet. She picked one up in disgust and threw it at him. She aimed well. The woman dived beneath the duvet with a squeal. ‘Ouch! Pixie, please!’ Pablo shouted, trying to defend himself from the second shoe that winged past his left ear. But Pixie wasn’t listening. Her temper unleashed, she was now rampaging about the room, throwing everything in reach at the man who had betrayed her. Pablo disappeared beneath the duvet, taking shelter from the barrage. When there was nothing left to throw, Pixie stormed into the kitchen and flung every item of food she had bought onto the floor, spilling the milk and sending peas rolling across the carpet.

As she gently picked up the flowers, for they were living things and she was not going to desecrate them , Pablo came running out in his boxer shorts. ‘Pixie, please, she’s a friend. Just a friend. Staying over. It’s not what it looks like.’ But Pixie was no fool. At least, not now. She grabbed her coat and hat.

As she made for the door, she noticed a wooden knife block on the sideboard. The sharp blades were concealed within slits, but it wouldn’t take much to unsheathe them. Pixie knew what a carving knife was capable of. She went cold. For a moment she was paralysed with fear. The red mist that had taken her over evaporated and she was a child again, lost and alone and petrified. Her father’s surprised face swam before her, then her mother’s horrified one, then the clattering sound of a knife falling onto the tiled floor. Pixie began to cry. Sobs rose up from the darkest place inside her. A place too dark even for Pixie, who was afraid of almost nothing. She stopped crying and stifled her sobs with her fist. The fear passed. She pressed the flowers against her chest and took a conscious breath.

Pablo came towards her, slowly, hand outstretched, hoping for calm.

Like a snake, she turned, blue eyes blazing with hurt. ‘Stay away from me, Pablo!’ she hissed, and then slammed the door behind her.

As soon as she was a safe distance away from the mews, she slipped into her coat, pulled her hat over her head and texted Ulysses. FOUND PABLO IN BED WITH ANOTHER WOMAN. GOING HOME.

She switched off her phone in case Ulysses tried to call her. She couldn’t speak about it right now.

Overwhelmed by the feeling of rejection, she marched into a newsagent and bought a large bottle of vodka. The flow of pain needed to be cauterised at once. She made her way home by Tube. With Lana del Rey still playing, she felt even more disconnected from the world than usual. She was alone in the music, alone in her despair, alone because she was never going to be like other people. Alone because she couldn’t keep a man. Always alone.

She was weary of being lonely.

She saw a couple necking by the doors. The woman was laughing softly, the man whispering something into her ear. They weren’t especially attractive, but that didn’t matter. They had found something beautiful in each other. Pixie’s heart ached with longing. Was she unlovable? Was that why her relationships never worked out? There was always a Pablo to break her heart.

She arrived home and shut the door behind her. Then she climbed into bed and opened the bottle.

Pixie knew very well what would happen if she drank excessively.

She’d been here before.

But right now, she just wanted to go to sleep and not wake up for a very long time.

Visions came in fits and starts. Images of her parents. Her father’s face, ruddy and cross. Her mother’s, pleading, pathetic. She could hear them fighting. Her mother’s high-pitched yelling, like a fishwife. Her father’s sporadic roar. She curled into a ball, but she did not float off as she had done as a child; the vodka kept her firmly grounded. She saw her mother being taken away. Her father too, but he was already gone. He would never come back, not even when she asked him to. She began to cry, crushed suddenly by the unbearable weight of loss.

Pixie felt a pair of hands on her shoulders, shaking her vigorously. ‘Pixie … Pixie … wake up!’ Pixie blinked. Her vision was blurred. She saw the outline of a person. The person shifted in and out of focus for a moment before remaining stable. Tanned face, floppy dark brown hair, intense olive-green eyes. So handsome it was almost a joke: Ulysses. ‘Pixie … come on … wake up.’

Pixie threw her arms around him and sobbed uncontrollably.

The following morning, Pixie awoke with a shocking headache. She blinked up at the ceiling and tried to remember what had happened. Then the memory of finding Pablo in bed with another woman emerged out of the fog in her mind and she cried all over again. Eventually, she got up and went to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth and took a couple of painkillers. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were red, the skin under them looked like bruises. Her face was grey. She took a shower and washed herself clean.

When she went into the kitchen–living room, she was surprised to see Ulysses sitting at the table in front of his laptop. From the sound coming out of it, he was watching another Ingrid Bergman movie. Ulysses was obsessed with 1950s cinema, but most of all by Ingrid Bergman. ‘What are you doing here ?’ she asked.

He grinned and pressed pause. ‘You don’t remember?’ His Brazilian accent was musical, and soft as if the words were covered in fur.

‘Remember? What should I remember?’

‘I found you in a state last night.’

Her eyes landed on the near-empty vodka bottle on the sideboard, and she sighed. ‘Oh, I see.’

‘You’re a crazy witch, Pix,’ he said fondly. ‘And all because of that asshole you thought was The One.’

She sighed again and went to make herself a cup of black coffee. ‘I should have listened to you.’

‘You know, for someone as psychic as you, you really have a blind spot when it comes to men.’

‘I’m never falling in love again,’ she said resolutely, taking a cup down from the cupboard.

‘If I had a pound for every time you’ve said that, I’d be a rich man.’

‘You’re already a rich man.’

‘Everything is relative.’

‘Well, relative to me.’

‘Everyone’s rich relative to you, Pix. But I have a job for you.’

‘I don’t want to know. I’m not ready.’

‘The best way to get over a heartbreak is to throw yourself into work.’

‘I don’t have the energy.’

‘You will when you hear this one.’

She put the cup under the Nespresso machine and pressed the button. ‘Let me have my coffee, then you can tell me about it. Did you leave Paris just for me?’

He got up and took his laptop to the sofa, plonking himself onto the cushion and placing it on his knee. ‘You know I did. I’ll do anything for you.’

‘What did you do with …?’ She couldn’t remember his name.

‘Jean-Michel.’

She laughed. ‘Seriously?’

‘Jean-Michel. What can I tell you? He’s a walking cliché.’ Ulysses grinned, his smile handsome and playful, his canine teeth pronounced like a wolf’s. ‘He’s divine. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. I’ll see him when he comes to London, which he will because he finds me irresistible.’ His grin broadened. Everyone found Ulysses irresistible.

‘Are you in love?’ she asked anxiously.

Ulysses looked appalled. ‘In love? Now you’re being ridiculous.’

She relaxed and brought her coffee cup over to the sofa. She sat beside him. ‘If you leave me, I’ll …’ She wasn’t joking.

Ulysses gazed at her affectionately, then reached out and curled a lank strand of pink hair behind her ear. ‘I’m not going to leave you, ever. And if I do fall in love, we’ll be a happy trio. If you don’t like him, he’s out.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

She backed into the corner of the sofa, folding her legs beneath her, and took a sip of coffee. Sunlight tumbled in through the glass doors that led out onto a small balcony. She began to feel better. ‘So, what’s the job?’

‘The college emailed this morning.’ He scrolled to retrieve the email from the College of Psychic Studies. ‘It’s a haunting in Cornwall. A linguini.’ Linguini was the word they used for a lingering earthbound spirit. ‘The usual stuff. They’ve tried everything, exorcism, mediums, you name it. The spirit won’t budge. They say the woman who called knows you. Antoinette Dixon. You’ve heard of her?’

Pixie smiled. ‘Yes, I met her at the college. She’s wild. A real character.’

‘It’s an Elizabethan house and they’ve invited us to stay the first week in January.’

Pixie pulled a face. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready for this, Ulysses.’ She put a hand on her heart and looked at him mournfully. ‘I’m hurting.’

Ulysses stood up. ‘Too late. I’ve already written back.’

‘You haven’t!’

‘I have. You need the money, Pixie,’ he said seriously. ‘And they need you.’ And by they , Pixie knew he did not mean the living.

Ulysses sat at the wheel of ‘Morris’, his vintage blue Morris Minor while Pixie processed the Great Betrayal. ‘You’re the worst picker of men I’ve ever come across,’ he told her.

‘I know, but what can I do about it?’ she replied, popping a handful of chocolate raisins into her mouth.

‘Take your time. You rush into relationships much too quickly.’

She laughed. ‘Coming from you.’

‘Mine aren’t relationships. I don’t think each man I sleep with is The One.’

‘Neither do I.’

He gave her a sidelong glance. ‘You do. You’re looking for your father in every man you date.’

‘If he was the man my mother said he was, then I wouldn’t want him.’ But Pixie didn’t believe her mother.

Pixie turned her face away and looked out of the window. They were now off the motorway and heading into deep countryside. She tried to picture her father but only managed to conjure up his face from the few memories she had of him. She had only ever found one photograph, in her grandmother’s house, stuffed beneath random papers in a desk drawer. It had been of both her parents together, but Pixie had cut out her mother. Pixie looked like him, she could see that. They had the same blue eyes and brown hair – he had not dyed his pink – the same mouths, something similar in the proportions of the face in general. But she knew nothing about him besides what her mother and grandmother had told her: he’d been an alcoholic; he’d been abusive; he’d been a bully; he’d deserved it. Pixie didn’t believe any of it. They were biased; Granny was her maternal grandmother, after all. He’d never come to Pixie in spirit, either. She was still waiting.

‘Let’s not talk about my father,’ she said, taking another handful of chocolate raisins. ‘Tell me about Paris. What did you do? What did you see? Did you go up the Eiffel Tower?’

Ulysses laughed and shook his head. ‘I saw every angle of Jean-Michel and the inside of his bedroom.’

Pixie grinned. ‘Typical.’

‘Naturally.’

‘So, who are you looking for in every man you date?’

‘The devil,’ said Ulysses, pulling a face. They both laughed.

‘Beware of the power of manifestation,’ she replied. ‘If you keep joking about him like this, he’ll find you!’

They arrived at St Sidwell Manor early that evening. It was dark. Scudding clouds obscured the moon and stars, and a high wind blew through the avenue of plane trees and about the walls of the house. Ulysses parked Morris beside an old Volvo. ‘Wow, what a house!’ he exclaimed excitedly. ‘You’re going to have your work cut out here, Pix.’

Pixie glanced up at the fa?ade, at the pretty gables and windows. It really was a beautiful place, but so sad. She could feel the energy already. It hung over the place like fog. A dense and gloomy fog.

The front door opened. Antoinette burst out, her exuberant smile in stark contrast to the glower of the unhappy house. ‘Darling girl, you are a dear to come so quickly. You have never been needed more. Come in, come in.’ Antoinette enveloped Pixie in a hungry embrace. Pixie, being slight, almost disappeared completely. ‘And this must be your friend,’ Antoinette said, resting her warm gaze upon Ulysses and putting out her hand.

‘Ulysses Lozano,’ said Pixie. ‘We work together,’ she added, in case Antoinette thought they were a couple.

‘Welcome, Ulysses,’ Antoinette gushed.

Ulysses shook her hand. It was firm and rough, like stale bread.

They took off their coats, although Ulysses would have rather left his on; the place was freezing. Pixie walked softly into the hall. There was a hearty fire in the grate. The Christmas tree was still up and twinkling with fairy lights. A wide wooden staircase ascended to a landing and a tall, mullioned window, and then disappeared off to the right. There were grand, gold-framed portraits on the walls and worn Persian rugs on the floor. The ceiling was held up by exposed wooden beams that looked like the ribs of a prehistoric animal one might find in a museum. It was cold. The particular cold that spirits carry with them. ‘Do you feel anything?’ Antoinette asked eagerly.

Pixie felt a great deal. Ulysses and Antoinette stood watching as she walked slowly around the hall, taking everything in. If she had been a dog, the hackles would have risen on her neck, and her ears would have pricked up. She felt a terrible sadness, but something more sinister too. She was surprised anyone had managed to live here at all. ‘There’s a lot going on in this place,’ she said thoughtfully.

‘How many are here?’ Antoinette asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Pixie replied. ‘Too early to tell. But I’m glad you called me. I’m sure I can help you.’

At that moment, Olivia appeared with Tabitha. Neither had expected to see a woman with pink hair. ‘Hello, I’m Olivia.’ Olivia shook their hands. ‘This is my daughter, Tabitha. My son, Zach, is about somewhere, and Bruce, my husband.’

‘I’m Ulysses,’ said Ulysses. ‘Pixie and I work as a team.’

‘I couldn’t do without him,’ said Pixie.

‘Like Ulysses from James Joyce’s novel?’ said Olivia with a smile. She’d never met anyone by that name before.

‘Pronounced Oo-lee-ses,’ said Pixie. Everyone mispronounced it.

Tabitha stared at Pixie in wonder. She thought she was the coolest person she had ever seen. ‘Is your hair really pink?’ she asked.

‘Tabitha!’ Olivia baulked, embarrassed.

Pixie grinned, revealing small, crooked teeth. ‘I dye it pink,’ she replied.

‘It’s pretty,’ said Tabitha, immediately warming to Pixie.

‘Thank you, Tabitha. If I had beautiful hair like you, I wouldn’t have to dye it.’

‘Come and have a drink. What would you like?’ Olivia asked, inviting them into the drawing room.

‘I’d love a cup of tea,’ said Pixie, following after her.

‘Me too,’ said Ulysses, although he would have preferred something stronger.

Olivia turned to Tabitha. ‘Darling, can you go and ask Elsa to make some tea and to bring some biscuits and cake and, while you’re at it, find Zach and Daddy? Tell them our guests are here.’ Tabitha huffed crossly and ran off towards the kitchen. She didn’t want to miss a minute of being with Pixie.

‘It’s a very pretty house,’ said Pixie admiringly, entering the drawing room. She’d seen some magnificent houses in her line of work, but this one was special.

‘I fell in love with it the moment I saw it,’ said Olivia, offering them the sofa and sitting down on the club fender so that the fire could warm her back. She seemed never to be warm in this house, in spite of the layers of cashmere she put on. ‘We haven’t told the children that you’re here to rid the place of ghosts. Bruce knows, but he thinks we’re mad.’ She smiled sheepishly at Antoinette. ‘I’ve put my faith in my aunt. She’s assured me that you can deal with the problem, and quickly. I hope she’s right.’

‘I should be able to,’ said Pixie, sinking into the sofa. She could feel the heat from the fire, but the house would remain cold until the place was cleared of spirits. ‘Tell me what’s going on?’

Olivia put her hands in her lap and looked at Pixie hopefully. ‘There’s the sound of a woman crying at night. It’s coming from one of the bedrooms. Antoinette has heard her, so has Zach. I’d like to say it’s the wind, but I don’t think it is. I don’t really believe in gh—’

‘I can tell you the very room, because I followed the sound, but when I opened the door there was no one inside,’ Antoinette said.

‘Anything else?’ Pixie asked.

Olivia continued. ‘Elsa Tregoning, who has worked here for over fifty years, tells me that they’ve tried everything to get rid of her. Exorcisms, you name it. But the gh … spirit, won’t leave.’

‘And you’ve just moved in?’ Ulysses asked.

‘A couple of weeks before Christmas,’ Olivia returned. ‘My husband inherited it. We’ve done nothing to it. No renovations, nothing. Just a little decoration in the bedrooms.’

‘Do you know who lived here before?’ Pixie enquired.

‘A widow named Mrs Delaware. She died childless, in her late nineties, and left it to Bruce. He didn’t even know he had such a relation. It came as a big surprise. We were going to sell it, but, when we saw it, well, we fell in love with it. We sold our house in London and moved down here for good. Bruce doesn’t know how he’s related to Mrs Delaware. I don’t suppose it matters, really. We’ve been left this house. It’s rather wonderful. Mrs Delaware’s maiden name was Pengower. They built the house in the sixteenth century. It’s Elizabethan. There’s a family chapel near the estuary, at the edge of the estate. All the graves seem to belong to them. And their family crest is everywhere – a lion and unicorn. The chapel hasn’t been used in decades and most of the house hasn’t been used either. I’ve shut off the attic, which was where the servants slept, because I can’t bear not to use all of the house. Rooms under dust sheets are creepy. There’s nothing up there, anyway, just old beds and furniture. When we do redecorate, I’ll convert it into a children’s floor, but until then I don’t want to know about it.’

‘Quite right, Liv. What you don’t see won’t hurt you,’ rejoined Antoinette. ‘Ah, tea.’

Elsa came in bearing a tray, followed by Bruce with the cake. Tabitha returned with Zach and Daphne. Pixie and Ulysses stared at the giant dog in amazement. ‘Sorry, darling, I was in the library,’ said Bruce, putting the cake down on the centre table. He shook hands with Pixie and Ulysses. If he thought them charlatans, he had the manners not to show it. He politely asked after their journey and offered them cake. Ulysses tucked hungrily into his slice and then asked for another one.

‘And this is Daphne, who belongs to Antoinette,’ Olivia said as the dog bounded up to sniff them.

‘Slobber alert!’ cried Tabitha, chasing the dog with a towel.

‘She’s beautiful,’ said Pixie. She stroked Daphne’s big face as Tabitha wiped the dog’s chops.

‘And so big!’ added Ulysses. ‘Are you sure she’s a dog and not a pony?’

Antoinette laughed. ‘Lie down,’ she commanded, but Daphne ignored her. ‘If you don’t give her attention, she’ll settle,’ she added, deciding not to waste her energy on trying to discipline a dog that couldn’t be disciplined. Pixie stopped petting her and the dog gambolled off to lie down at the other end of the room where it was coolest. Tabitha sat on the club fender beside her mother and as close to Pixie as possible. She couldn’t take her eyes off her long pink hair.

‘Look what I’ve found in the library!’ Bruce held up a thin book in triumph. ‘A book about Ivan Pengower.’ He showed them the title: Ivan Pengower 1855-1930 by Robert Pengower.

‘No way!’ Olivia exclaimed happily.

‘I found it hidden among Samuel Pepys’ diaries. It’s so slim, I almost missed it,’ said Bruce, sitting on the sofa opposite Pixie and Ulysses.

‘Have you had a chance to look at it?’ Antoinette asked.

‘I’ve glanced over it, but I have no idea where I come into it.’

‘You mean, there are no Talwyns?’ said Antoinette.

‘No. I must be very distant.’ He opened the book. ‘Mrs Delaware, Emily, was the only child of Robert Pengower, who died in nineteen sixty-five. His father was Ivan. Ivan had two brothers, Cavill who died on his way to South America in eighteen ninety-five, leaving no children, and Albert who died of typhus in nineteen twenty-six and who had two daughters. Now I could be related to one of those daughters.’

‘Of course, you’re descended from the female line, otherwise you’d be called Pengower,’ said Olivia sensibly.

‘Genius,’ Bruce agreed. ‘Now I know why I married you.’

‘Intriguing,’ Antoinette murmured. ‘I’m so glad I stayed.’

‘So am I,’ said Olivia. ‘Not least because of Daphne. I feel very reassured having a dog in the house.’

‘Has she been upstairs?’ asked Ulysses.

‘No,’ Antoinette replied. ‘She’s not allowed to go up there.’

Ulysses caught Pixie’s eye. ‘I think she’s happier down here,’ he said.

I think everyone’s happier down here , thought Pixie.