"The stove went in sometime in the fifties, same as the fridge," he says, taking her through the hall and past the formal dining room. It's empty, just like everywhere else they've been, but there's still a part of him that expects to see the long, dark table and hard-backed, uncomfortable chairs, the heavy drapes at the windows, all the things he remembers from so many awkward evenings with his parents and grandfather. "I think even when it was new, it was temperamental." Darlington laughs, soft and rueful. "Sometimes I wonder if it was the stove's fault my first attempt at the Orozcerio failed so...spectacularly."

As they go into the sunroom that stretches the length of the house, full of golden light from the late afternoon sun, he looks over at her. "When were you trying to make tea here, anyway?"