Bluebell Castle. Sarah Bennett

to come up with something as daft as this,’ he muttered.

      Tristan’s broad grin flashed up briefly in the torch light. ‘I think it’s a fab idea, who wouldn’t want to be turned into fireworks when they die?’

      Just about everybody he could think of, but Arthur kept that to himself. Tristan had become enamoured with the idea from the moment they’d first read the request included in their father’s will. Arthur had never heard of it before, but once they’d looked it up on the internet, it had proven to be more popular than he’d expected. After reading some of the touching testimonials on the manufacturer’s site, he’d agreed to go along with it.

      With their dad having passed away in early October, they could’ve done this on Bonfire night, but it had been Iggy’s suggestion that they wait until New Year Eve’s and mark the passing of the old year into the new with this final farewell and tribute. The symbolism of it had led Arthur to suggest this as the location, echoing as it did that transition from one thing to another: old to new; settled lands to wilderness; life to death.

      Tristan paced out the placement of each of the eight rockets provided with the kit and set them firmly into the ground. He then removed the central piece of the display—a multi-firework barrage which could be lit by a single fuse. Straightening up, he checked his watch. ‘Five minutes.’

      They waited in silence until the first distant chime from the village church, then Tristan stepped forward to fire the first rocket using the special ignitor kit provided by the manufacturer. A shiver travelled down Arthur’s spine at the distinctive whoosh of the firework streaking high into the air, and then all his worries vanished as a huge boom echoed off the nearby rocky hills and a sparkle of silver and blue bloomed across the dark sky above their heads. Seconds later, the second rocket splashed golden rain, swiftly followed by the third, a bright silver starburst that ended in a series of crackles. Tristan lit two more, bright blue then bright green, five in total to mark each decade of their father’s too-brief life.

      Having lit the barrage, Tristan stepped back to join Arthur and Iggy who’d come to stand beside him and they watched in awed silence as the sky lit up with flash after flash of multi-coloured sparks sending their father on his way. Though the company had promised the barrage would last for two minutes it felt like much longer, and by the end of it Arthur found his face was aching from smiling so much at the sheer joy and exuberance. ‘Well done, Dad.’

      ‘That was fabulous, just perfect,’ Iggy said as she squeezed his hand.

      ‘Just the last three left.’ Tristan offered the ignitor to Arthur. ‘Age before beauty.’ Arthur took it with a shake of his head. Apart from a pale scar bisecting Arthur’s left eyebrow thanks to a fall from one of the mighty oak trees spread throughout their woods, they were alike enough to be mistaken for each other by anyone who didn’t know the family well.

      As he stepped up to one of the remaining rockets, all traces of humour fled and he found it hard to breathe around a sudden ache in his chest. The official memorial service they’d held back in the autumn had been the time for wordy tributes and eulogies. Now, he had only one thing left to say. ‘Blaze bright, Dad, always.’ With shaking fingers, he touched the ignitor to the fuse.

      Bright silver sparks showered high above as Iggy placed a soft hand on his back before accepting the ignitor from him. ‘Love you, Daddy, to the stars and back.’ Her fiery tribute streaked into the sky, a perfect crackling match to Arthur’s rocket.

      ‘We’ll always have Paris,’ Tristan said as he lit the third and final fuse, and the three of them laughed. Stolen from Casablanca, it had been their dad’s response to any awkward or emotional situation, and had become his traditional farewell phrase whenever he’d dropped them off at school.

      As the final firework blazed above, they turned away towards the castle. Mixed amongst the smoke, the ashes of Uther Pendragon Ludworth, fourteenth Baronet Ludworth of Camland Castle drifted to settle over the lands he’d loved so much, and Arthur swore he’d do everything in his power to keep hold of them.

       CHAPTER TWO

      ‘You’ve got this. You’ve done all the research, double-checked and triple-checked everything. Come on now.’ Pep talk over, Lucie Kennington released her grip on the porcelain sink in the ladies’ bathroom and turned on the cold tap. Running her wrists under the cool water, she practised a deep breathing technique she’d picked up at yoga class and squished down the last of the butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

      A quick check in the mirror above the sink told her the carefully applied ‘there, but not there’ make-up she’d got up an hour earlier than normal to apply still looked flawless. One of the first things she’d learnt when starting at Witherby’s Fine Art five years previously was the importance of presentation. Whether it was finding the perfect frame for a painting, a table from the right period to display an exquisite porcelain vase, or just ensuring you were immaculately turned out, presentation was an essential part of maintaining Witherby’s reputation as one of the foremost auction houses in the country.

      Having used a damp finger to tame a stray tendril threatening to escape from the sleek bun tied at her nape, Lucie dried her hands on one of the white hand towels stacked in neat rolled rows next to the sink then slid her arms into her navy jacket. Single button fastened at her waist, a quick half-turn and a smoothing hand over the matching pencil skirt and she was ready to face the music.

      The low heels on her navy court shoes sank into the deep pile of the forest green carpet as she strode along the hallway then down the sweeping staircase which led from the upper floor staff offices to the ground floor housing the exhibition spaces. Witherby’s occupied what had once been a grand Georgian mansion in the heart of London, and its high sculptured ceilings and painted half-panel walls added to the gravitas and atmosphere. Coming to work every day in the exquisitely beautiful building felt like a real privilege to Lucie—even if the ancient heating system and original sash windows left something to be desired in the cold depths of winter.

      As she stepped down onto the creamy marble floor of the imposing entrance hall, a blast of cold from the open front door sent a shiver through her, and she was glad for the thermal vest hidden beneath her silk blouse. A strip of Wedgwood blue sky showed over the rooftops of the buildings across the street. It might be chilly, but at least the weather was fine which boded well for their first major sale day of spring. A quick, nervous smile to James, the doorman clad in a traditional set of tails, complete with top hat, earned her a wink in return. ‘It’s going to be a good one,’ he said. ‘They were queuing to get in.’

      His declaration did nothing to quell her nerves, nor did the hubbub of conversation already spilling out of the open double-doors of the main auction room. The start of the auction was still three hours away. ‘Better go and make sure everything’s ready then!’ Lucie kept her tone bright and breezy, like it was just another day and not the most important one to date in her career. With a quick wave, she headed down a short corridor to the left of the main entrance and into the private viewing area where select patrons were given time to peruse the best lots in relative peace.

      One more deep breath as she paused on the threshold and then she swept into the room, head high, smile bright, eyes dancing over the people already gathered with a glass of Buck’s Fizz. ‘Something to drink, Ms Kennington?’ Marnie, one of this year’s new interns, offered her a silver tray topped with glasses.

      ‘Thank you.’ Lucie accepted a highball filled with sparkling water. The ice clinked, and she wrapped her left hand over the right to calm the slight shaking. She cast a glance around the room, trying to focus on individuals and not just the blur of chattering faces. Spying a famous newspaper art critic holding court in one corner, she took a too-large mouthful of water and almost choked as the bubbles fizzed up the back of her nose. Smooth, Lucie. Snorting out one’s drink was most definitely not the ‘Witherby’s way’ of doing things.

      Hoping nobody had noticed her discomfort, she began to stroll around the edge of the