Diffidently, flutteringly, in the dusk of the hall, the small hand crept closer. With the questing tentative grace that distinguishes the born cocotte, it raised itself a soupçon. Maxi grasped it. Then the screen flashed to life. The little man in the baggy trousers came marching down the street — and in the village hall of Pfaffenstein they were no longer prince and ballet girl and peasant but only a rapt and adoring audience, welded by laughter into one whole.

Tessa rose very early on the following day. There was a visit she wished to pay before she left, and while the rest of the company still slept she was approaching a small wooden house in a clearing in the forest, a mile or so behind the castle.

She knocked and entered. The room was small but spotless: a stove with a bench round it, a limewood table, a spinning wheel — and in the carved bed in the corner an old lady, as old as time itself. Her filmed eyes seemed almost sightless but she knew her visitor at once.

‘Your Highness!’ The smile transformed the wrinkled face. ‘You’re back, then. It’s true what they said.’

‘Yes.’ Tessa sat down on the bed, took the brown, transparent hand into her own. ‘Yes, I’m back, Grossmutterle, and I’ve brought you some nice things to eat so don’t turn into a wolf and eat me up.’

The toothless smile came first, then the whole body shook with laughter. Laughter which turned suddenly into a grimace of grief.

‘You’re going then, Your Highness? The castle is really sold?’

‘Yes, but it is sold to such a nice man, Grossmutterle. You’ll like him very much.’

‘Foreign, they say?’

‘Yes, but he speaks German like a native. He’ll be a good master, you’ll see.’

The bent shoulders rose in a faint shrug. ‘Maybe. But without you… without Your Highness…’ She was crying now, the easy, utterly justified tears of old age. ‘Well, I’m glad to have seen you once again. Let me kiss your hand.’

But the old lady did not get a hand to kiss. Tessa’s arm came round her, she was hugging her. ‘Don’t cry, Grossmutterle! Ah, please don’t cry!’ begged Tessa.

When she came out, her own eyes too were wet and she did not for a moment recognize the figure on horseback coming along the bridle path. When she did, she drew back, but it was too late. Guy had seen her and turned his horse aside.

‘Good morning.’

She looked up at him, sitting easily but entirely without the sartorial trappings of horsemanship, astride the tall, black mare. It was the first time she had seen him since the incident of the bear and at the memory of the things she had called him — albeit in Serbo-Croat — a blush came to her cheek. Trying to conceal it, she said quickly, ‘I didn’t know you rode.’

The wrong remark again. His brows rose. ‘Oh yes, even bastards ride sometimes. I found it a useful way of getting about when I was abroad. And you? Have you been paying visits?’

‘Yes, I’ve been to see my father’s old nurse.’

‘To say goodbye?’ He was close enough now to see the tear stains on her face and, dismounting, he began to walk beside her.

She nodded. ‘There are a lot of people like that, Guy… people who’ve lived here all their lives.’

He looked up quickly. He had used her Christian name from the start, but this was the first time she had called him Guy.

Now she had begun to talk about Nerine, saying how glad she was that Nerine would be there to take over the visiting. ‘It’s the people who live in the isolated places: there’s an old woodcutter in the next valley who is completely paralyzed — a most marvellous man, so wise. The factor knows them all, of course; she has only to ask him.’ And as Guy was silent she flushed and said, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interfere.’

‘You’re not interfering.’ They walked on for a moment along the cone-strewn path. ‘Will you come back?’ he asked after a while.

‘No.’

She left the word bleak and unadorned and Guy was silent, accepting her decision. If Nerine was to take her rightful place as mistress of Pfaffenstein, Tessa had to stay away. Guy had not failed to notice that wherever Tessa appeared, engaged in however menial a task for Witzler, she was greeted not only by the salutes and curtsies due to her rank, but by smiles which lingered long after she had gone. It was not only the inmates of the castle, it was the whole village, all her people, that the Princess of Pfaffenstein held in the hollow of her hand.

‘Perhaps it’s as well,’ he said now. ‘Because I mean to make considerable changes.’

She turned her head enquiringly. ‘What sort of changes?’

‘I can’t stand toys,’ said Guy. His face had the taut, absorbed look that David and Thisbe Purse knew all too well. ‘This place must pay if we’re to live here even for part of the year; it must work.’

‘Yes,’ she said eagerly. ‘But how, the forests are not very productive and—’

He shook his head impatiently. ‘No, no! Forestry and agriculture will help, of course, but that’s not enough. But there’s tungsten in the rock, did you know? In the Stielbach valley. I had the geological report yesterday and I’ve just been over to look. I intend to mine for it.’ He waited for her protest, but apart from a quick intake of breath Tessa was silent. ‘The main deposits are on the far side of the spur so you won’t see it from the castle. But, yes, though I shall make tree-breaks and site the workings carefully, there will be a gash in the hill. Yes, I shall spoil the beauty of the countryside. I happen to think that it would be better for your people to have independent jobs instead of bowing and scraping to the owners of the castle, but I’d do it anyway because I can make it pay. So you see, it’s a good job you won’t be here.’

‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s a good job I’ll be out of the way. But not because of that. I think you’re right: jobs must be made that are not to do with feudalism or the land. My father would never see it, but if I had known how to set about it, I would have done it too.’

They had reached a fork in the path. The wider track led back to the castle; the narrower, mossy and overgrown, plunged back into the woods. Tessa paused, hesitating, seeming to make up her mind.

‘Have you got a few moments more?’ she said shyly. ‘There’s a place I’d like to show you.’

Guy smiled. ‘Yes, indeed. Nerine gets up late and frankly I can wait to be reunited with some of my guests.’

‘We’ll leave her here, then,’ said Tessa, patting the mare, and they hitched the bridle to a tree and took the narrow path back into the heart of the woods. The forest was denser here; boulders covered with moss like green velvet seemed to swim in the darkness; sudden shafts of light turned the bright toadstools into exotic jewels and from a great, jagged pine, a cuckoo called.

‘You know what the Jesuits say,’ said Tessa, ‘that if you give them a child for the first seven years of its life, you can have it for the rest of the time because it will already be theirs?’ And as Guy nodded, ‘Well, I think it’s like that with landscape. What you know and love when you’re a small child is always the way a landscape should be. For me, it will be the woods if I live to be ninety. But my grandmother was always homesick for the sea. The proper sea, with tides and wind and rain. She didn’t count the Mediterranean or the Baltic — no tides, no waves.’

‘Who was she?’

‘Her father was the Duke of Bewick. She lived near the Scottish border on the coast.’

‘Yes, I know it.’ A great, gaunt, wind-lashed pile, Bewick Castle, the lair of king-makers and Mercian rogues. He had visited it from school once, as a child. ‘It’s the same with me. My first outings with Martha were all to the Northumbrian coast and you can keep the mimosa and the lemon trees.’

‘It’s where one would go back to die, I suppose,’ said Tessa.

The path had been growing ever narrower and more overgrown. Now they pushed through the last of the encroaching trees and with a sigh of satisfaction, Tessa stopped.

They had come out in a clearing of unsurpassed and Arcadian loveliness. The golden light of morning streamed over the emerald grass and lit the clusters of gentians and starry white anemones. Dragonflies skimmed over a stream that danced over iridescent stones and paused to make a still, deep pool on which the leaves of water-lilies quietly swung. A single, ancient crab-apple trailed a golden tangle of honeysuckle through the candelabra of its branches.

But Tessa was looking for something, searching the ground. Kneeling, now, to part a clump of tiny trifoliate leaves, so exquisitely wrought that the peers of England have taken them for their coronets.

‘Yes,’ she said happily. ‘It’s a bit early but some are ripe.’ And carefully, absorbed like a child, she picked the small, flecked barely scarlet berries and held them out to him. Wild strawberries — the most prized, most fragrant and heart-stirring fruit in the world.

‘In Sweden,’ she said, rising to stand beside him and speaking very seriously, ‘they have a word for a place like this. It’s called a “smultronställe”. A “wild strawberry place.” A place like that is special, it’s the most special place there is.’

Guy looked down at the berries she had tipped into his hand. Their scent, subtle yet piercing, seemed to overwhelm him with its sweetness.

‘Only it isn’t just literally a wild strawberry place,’ Tessa went on. ‘A smultronställe is any place that’s absolutely private and special and your own. A place where life is… an epiphany. Like that very quiet room in the Kunsthistorisches Museum where the Vermeers are. Or that marvellous bit where the flute plays that golden music at the beginning of L’Après-midi d’un faune.’