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Higher up, the grass turns to bush and higher still there is a scattering of snow on the otherwise bald peaks.
    I see the road sign and make the turn.
    In front of me a range of steep hills towers above green pastures dotted with sheep. Climbing the hill, cutting left and right into the green land, runs a zigzag road. I stop the car and take out my copy of Rose Mere’s painting.
    It is the same shape. This is the road I seek.
    What am I going to find at the end of this road? A haven amongst my long-lost family? A pot of gold? A weird castle with a monster in the dungeon? Or nothing at all?
    I shake my head, smiling at my foolish fancies, downshift, and drive slowly up the switchback to the top of the hill. The rise is steep and the corners are sharp. The car strains and chokes and splutters as I reach the summit. Five minutes later I see a corridor of tall trees to my left. At the roadside is a mailbox large enough to hold a sheep.
    I stop and read the inscription.
    There are two sets of names, not one. Christopher and Vivienne Marchmount. Walter and Alison Repati. I have found both of them.
    Do I stop now and return to Wellington?
    The blood races through my veins in anticipation. I lift my foot gently from the brake and turn up the driveway.
    Invisible dogs bark as I drive up and stop the car in front of a sprawling farmhouse of gray clapboard with white window frames. A battered SUV is parked in the car shed and a dirt-embossed motorbike leans against a water tank.
    I pause with my hand on the door lever, and then I press it down, push open the door and step out of the car.
    Gravel crunches beneath my feet as I approach a porch adorned with Wellington boots, a basket of wood, two cat food bowls, a walking stick, and four umbrellas in various states of disrepair. When I reach the door, I knock lightly, three times. It seems appropriate. I wait, listening, but there is no noise from within, no patter of feet across old wooden floorboards coming to meet a long-lost prodigal sister.
    I knock again, loudly this time. Still nothing. I walk around the back. The dogs start barking again, more of them joining in, until there is a crescendo of dog noise coming from the hill beyond the house. On the far side is a large veranda facing north to capture the sun, with doors opening from the house, but all are closed today.
    The house has a sleepy air, as if it waits like a faithful dog for its owner. I want to walk up to the glass and peer inside, but I am not certain it is empty, so I look from afar, but see nothing.I circle around to the entrance and knock again, but there is no response.
    Back in the car, I reverse down the driveway and pause. The driveway goes around a rose garden and up a hill.
    There must be another house farther in.
I drive forward, past bluebells pushing up their petaled heads amongst the ferns beneath the trees, and climb to the top of the rise.
    To my left, now, is a grassy tennis court. To my right, a swimming pool, an elegant structure of red metal and glass and terra-cotta tiles. Ahead lies a beautiful country house. Not a castle, not a villa, but a colonial mansion built on a grand scale. Trees frame the house, and flower bushes spill out of the beds that fill its many crevices.
    I drive up to the porch. Pots in rich shades of blue and red are artfully placed on the terra-cotta-tiled steps. The door is wide open.
    As I sit in my car anticipating what might come next, a man emerges from the house, a dog at his side. I get out of the car and walk toward him. He is younger than I expected, tall and handsome, with fair hair, dark glasses, and a tanned face.
    â€œCan I help you?” he asks, staring at the car.
    I can’t see his eyes behind the dark lenses.
    I clear my throat. “I am looking for Vivienne or Alison. Is either of them at home?”
    He drops his gaze to my face.
    â€œI am Christopher Marchmount. My wife is shopping in Hastings and Alison and Walter are at the dog trials,” he