Nicky led us to the last cottage in the village, a tired stone box with a slumped roof. The garden was a wild tangle of weeds and old tools.She slipped through the creaking gate.An old woman sat on a stool by the door, peeling potatoes with a sharp knife. ‘Nicky? Is that you, love?’‘Yes, Gran. I’ve brought some friends. They wanted to see the real countryside.’The woman’s wrinkled face broke into a wide, gummy smile. ‘Lovely! Come in, don’t stand out in the cold!’She herded us into a small, cluttered living room that smelled of damp and old biscuits. She bustled about, putting the kettle on.‘I’ve just made a fresh batch of scones,’ she announced, bringing out a plate of lumpy, flour-dusted buns.‘They look amazing,’ Portia said, her voice full of false cheer.‘Don’t you dare,’ I muttered under my breath, barely moving my lips.‘Right,’ Portia sighed, folding her hands in her lap.‘Would you like one, dear?’ the old woman asked me, pushing the plate forward.‘No, thank you. I’m no
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