CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

When the bell began to toll Maisie realised that she was dreaming – its echoes reverberated in uncanny jolts and eerie whispers as if being sounded down a long, iron tunnel.

“Am I dreaming?” she said, and the echo of the words appeared to come before them, rather than after. Yes, she was dreaming. She was dreaming the dream of the wood again, the dark shadows and the panting breath and the elevated heartbeat, all with the bell tolling dimly in the background. Just as she had intended to dream it.

Before bed, she had surrounded herself with photos of her grandmother, objects that she had owned, laid her ceremonial robe over the top of the bed covers, done everything she could to make some kind of contact with this memory. And over and over, as she had fallen asleep, she had asked, “How did my grandmother die?”

“How did my grandmother die?” she asked now in the dream. In an instant, she found herself up near the ceiling of the cottage, somewhere near the back door. An old woman – sturdy, calm, white-haired and with pale grey eyes – came in to the laundry.

“Sybill!” Maisie’s voice echoed in her ears, but her grandmother didn’t hear her. A strange dislocation of the senses took place, and suddenly she was the old woman, boldly opening the laundry door and striding out. She turned and locked the door firmly, then moved towards the back of the garden.

No, don’t let’s go there, Maisie thought. She was at the same time both herself and Sybill.

But Sybill kept walking. Her feet were bare and cold, even though she was otherwise fully dressed in thick woollens. Bare feet for her witchcraft. To forge the bond with the earth. Maisie didn’t know how she knew this, but she knew. At the rosebushes, she stopped and slipped her house keys under a rock. Hiding them from the nosy villagers. Then she stood and straightened as though gathering determination, and they went together into the wood.

Not that.

Maisie swung up and out of Sybill’s point of view, hovered somewhere in the upper branches of the oak tree, watching the pale figure move between trees. The wood was slightly different from how Maisie knew it. Most of the trees still had their leaves, it smelled fresh and sweet. She swooped down closer, seemed to be in the air about a metre above and behind Sybill as she walked right into the heart of the wood. Then stopped and centred herself.

It took an age, and Maisie desperately hung on to the dream. Other dreams wanted to be dreamed, and they were eroding the edges of this one. She thought she saw an owl fly past above and suddenly it was daylight, then she thought she heard a car pull up and knew that Sacha was coming. She pushed these dreams aside, concentrated hard on watching her grandmother. Deliberately dreaming the night Sybill died. Sybill started to speak. Maisie could make no meaning of what she was saying – as though it were another language or too far away to hear. With purpose, she felt herself swing back into the old woman’s viewpoint. The words now seemed to be springing from her own lips.

“Ic eom openu ære yflan deorcnes. Com! Ic eom inu geornful lac.” Maisie tried to memorise it with the muscles of her mouth, desperate to remember it when she woke in the morning. Ic eom openu ære yflan deorcnes. Com! Ic eom inu geornful lac. Sybill stood, calm – no, more than calm: selfpossessed, almost arrogant – and waited for her spell to work. A noise broke in the bushes behind her. She turned to look, saw a dark shape. Puzzlement. Then bewilderment. Then fear, oh, awful fear. The thing approached, its companion a metre behind it. It turned its head up and faint moonlight fell for an instant on its –

Maisie was up and out of Sybill again. She could not bear to look upon it. The old woman yelped and turned, began to run. Desperate, flailing limbs; running between branches and the two hooded beings on her trail closely. No contest. Maisie wanted to wake up. She could feel consciousness seeping in. But she had to hold on to the dream, see what happened. Moments passed but felt like hours. Sybill was growing tired. Momentarily, Maisie would be in and then out of Sybill’s viewpoint, too terrified to take part in the awful chase.

Sybill stumbled, leaned over. An open target. Maisie wanted to scream out to her, but it was a dream, a memory of something past. She couldn’t change it no matter how much she wanted to. The beings were upon her in an instant. Maisie hovered around the back of them, not wanting to see, but unable to look away. She was horrified by the violence with which they attacked the old woman. One of them seemed to have split open her back with those strange, bony claws it used to tap at windows. The other pulled her up straight, held her face in its hands. As these things happened, Maisie had an incredible and profound sense that she had witnessed this before, that she knew what was going to happen next. Maisie saw Sybill open her eyes to look at it. An expression of pure, hellish terror came over her, and she screamed so loudly, so horribly, that it could have woken Maisie up, had she not been prepared for it. And as the two creatures moved in close, one with a suffocating hold around her chest, the other effortlessly twisting her head so her neck snapped, Maisie saw it as the awful confirmation of something she had known all along. Something she had dreamed once before.

The dark shapes receded, leaving Sybill’s body in the wood. Maisie hovered nearby, nightmare fear and aching loneliness blowing cold around her, waiting for what would happen next. Time ticked on. Once again she had to fight off other dreams and wakefulness. Perhaps an hour passed before she heard movement in the trees. She gathered herself and saw Reverend Fowler and Constable Blake approaching.

“Is there a lot of blood, Tony?” the Reverend was asking, his voice a nervous squeak.

Tony approached Sybill’s body and looked around.

“Quite a lot. Don’t worry, I can manage this myself.”

“I feel just sick about this,” the Reverend said. Tony glanced over his shoulder. “You hated her. We all did. She deserved this. She knew too much.”

“Everything could have been changed forever,” the Reverend said, as though convincing himself that Tony was right.

Maisie wanted to keep dreaming, to hear the rest, but an insistent ringing noise pulled her up and into consciousness. It was morning. The phone was ringing. She lay still, trying to recall every particular of the dream, knowing that if she got involved in a phone conversation the details would fade. It rang out. She relived the whole horrific experience in her mind: the spell her grandmother had said in the wood, the way the Wraiths had closed in on her and killed her as though they were hunting. A tear slipped slowly down her right cheek. Sybill. Dying in fear.

And so the villagers here were not blameless after all. This was by far the most disturbing element. Here she was thinking they were harmless ninnies, but they had clearly had some foreknowledge of Sybill’s death, were covering it up even now.

Unless it was just a dream. Just a product of her imagination. The phone started ringing again. She ignored it and got out of bed, pulled on some clothes and shoes and went down to the garden. One small piece of proof would tell her if the dream was accurate or not. Below the rosebushes, under a round, smooth stone, she found Sybill’s house keys – two of them, tied on a piece of pink string. Yes, it had been real. She held the keys in her clenched fist and her eyes wandered into the wood. It was around eight o’clock but becoming darkly overcast. The wood was

shadowy and foreboding. She turned her back on it and returned to the cottage, locking the door behind her. The phone was still ringing. This time she answered it.

“Maisie?” It was Cathy. “Thank god you

answered. I thought something had happened to you.”

“No, no, I’m fine.”

“Did they come again?”

It took a moment for Maisie to understand what Cathy meant. And it was only then she realised that she had slept right through with no visitations from evil spirits. Except in her dreams. “No. No, they didn’t. Must have got fed up.”

“Or they were trying to chase me away.”

“Cathy, if I tell you some more Anglo-Saxon, can you translate it for me?”

“Probably. It’s my best subject.”

Maisie repeated the sentence her grandmother had said in the dream. “Ic eom openu ære yflan deorcnes. Com! Ic eom inu geornful lac.”

“Say it again?” Cathy gasped.

Maisie did so.

“Where did you get it from?”

“I dreamed last night of Sybill’s death. She went out into the woods and said that. I presumed it was another spell. Why? What does it mean?”

“God, Maisie, don’t go saying that when those monsters are around the house. It means, I am open to the evil darkness. Come! I am your willing sacrifice.”

Maisie’s heart stood still. “What?”

“I’m certain of it.”

“But why would she . . .?”

“I don’t know. It’s madness, isn’t it? Unless she didn’t know what she was saying.”

“But then, where did she get the words from?”

Silence at the other end of the line. Moments ticked by as Maisie considered, but couldn’t figure it out. “You know,” she said slowly, “I bet there’s some information in the third diary piece about all this.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Sybill made some notes about the third piece, and about Anglo-Saxon religion. But I have no idea where to start looking.” She checked her watch, thought she’d better shower and dress properly before Sacha arrived.

“Maisie, why don’t you get out of Solgreve for the weekend?” Cathy said. “You need a break from all this. Do you want to come down here for a couple of days?”

“No. Sacha’s coming over this morning. He’s going to stay.”

“Oh,” said Cathy. “Well, be careful. Protect yourself.”

“The whole house is under a protection spell,”

Maisie replied.

Cathy laughed. “I didn’t mean from monsters.”

At the bottle shop, at the grocery store, Maisie couldn’t stop thinking it. Who knew? The plump, middle-aged woman who unsmilingly shoved her two bottles of wine in a paper bag – did she know how Sybill had died? Had she wanted it as much as the Reverend and the village constable had? And how about the grey-haired octogenarian at the counter ahead of her, buying cornflakes? And how about the fifteen-year-old girl who rang up her purchases? Had all of them known? For the first time, she honestly didn’t care how unfriendly the locals were towards her. She had far more reason to hate them than they did to hate her. But what could she do about it?

She headed back up the main street towards the cottage. She couldn’t go to the police unless she wanted to be certified insane: I dreamed that ghosts in brown cloaks killed my grandmother and the local Reverend knew all about it. In fact, there was nothing she could do about it unless she found out why her grandmother had been killed. In her dream Constable Blake said that Sybill knew too much, and the Reverend said that she could have changed things forever. So Maisie had to find out what Sybill knew. She shuddered as she thought about where that knowledge had led to for Sybill. But then Maisie wouldn’t be stupid enough to go stand in the wood and proclaim that she was the willing sacrifice of the evil darkness. That was completely baffling. As Cathy had suggested, Sybill simply mustn’t have understood what she was saying. So why did she say it? Where did she get it from?

Maisie stopped, realising she was opposite Elsa Smith’s place again. She stood for a moment, gazing at the front of the house. The old bitch was a liar. Sybill hadn’t collapsed out here in the street, Elsa had never spotted her body or phoned the police. It was all make-believe to cover up the truth, the horrible reality. Maisie watched the windows for a while hoping Elsa would see her and scare herself. But then a white van sped up the street and stopped in front of her. Sacha.

“Want a lift?” he asked.

Maisie smiled and ran around to the other side of the van to climb in. “I wasn’t expecting you this early,” she said.

“What have you got there?” he said, putting the van in gear and heading towards home.

“Wine and foodstuffs. In honour of your visit.”

“Great. How did it go last night?”

“No nasty visitors, but I did dream about Sybill.”

“Any answers?”

“All the answers,” she replied. “But a few more questions with it. I’ll tell you about it inside.”

Tabby wound around between Maisie’s legs as she made tea. Sacha waited for her in the lounge room. When she’d left him there, he’d been sagging forward, elbows on knees, distraught. The truth about Sybill’s death had affected him more than she had anticipated.

“You expect old people to die,” he had said, “but you never expect them to suffer. Not like that.”

She returned to the lounge room. He was sitting up now, staring into middle distance. She handed him a mug of tea and settled opposite him.

“Thanks,” he said. He took a sip and then looked up. “I suppose now you’re getting a real sense of what you’re capable of. Your psychic ability, I mean.”

“Yes,” she replied. “Though if I go into business as a psychic, I’ll have to find a more efficient method than dreaming people’s futures.”

Maisie sipped her tea. She was using the “best friend in the world” cup, and he pointed to it.

“That’s mine,” he said.

“Yours?”

“Sybill bought it for me to use when I was over here.”

“She thought you were her best friend in the world?” Maisie said, smiling.

Sacha shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe she was just being funny.” He looked down again. “You have to find out why they did it, Maisie,” he said.

“I’m working on it,” she replied. “I’m sure there’s stuff in the third part of the diary, but I don’t know where it is.”

“I want to go up there to the church and smack that Reverend Fowler in the jaw. He lied to me. I was planting some bulbs and he came here and said, ‘Sybill is dead.’ And when I asked him how, he told me that lie.”

He ran his hand through the front of his hair, leaving a few strands standing up. “I’m sorry, Maisie, I know you didn’t know Sybill as well as I did. This really hurts me.”

“I understand.” She leaned forward, reached out and smoothed down his hair. He seemed not to have noticed.

“My mother’s going to be inconsolable. I’ll have to track her down. When she hears this, she’ll be up here in a flash. You’re not alone in this, Maisie.”

“Thanks. It’s nice to know that.” She watched him watching her, let her eyes drop for a moment to that top lip of his, then back to his eyes.

Their eyes met and some kind of charge seemed to pass between them. She could see his pupils dilate, and knew hers were doing the same. Then he stood up, put his back to her, and started looking at books on the shelf above the mantelpiece.

“What are you looking for?” she asked, her voice straining for normality. In that instant, it had seemed possible. Rather than being a daydream, having Sacha had been something that could be real in her world. She felt dizzy.

“Here,” he said, pulling a book from the shelf.

“You should read this.”

It was a book about the tarot. “Thanks.”

He shrugged. He seemed uncomfortable. “I think you should learn it. If you’re really serious about not going back to the orchestra, serious about the psychism.”

“Of course I’m serious.”

“Sybill read cards. She used to charge forty quid a turn. You’ll need to memorise all the meanings.” He looked around. “Where does Sybill keep her cards?”

“In the chest at the end of the bed.”

He went off in that direction, and she watched him go, admiring his long legs and feeling the demented lust spinning inside her again. She would kiss him. That was it, it was decided. A kiss wouldn’t hurt anyone, wouldn’t necessarily lead anywhere. Tonight, after dinner, after a few glasses of wine, just one kiss and then it would be out of her system. She turned back to the book and realised her hands were shaking. Leafed through a few pages without taking anything in. She mapped out the conversation in her head: I’m really attracted to you. No, how about, if I wasn’t practically a married woman. It was useless, there were no good lines left. They’d all been overused, and none of them conveyed as much meaning as that glance that had just passed between them. In a few minutes he was back.

“I think Sybill would have been happy for you to have these,” he said, handing her a deck of cards wrapped in black cloth.

“Do you think I can do this?”

“Sure. It might take time. But your Gift is growing stronger every day.”

She nodded, opened the cloth and slowly thumbed through the cards. Sacha still hadn’t sat down. He stood in front of the fire, his hands on the mantelpiece.

“Where were the last two sections of the diary?”

he asked.

“One was in the floorboards in the back room. The other was in the ceiling above it.”

“I wonder . . .” he started.

“What?”

“Well, she probably found them while the place was being renovated.”

“That’s what I figured. And?”

“So we have to work out what else she’s had done since the floor and the ceiling. The last thing she put in was the dryer. Down the back in the laundry.”

Maisie considered. “And she always returned them to their original location.”

“Shall we check?”

“It can’t hurt.” She stood and followed him down to the laundry. The dryer was mounted on brackets screwed to the wall.

“Do you have a screwdriver?” he asked.

“I don’t know. It’s entirely possible, but good luck finding it.”

Sacha bent to the cupboard underneath the laundry tub and began to rummage about. Maisie had turned to look in the kitchen when he called out, “Here’s one.”

He backed out of the cupboard and stood,

brandishing a screwdriver.

“Is it the right size?” she asked.

“Not quite. But we’ll manage.” He fitted the screwdriver into the first screw and got to work, swearing and bumping his knuckles every now and again. Maisie watched as, one by one, the screws came out. Sacha had her prop up the dryer as the last one was freed, and then he heaved it off the wall and balanced it on top of the washing machine. He felt along the wall. Immediately, it was apparent that one of the planks was not nailed as tightly as the others. He easily picked out the nails with his fingers and the plank came loose. He plunged his hand behind it.

“What have we here?” he said as, with a dramatic flourish, he produced a small wad of paper.

“Let me see,” she said reaching for it. Yes, it was Georgette’s writing, but this section had clearly been water damaged. The first few lines were legible, but then pages and pages were nothing more than blurred black ink: Virgil is much improved. His colour is returning and it shall be less than a week I am sure before he is ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

***** ***** ***** *****

“Damn,” she said.

“What’s wrong?” Sacha was peering over her

shoulder.

“It’s in very bad condition. I don’t know how much of it is readable.” She flicked forward through swollen pages. “I guess I won’t know until I start.”

“Where’s the rest of the diary?”

“Back in the lounge room. Do you want to read it?”

“Spending an afternoon reading by the fire sounds like a good idea,” he said. “Can we fix the dryer up later?”

“Sure. Come on,” she said as they walked up the hallway. “Do you want another cup of tea? A glass of wine?”

“Yes to the latter. Though I suppose lunchtime is a little early to get started.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’ll be dark in a few hours.” She handed him the iron box with the first two sections of the diary in it. “The handwriting’s a bit difficult at first but you get used to it quickly.”

She left him in the lounge room, uncorked a bottle of wine and brought it back with two glasses.

“Cheers,” he said, as she handed him a glass.

“You too.” She watched him settle in his chair and start to read, spent a few moments in anticipation about the coming evening, then forgot everything as she was lost once more in Georgette’s world.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Sunday, 20th April 1794

Virgil is much improved. His colour is returning and it shall be less than a week I am sure before he is *****

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******* would not meet my eye. He says it requires more than physical stamina: that it requires emotional and mental stamina also, and those strengths are not yet returned to him. I can only imagine how somebody like my father would respond to such a remark, for we are nearly starving. I’ve eaten nothing but ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

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******* today sold the rest of our plate but for the barest of necessities. That means we have now sold virtually everything that we owned when we came here. The house is so empty and I despise looking around and feeling that I am a pauper. I suspect that Virgil feels the same way, yet he is always *****

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******* for it is not so cold now and we need no fires at night. Summer will be upon us within a fortnight and while everything blooms outside I do not feel so desperate. We do not make love any more, Diary. Virgil has lost all interest in that. But we are still lovers of the soul. There is no-one but him for me. I’m sure that some women look

forward to the birth of their first child with less anxiety than I, but no other woman has Virgil for a husband. No other woman will be able to look at her babe and see the traces of Virgil’s gentle dignity in its face and hands. For that I am grateful. I do still love him very much.

Virgil is out of bed every day now, and often walks along the cliff-top. I will ask him once more to return to work before the baby is born. We simply cannot manage without it. I’m sure that it is not good for me to be so thin when the child is scarce six weeks away.

Friday 30th May, 1794

From where have I learned this quiet acceptance of horror? Is this how poor people understand the world?

That it is a cruel and brutal place from which they may expect nothing but sorrow?

Diary, one week ago I was made an orphan

and I knew it not. For a week, I went about my business, I scrubbed and cooked and cleaned and bathed and ate and drank and held my

husband’s hand, and I knew not that my parents were dead.

This morning, I received a letter with Hattie’s seal on it. It is the first I have had of her in a very long time. I took it into the parlour and relished the opening of it, for I anticipated some money, or some news of her imminent return to England. I am – I was so very aware of her as the only bridge between myself and my family. And yet, the letter expressed something so very different from what I had hoped. It wasn’t written by Hattie at all, but by her new husband Baron Thorsten Verhaiden:

Dear Mrs Marley

It is with the deepest regret and sympathy that I must impart to you some very unwelcome news. Your Aunt Harriet has this morning received word of the death of her sister, your mother, and her husband at Lyon. As you know, your father was an idealistic man who believed in the highest principles of liberty and justice. He and your mother were harbouring some peasants who had deserted the army. These deserters were old and infirm, and unfit to fight. An informant to Robespierre discovered them, and all were soon dispatched by guillotine, your parents among them.

Harriet extends her love to you and apologises for not writing in person, but she is inconsolable. We now do not intend to return to England at any stage, as the house on St James Square holds too many memories of your mother for Hattie’s endurance. It is to be sold forthwith.

With regret, T. VERHAIDEN

My hands shook as I put the letter aside. All through the past week, my mother and father were already cold in their graves and I knew it not. Surely impossible, yet it has happened. This is how things are now in France. Even the lowest classes, who were supposedly the beneficiaries of change, now must do as Robespierre orders or face the guillotine for being enemies of the Revolution. And now all my father’s property belongs to France and not to me, and nor will it ever. I am crushed below my grief, and cannot see a path beyond it. Writing, as always, helps a little. But it seems I cannot erase a certain scene from the Eye of my Mind, a scene which I, in fact, never witnessed. The scene does not involve Papa. My father, I am sure, would have been defiant until the last moment as he died for what he believed in. I rather wish he had believed so vehemently in me, but his support of the lower classes did not extend to marrying his daughter among them.

Rather, it is my mother I see, her hair shorn close to her head, in prison garb rather than one of her fine frocks. She is forced upon the bloody block, and I see in her eyes the kind of desperate fear we know from the eyes of hunted animals. Mama was afraid. She must have been afraid, for she knew she was to die. How am I to stop seeing her terrified eyes? For I know if I could stop, my pain would begin to ease. I have not told Virgil, and perhaps I will not for some time. I fear any kind of shock or emotional strain may retard the progress of his Recovery. So I must keep this pain inside me, accept it, allow it to disperse along my limbs and settle in the bones of my fingers. Of course, now that my parents are dead, it means I have no escape from poverty. I can not ***** *****

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******* said he could do it if I were there. I am Horrified in anticipation of such an event, but I must agree. For if Virgil does not return to work soon, I fear that he will never return. So, in two days, I shall accompany Virgil as he fulfils Flood’s request for specimens, and somehow I shall survive it.

Saturday 14th June, 1794

Daylight is such a miracle, such a welcome balm. Nothing seems so very bad in daylight. Virgil has gone walking. I offered to join him but he preferred some time alone and so I sit here, instead, to recount last night’s dreadful details.

Once I had agreed to accompany Virgil about his work, he cheered immensely and said he was sure he could manage with me there. The burden of returning to his employment seemed vastly lifted and in the afternoon I saw him pick up his crystal canister of laudanum, and then very deliberately place it back beside the bed, as though to show me he was making an effort to stay in the real world.

Night fell around nine – he can only work in the darker hours – and he packed up a blanket for me and asked me once more if I was certain I wanted to come.

“Of course I am certain. If coming with you eases your burden, of course I shall come.”

“But, Gette,” here his voice dropped to a whisper,

“you must promise me you will not look upon the product of my labour.”

“I shall not. I shall sit quietly under a tree and listen to the sea.”

He reached out and touched my great belly, his long fingers twitching nervously. “I must be a madman forcing you to accompany me.”

“You are not a madman. You have been very ill and it’s merely a matter of prudence that you have somebody nearby. It will be no strain upon myself or upon my body to wait for you.”

So we left the house. It was a fresh, clear night, and soft moonlight lit our way to the abbey.

“I must see the Doctor, first,” Virgil said, hesitating near the entrance.

“Are you well enough?” I asked.

“Yes. Yes, I am well enough.” He was clearly distracted. “Wait exactly here. I shall not be more than a few moments.”

“As you wish.” I moved into the shelter of the corner of the abbey. It was a mild night, but I worry about the infant, especially as I seem to have so little fat upon me to keep the poor child warm. Virgil disappeared through the hatch and into the dark stairs. Only a few minutes passed before he returned with a lantern. He took my hand and led me around to the other side of the abbey. There we found a twowheeled cart.

“The tools of my trade,” he said dourly, picking up the cart and pulling it behind us. In it were a mattock, a spade, rope and hooks, and some rolls of canvas. Upon viewing these tools I began to feel fully the enormity of our activity. It hardly seemed possible that such an atrocity as this should be so important a part of our lives. We eat only on condition that Virgil pulls bodies from their graves. It is as simple and as horrifying as that.

Still, we must eat. And the folk disinterred are already dead and their souls long since gone to whichever hereafter they have earned.

“How do you know which . . .?” I could not voice the entire question.

“Flood instructs me. If I am lucky it is very fresh or very old.”

“Why?”

He mumbled something I couldn’t quite

understand. Perhaps he said, “They are cleaner.” But perhaps, too, I did not want to know all the details, so I did not ask him to repeat himself.

We walked through the graveyard. Away from the shelter of the abbey, the sea breeze was fresh. The warmer summer weather had coaxed an awful stench from the poor’s hole, the open pit where those who could not afford a proper burial were cast. The fresh breeze carried the smell away from us a little, but I was glad when it seemed we were moving no closer to that side of the graveyard. We approached a certain grave – the ground was not yet overgrown with grass and so I deduced it must be quite fresh – and Virgil dropped the cart and reached for the blanket.

“Here, Gette, stay warm.”

I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders and leaned nearer to the gravestone, trying to read the name engraved upon it.

“No!” Virgil exclaimed, stepping in front of me to block my view. “Do not seek to know who this is, Gette. Identity will work upon your conscience.” He took my hand and led me ten or twelve paces away from the grave, behind the shelter of a large tree. “I can give you a canvas sheet to sit upon if the grass is wet,” he said.

I eased myself to the ground, tested the grass with my fingers. “It is quite dry.”

“Turn the other way, Gette. Do not watch.”

I did as he said, turning my back to the grave and watching instead over the expanse of the cemetery, and out to sea. He knelt in front of me, touched my cheek with his left hand. “I am so sorry, my love.”

“I will be perfectly safe and happy sitting here,” I said, though I knew it was not necessarily true.

“I am sorry for more than this evening,” he added quietly. “This is not the life I wanted for you.”

“Virgil, as long as we are together, nothing else is terribly serious.” I thought about my parents – it has been two weeks and still I have not told him – and I felt the awful tug in my heart, but said nothing. He kissed me gently on the cheek and then went to his work.

I moved so that my back leaned against the rough bark of the tree trunk, then sat gazing over the shadows of headstones and out to sea for a long time. Behind me, I could hear the sounds of Virgil’s labour –

the mattock to break up the soil, the spade to remove it. Perhaps a few hours passed, and perhaps I drowsed a little. But after a time I felt restless, curious, and I shifted my angle so that I could see from a distance what Virgil was doing.

His work was illuminated by the lantern, which he had perched on top of the headstone. Around the grave he had laid the canvas sheets to catch the soil, which he threw from heaped spades. Virgil was only visible from his waist up, as he stood in the grave digging vigorously. He had stripped off his shirt, and it hung carelessly over the edge of the cart. I watched the muscles in his arms and back working, could see the gleam of sweat upon his skin and the dirt that stuck to him in sticky streaks. How unfair that he, of all people, should be employed in such a manner. Virgil is formed for finer things – for clean, warm places, for books and ink and quiet libraries. For a moment, watching him, it seemed so entirely out of possibility that he should have ended in such a task, that I almost laughed out loud. But Fate takes liberties with us in small steps: to go from writing poetry to unearthing graves happens quite easily by way of poverty, addiction, approaching parenthood. Circumstance and Opportunity are all that are required, and then any man can find himself a million miles from his heart’s desire, though it seems he walked but a few feet to get there.

I turned back to the sea and tried not to think about my parents. But Virgil’s task kept pulling my reflections back to that very topic. I did not know where they were buried, or even if they were buried. Such atrocities are daily committed in France, so it would not surprise me to learn they had received no honours for the passage of their souls at all. Perhaps one day I might return to France and try to find them, and I shall plant roses upon their graves. It cheers me a little to think of that, to imagine beautiful flowers springing from their bones. And this I was considering when Virgil appeared next to me, streaked with dirt.

“Gette, you are not too tired, are you?”

“No, Virgil. I slept an hour or two I think. Are you nearly finished?”

“I have dug down to the coffin. Do you know they favour shallower burials in Solgreve than anywhere in England?”

“Surely it’s not because of Doctor Flood?” I asked. He shook his head. “I shouldn’t imagine so. I’d hate to believe he had so wide an influence.” He looked down at his filthy hands. “I must now crack open the coffin and remove the occupant. There may be a . . . bad smell. Perhaps you would like to walk a little further out near the cliffs for a half hour or so.”

How awful, Diary. What a dreadful circumstance to find oneself in, so openly confronted by the progress of the flesh. And poor Virgil having to work amongst it after being so ill! I allowed him to help me to my feet and, with the blanket around my shoulders like a shawl, I walked through the cemetery towards the cliff. I found a soft patch of grass beyond the last row of gravestones, and sat there with my back to Virgil. Without the shelter from the tree I felt the breeze coax my skin into gooseflesh. I did not mind, for it seems the sea is such a cleansing force, liberated and evermoving, unlike the sickly cloying air of decay, which clings and settles.

I lay on my back to look at the stars, my hands over my belly. With a turn of my head to the right I could see the sea, with a turn to the left I could watch Virgil. I switched between them. The sea did the same thing it always did, advanced and retreated restfully. Virgil was involved in quite a different enterprise. He dropped a hook on a rope into the grave, braced it around the headstone and jerked it a few times. Stopped to rest. Did the same again. When the first shadow of the body emerged from the pit I turned away. When I next looked back he was folding the shroud and dropping it into the grave. The body was wrapped in a bag at the foot of the pit. He picked up the edges of the canvas sheets and tipped soil back on to the coffin. I watched him for a few minutes as he fetched his spade and began to work in earnest, refilling the grave.

It was then that something dark moved on the edge of my vision. I leaned my head back and peered into the gloom but saw nothing. I felt strangely disturbed, so I struggled to sit and searched the darkness again. My eyes were drawn to the tree where I had rested earlier. I had the distinct impression that something was slightly out of place, but I did not know why. I watched carefully, but could see nothing that could confirm my suspicion.

Once more I turned to Virgil, and it was only when my eyes left the area that something moved there. I gasped as I saw a figure, dressed in a dark cloak, forsake the shadows in which it was hidden and move into the pale moonlight.

“Virgil!” I called.

My husband turned to me and the figure disappeared back into darkness. I stood with some difficulty and moved towards Virgil. He saw me and dropped his spade, came to meet me between gravestones.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“I saw someone near the tree,” I said, pointing.

“Gette, there is nobody out here but us.” Even as he said this, he began to look around nervously, his dark eyes round with fear. It was then that I remembered the encounter he spoke of the night before he became very ill. How he had seen a cloaked figure who moved unnaturally through the graveyard, which Virgil had believed to be the spectre of one of the bodies he had pulled from its grave.

“Oh!” I said feigning relief. “Virgil, look. It was merely the shadow of that branch. See how it shifts as the wind moves it.” I pointed to a low branch on the tree. It did, indeed, cast a shifting shadow on the ground, but nothing like the figure I had just seen. Virgil smiled fondly at me. “Gette, I should never have brought you out here. Graveyards at night always excite the darker criminals of the imagination.”

“Perhaps I shall sit close by while you finish your task,” I said. “But not under the tree. I’m afraid I’ve frightened myself too much for that.”

“I am only ten minutes away from finishing. You may stand near me as long as you promise not to peer too curiously at the grey canvas bag.”

“I shall stand with my back to you. Only let me stand with you.”

Indeed it was only a matter of minutes before he was finished. He put the body doubled over in the cart and we made our way back to the abbey. Virgil left the cart where he had found it and, with the body over his shoulder, approached the entrance to Flood’s rooms.

“I shall wait here,” I said.

“No. Come and wait inside. Flood insists that I bathe before I leave. I may be twenty minutes or more.”

“I don’t want to go down those stairs in the dark when I am so large with the child.” I could barely keep my eyes on Virgil’s face. Beneath the canvas, I believed I could make out the corner of an elbow, the curve of a thigh. Curiosity kept tempting my gaze to slip.

“Then sit upon the top stair. I shall hear you if you call me.”

Virgil descended into the darkness with his awful load and I sat on the top step, from the waist up above the ground, from the waist down below. Not that I have any waist to speak of at the moment really. Now that the task was over, now that Virgil had returned successfully to work, I allowed myself to feel a little more positive. Only the thought of the figure I had seen near the tree troubled me, and still does. Was it a man? If so, where had it disappeared to when I had called out to Virgil? Was it a ghost? If so, could it cause any harm to my husband other than frightening him back into a long illness?

But I must remember that it was dark, that I had been dozing on and off, that the location and the task we were about might have suggested such an imagined spectre to me. I simply should not believe otherwise. One more thing happened last night on our way home, Virgil clean and in freshly laundered clothes (Flood, apparently, is quite obsessive about cleanliness). We walked up the path to our cottage and Virgil said this to me: “Gette, I want to tell you something, but you must promise me you will not think me raving or sick.”

I was surprised and a little afraid. “I will try to think the best of you always.”

“Because I am perfectly sober – and will continue in that manner – and yet I learned something tonight which seems rather to belong to the twilight world I inhabit when I am ill or dazed.”

“What is it?”

“Doctor Flood is over three hundred years old.”

“That cannot be.”

“And yet it is so.”

I thought about Flood, about the old skin, the unnaturally limber joints. And it did indeed seem possible. “How do you know?”

“He told me.”

“Perhaps he lied.”

“He told me how Cornelius Agrippa himself gave him the ruby ring he wears on his right hand. I said,

‘That is not possible. Agrippa died in fifteen thirtyfive.’ He replied, ‘And yet, he and I were born in the same year. Am I not rather more of a magician than he ever was?’”

“Virgil, it’s a lie. No man lives for such a long time.”

“What motive does Flood have to lie to me?”

“His own amusement. Virgil, do not think

upon it.”

He fell silent. We were now at the entrance to our cottage. Dawn was scarce an hour away. Already streaks of daylight glimmered near the horizon. Virgil opened the door and I went in ahead of him. We prepared ourselves for bed and soon lay in each other’s arms, our faded drapes drawn against the coming sunlight. I was very nearly asleep when Virgil said,

“Do you believe in redemption?”

“I do not know, Virgil.”

“Do you believe that God can forgive me?”

“A God who would not forgive you would not be good company for eternity.”

He turned on his side. “I have tried to believe in nothing, but I find myself always drawn back to the spirit.” He tapped his chest. “I believe it is in here.”

He touched my own chest. “And in here.”

When framed in such a way, I believed it too.

“Perhaps you are right, Virgil.”

“I hope that my spirit is worth saving,” he said.

“I know it would be. It is a beautiful spirit.”

“But a spirit can be eroded. Perhaps I need divine help.”

“Then call upon a guardian angel before you go to work.”

“Perhaps I shall,” he said yawning, settling once again beneath the covers. “Disbelief is a young man’s toy, whose power cannot last long when love and desire form his mind.”

“Sleep well, Virgil,” I said. And, for the first time in over a year, I prayed. It suddenly seemed like the right thing to do –

Virgil just returned and I can hear him now, whistling a melancholy tune in the front garden. All smiles now, Diary. I can’t let him see me worrying. It seems that Flood requires him to work

again tonight, and the next night, and the next, and so forth. He has been without specimens for

too long. I shall be surprised to find there are still bodies enough left in Solgreve cemetery, for all that it is the most enormous cemetery I have ever seen. I care not. We shall have money for the child, that is all it signifies.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Sunday, 13th July 1794

Another long silence from me, not that anyone other than myself is taking note. This time I have a joyous excuse – yes, my little boy Henri, now just over a week old and my one, true blessing in this awful life. I had heard such horrid tales about Childbirth, but Henri, perhaps sensing I was not equipped to deal with such trauma, appeared in an easy and straightforward manner only two hours after my first birth pang. Though the midwife did not greatly approve, Virgil was with me to welcome his son into this world, and feels such a connection with the tiny thing that I could almost grow jealous, were I not so tired all the time. No, it was rather the emotional pain than the physical pain for which I was unprepared. I could not have imagined the sea of feeling into which I have been plunged, where just the clutch of his little hand is enough to make me sob, just the texture of his milky skin causes a great weight of Fear to press upon my chest. I give him up to Virgil often, for I feel I have been flayed, and all my most delicate tissue is exposed to the stings and barbs of the world. Handing Henri over to my husband allows me to put my skin back on for a few moments, though my empty arms crave him while he is apart from me.

In fact, I sometimes feel a strange resentment towards the little creature, simply because I now have so much to lose. I know this must all sound as though I find him unpleasant, and not at all a joy. But this truth is born of love, and it is the truth. I named him after my father. Perhaps that was a strange thing to do. I still have not told Virgil about my parents’ death, and the greater the distance of time between the event and the present, the greater my reluctance to tell him. Now I risk angering Virgil for keeping it a secret so long, or causing him to feel that I have no faith in his fortitude (I do not, I confess, have any such faith). So this is how I have dealt with it. And had it been a little girl, she would have been called Anne after my mother. Their names are all I have left of my parents now.

But of course, it was not a girl, and I knew it would not be, for Flood predicted it. Flood, who I am to thank for returning us to a decent kind of life, for now we have food in our bellies, and coal and real wax candles and wine. I have bought a new dress – nothing extravagant, you understand –

because my body has changed so much in the past months. I know some women try their old clothes after having a child and find them too small. Mine are rather all too large. Because of my huge belly it was hard to see how thin I had grown, but now it is quite evident that I am gaunt and bony. I shall endeavour to fatten up, though it is too late for poor Henri – my breast milk simply does not flow

sufficiently to keep him fed. We must buy goat’s milk from the village every morning instead.

I have not seen Virgil touch his laudanum for over a month, though he protested loudly when I offered to dispose of it. “Who knows when we may need it,”

he argued, “for it has medicinal properties.” I suppose I must trust him. I have, however, memorised to which particular point of the bottle the laudanum is filled. I check daily, and it has not changed. For that, I am grateful. I am sure that as soon as Henri is a little older, we shall be able to leave Solgreve behind and return to a good – though still simple –

life elsewhere. I shall not allow my son to have a grave-robber for a father.

Friday, 1st August 1794

Today Henri is four weeks old. He is sleeping at the moment, in an old cradle which Virgil brought back from the village and fixed and painted. Virgil sits beside him, gazing upon him as lovingly as any angel ever gazed upon a poor sinner here on earth. I often see him in such a posture, and it warms ***** *****

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***** **wish we could afford a proper physician. But Mr Edghill, the surgeon, will have to do for now. He says that Henri is not robust as a child his age should be, but attributes that solely to my not eating enough during pregnancy. It merely means that he may be a little prone to illnesses until he is more grown, but Mr Edghill assured me it would have no lasting ill-effects. He is such a dear thing, my Henri, with his tiny fingers and his perfect nose. I know it is far too early to tell, but I think he will resemble my family rather than Virgil’s.

Virgil has worked every night this week. He says that Flood talks about coming very close to a kind of breakthrough, and his need for specimens is overwhelming. I asked Virgil where Flood stores all these bodies.

“What do you mean, Gette?”

“He has only limited space in his chambers.”

“He disposes of them in the poor’s hole. Or rather, he pays someone to do so.”

I suddenly had an idea. “Could you not do that job? Surely it would be less disturbing.”

“Oh, far more disturbing, Gette.”

“For what reason?”

“Sometimes they are . . . unrecognisable when he has finished experimenting with them.”

“And so who fulfils that task?”

“I believe it is the Reverend.”

The Reverend! What kind of a man of the cloth would perform such a task? The sooner we are out of this village, the better. Henri began grizzling at this point and so I had no opportunity to ask further questions. Indeed, having to fulfil the role of a mother – softness and sweet love – means I

necessarily cannot worry myself with Virgil’s affairs. My son deserves for me to ***** ***** *****

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******* was sitting in his customary position beside Henri’s cradle, but I could not help noticing that he seemed rather less contented than he usually is about such an occupation. Virgil is so transparent to me, and always has been. Perhaps this is why I fell in love with him. He has scarcely entertained a thought than it immediately appears on his countenance. And this morning, the way he gazed upon Henri was too melancholy, as though the love he felt were causing him despair rather than joy.

I put down my darning and went to Virgil’s side, rested my hand on his shoulder. “Are you troubled, my love?” I asked.

“No,” he answered quickly, forcing a smile. I knew he was in turmoil, and the fact that he lied about it immediately alerted me to its cause. This, Diary, was guilt. I had not checked the level of the laudanum in weeks, for it had not moved and Virgil seemed so very capable and mature. As soon as I could do so without arousing suspicion, I went to the bedroom. On Virgil’s side of the bed, tucked away, almost behind a small table, I found his Decanter. It was full to the brim, which meant that he had drunk the remains and refilled it – I could never even guess how many times. I could not believe that I hadn’t noticed. I have been tired. I have been involved in being a mother which means I am sometimes awake half the night and asleep at odd hours during the day. He had taken advantage of my inattention to renew his habit. No, I should not say “taken advantage” for it implies that Virgil deliberately sets out to cause me pain. He does not. He simply can do no better for he is weak: weaker than I, because I am a mother and cannot afford the luxury of weakness. It seems that much is made of the idea that men are stronger than women. Perhaps this may be so if only physical ability is considered, but beyond that there is little evidence to support the conclusion.

Thursday, 4th September 1794

An unexpected letter arrived this morning. Virgil took delivery of it at the front door. I heard him call out,

“Gette, that cur Edward Snowe has written!” I was feeding Henri at the time so I did not spend a second thought upon it, until a few moments later when Virgil entered the bedroom and held the letter out to me, unopened.

“Yes, Virgil, I heard you. Edward has written.”

Virgil’s hand shook, a tiny movement. “It is addressed only to you.”

I reached for the letter, apprehensive. What could Edward possibly want to say only to me? Now Virgil watched me closely. I thought about how Edward had kissed me, and how I had been so vain as to allow him express his desire. Guilt rolled into my stomach. For if Edward made mention of those things, how was I to keep it from Virgil? If I hid the letter, he would be suspicious and mistrustful. Yet if I showed him the letter he would know.

Virgil took Henri from me, and I quickly opened and scanned the letter.

Bootham, 3rd September

Dear Georgette,

I have now set up practice in York and I am living here permanently. I know that Virgil will not want to see me again, but I wrote this short note to inform you of my new address, and to offer you my services if ever you need them. I should be delighted to see you again, and if matters become unbearable for you up in Solgreve, you are most welcome to contact me. Your friend, EDWARD SNOWE

“He has moved to York,” I said, dropping the letter on the bed with feigned carelessness, yet hoping that Virgil would not pick it up. Of course, he did pick it up.

“May I read it?”

“Certainly.”

He did so, then returned his attention to me.

“What does he mean ‘if matters become unbearable?’”

“I expect he means if we need any financial

assistance.”

“He means if I become unbearable, doesn’t he?”

“Virgil, of course not.”

“Why would he write to you in this manner? Have you shared our secrets with him?”

“Virgil, he was here when you were ill. He was once your best friend. He knows our situation.”

“But he offers no assistance to me.”

“You have made it clear you are no longer

interested in his assistance.”

Henri grew tired of our strained conversation and began to cry. Virgil rocked him absently. “It seems curious to me that he should write such a letter to you.”

“Perhaps it is curious, but you appear to be punishing the recipient of the letter rather than the sender,” I said sulkily. For I knew that I had encouraged Edward’s intimacy by not discouraging it earlier. Virgil turned and went to the window, the whole time rocking Henri who had quietened down to a sniffle. I watched his back. He appeared tense, even angry.

“What is it, Virgil?” I asked. “Why are you so upset?”

He turned. “You looked anxious when the

letter arrived.”

“I . . . thought it might be bad news.”

“And once, when I was sick, I thought I saw Edward about to kiss you.”

“That’s nonsense.”

He came forward, all pleading eyes. “Please swear, Georgette, that you’ve never felt more than is appropriate for Edward Snowe.”

“I swear.”

He held out Henri to me. The little creature came happily to my arms. “We shall keep no secrets in our house,” he said.

But we keep the very worst secrets in our house. I am orphaned and I have not told him. He is once again drinking laudanum and he has not told me. It makes me afraid that a sickness may begin to eat away at our love if we cannot speak to each other more freely. The trouble is that only Virgil will be hurt by bringing these matters into the open. He will be offended that I could not trust him with my grief. He will be anguished to have me witness to his opium shame. So I must go about my life, raising my child and ignoring the dark horror which lurks below the surface.

Wednesday, 10th September 1794

I have been ill these last four days and feel only a little better today. I’m sitting up in bed and Henri is sleeping peacefully next to me. An early autumn breeze is in the trees outside, and the sun still shines and the sky is still blue. It is all such a welcome contrast to the awful dreams my illness brought trailing with it; dreams in which I saw my mother again and again go to the guillotine. I had not even the comfort upon waking of knowing the dream was not real. For at some point my mother really did put her white neck upon the block, and the most unimaginably cruel violence was done to her. This is what happens to a wound not tended to; it festers and grows worse. I should share my loss with Virgil, but he has so much else to concern him. He has been an Angel the last few days, taking care of everything so that I may recover. I had a fever – not nearly as severe as the one which gripped Virgil earlier in the year, but enough to warrant a visit from Mr Edghill. Still, that is all behind me now. One must become sick every so often so that one appreciates more the times of good health.

On Monday night, when my fever was at its

height, Virgil sat between my bed and Henri’s cradle, watching vigilantly over both of us. I was barely aware of my surroundings, drifting in and out of a fevered sleep, but at one point I became aware that Virgil was speaking in a low voice to Henri. I opened my eyes a crack. He had just one candle burning and was whispering so he wouldn’t disturb me. He was telling Henri a story.

“Once there was a little boy named Henri,” he said, “who was the most beautiful little boy in the land. A prince, lost on his way to Heaven. His Mama was a beautiful queen, but his Papa was but a poor man. Yes, Henri’s Papa was wicked. He didn’t want to go to work to buy food and clothes for his family, but still he went to work because he needed his magical drink …”

At this point, Virgil’s head nodded forward and came to rest on the corner of the cradle. I could not see his face, but I suspected he was crying. I was too weak to utter any words of comfort.

“Ah, Henri,” he said, “if I did not love you so much I should take myself forever from your sight. But I am selfish.” He lifted his head again and quietly muttered.

“Everything is wrong. Everything … is wrong.”

He composed himself, then resumed his story. “But one day, an angel will come to Henri’s Papa, and the angel will forgive him. And because the angel can make fire, he will burn Papa’s sins and he will not be such a wicked man any more, though the fire may cripple or blind him. Because Papa has tried and failed to be a good man. So now his fate is in the hands of the angels.”

Virgil leaned over and kissed Henri’s sleeping face, then turned to me. He saw that I was awake.

“Gette? I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

I shook my head. My skin felt clammy and yet I was very cold. “I heard what you said. I know that you have been at your laudanum again.”

“I cannot stop myself, Gette. It is the only thing that makes my work bearable.”

“Then do not stop, my love. Only, can you not try to find another occupation?”

He curled up next to me on top of the covers, his head resting on my chest. I felt such tenderness towards him, like I had not felt since the child was born and stole my heart. He did not answer.

“Virgil?” I asked.

“Do not concern yourself while you are sick.”

“Surely it would be better to be a law clerk than a resurrectionist?”

“Gette, I am in too far.”

“I do not understand.”

“He has me, Gette. For now I know some of his secrets, and now I have kept them for long enough to make me complicit.”

“You will have to explain yourself better, Virgil,” I said, “for you are making little sense.”

He began to sob. I touched his hair and closed my eyes. He was right, I was too ill to deal with this. My mind tried to form the question, “What secrets does Flood have?”, but my body refused to comply. I sank back into sleep. When I awoke, Virgil sat on the end of my bed, facing neither me nor Henri, just staring into the emptiness before him.

Oh, he is an unhappy man. Such a burden of pain and of guilt and of fear rests upon him. I struggled weakly to sit up but could not. He turned his face to me and I said simply, “Virgil, I forgive you.”

At this he drooped his head and sighed,

muttered something about angels and redemption, then stood and left the room. We have not spoken of it since, and to be truthful I am too weak at this point to do so. But what a weight is on my heart for my dear husband.

Thursday, 11th September 1794

This morning I was feeling so much better that I ate the sizeable breakfast which Virgil had prepared: cheese, bread, cold turkey and hot tea. My favourite luxury now we have money once again is tea made on fresh leaves. At our most desperate, we stewed the same leaves over and over again, until our tea tasted like plain water. The conversation I had with Virgil on Monday night seemed like a febrile dream, remembered only indistinctly. Virgil was quite contented when he brought me breakfast, though it was the glazed contentment which I alone cannot excite in him. He sat with me while I ate, making jokes about how fat I am getting (it’s true that flesh is returning to my bones, but it will be many months before I can happily call myself plump once more), and playing with Henri’s little fingers. My son is still tiny, but now he smiles at us and seems to know who we both are.

After Virgil had cleared away my breakfast, he returned to see if I needed anything else. I replied that I did not, and he adopted a pained expression.

“What is wrong? Are you not pleased that I am well again?”

“Yes, yes. It’s just that I promised to drop in on Flood the instant you were better. He has work for me.”

It seemed no better time would present itself for us to discuss what we had started to discuss on Monday night, so I said, “Virgil, sit down, for we must resolve some things.”

He sat, looking guilty.

“Can we return to London and try to find you work which is more pleasant?”

“There are many things standing in the way

of that.”

“What things?”

He cleared his throat and linked and unlinked his long fingers. “I cannot return to London for I left boasting that I would return a wealthy poet. That has not happened.”

I sighed with relief. “Is that your only concern?

The least of your worries should be what others think of you. Why, let them say what they like. Imagine, you could work in a law firm like your father, and perhaps with a steady income and a comfortable life, your ability to write might return to you.” And I also hoped he might be able to disavow his addiction.

He looked down at his fingers and did not answer for a long time.

“Is there something else?” I prompted him gently. Still no answer.

“You hinted the other night that Flood has some kind of hold over you.”

“I was talking nonsense. I was tired.”

“Virgil, please don’t lie to me. What is it? Perhaps it is just a silly matter which will be of no consequence once we are safely in London.”

He took his time in responding, but finally he said,

“It is not that Flood has a hold over me. It’s that I suspect something bad is happening, and I fear greatly that I am contributing to it.”

“Can you explain to me?”

“No, for it is a poisonous knowledge. Once you know, you will forever wish not to know.”

Curse Doctor Aaron Flood. Dread and secrets accrete around him until I cannot think about him without fear in my heart. Never mind that the sun was shining outside, and that I could hear children calling to each other in the street, I was as frightened as any superstitious fool upon the witching hour.

“What is it you know?” I asked slowly.

He shook his head and stood. “I may be wrong. I may have misheard him, misread something. For who on this earth can fully understand the universe’s workings? The soul’s progress?”

“Then if you are not certain that you are trapped in such an awful position, you can consider moving away from here.”

“I shall consider it.”

I knew he was not in earnest, so I said, “Please, Virgil.”

“I said I shall consider it.” He left.

Henri sleeps, dear child. He knows nothing, and for that I am grateful. He is a holy innocent, with none of this “poisonous knowledge” to disrupt his peaceful dreams. Once, I too was as innocent, but that time is far, far behind me. ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

***** too cold to leave the house. And the rain has not ceased in a week. His work must be very dirty indeed. I should fear for his physical health if I weren’t already so concerned for the health of his mind. It seems a great guilt is eating at him and causing him to dream and think obsessively about the fate of his Eternal Soul. And this is my Virgil, who proudly declared himself an atheist on our first meeting! I can scarce believe it. Sunday, 14th December 1794

Well, Virgil has finally written something, though it is hardly a cause for celebration as it is more of the same obsessive fascination with redemption. In fact, he hid it from me, which makes me wonder if he has other poems around the house which I have not seen. It seems he thinks of little else but some awesome, imaginary burden of Guilt these days. With winter setting in, and my husband growing more and more unpredictable, I sometimes feel as though I am trapped. All through spring I thought it might be possible to get away to London, but now it is becoming clear that we are in Solgreve for some time to come yet. Henri is still so small but he lives and eats well enough, so it should not matter where we are. Only I am so sick of this place and its secrets and its graveyard and its relentless wind. I wish to look out of my window and see civilisation, rational parks and ordered hedgerows.

We are in debt with the tailor. Virgil needed a new overcoat for his old one was quite threadbare, and I could not send him out to work in it. He would catch a chill and that would be the end of him. So yesterday I ordered a new one, and while I was there I ordered some warm clothes for Henri. We are also in debt to the glass man, for the last of our old crockery was dirty and chipped beyond recognition. It is not a comfortable feeling to be in debt, and nor would we have to be if Virgil took his payment all in money and not mostly in laudanum. What a misery it is to be so in love with a man whose actions are so very detrimental to my happiness.

I should not write such things down, I know, but who will ever see this Diary? Nobody. And I shall not tremble before the judgement of Nobody.

Monday, 15th December 1794

Last night I was sleeping soundly when I was awoken by the touch of an icy hand on my cheek. My eyes flew open and I shrieked when I saw a dark shape in front of me. It was only my husband, but what a sight he was! He held a single, guttering candle in his right hand, and with that dim illumination I could see that he was filthy – clothes in disarray and splattered with mud. Even his face was streaked with dirt.

“Virgil,” I said sleepily, “why did you not bathe before returning home?”

“I have left in the middle of a dig,” he whispered.

“I shall never go back and I don’t ever wish to see Doctor Flood again.”

I sat up, casting a wary eye over to Henri’s cradle to make sure he still slept soundly. “What do you mean? What has happened?” My first thought, I am ashamed to admit, was for the tailor’s bill.

“I know things . . . I cannot go on . . .” He ran a muddy hand through his hair and choked on a sob.

“Come, let us get you clean,” I said, throwing back the covers. I pulled him to his feet and took him to the parlour where I stoked the fire and bade him strip off and wait for me. Heating water would take time, and we didn’t have enough in the house for him to bathe entirely anyway. So I prepared some cold water and soap in a large bowl and grabbed some rags (which had been our clothes until two or three months ago). When I returned, he had removed his clothes and they lay on the hearth in a pile. He sat close by and his naked skin glowed in the firelight, and I felt a pull in my heart. I know not why. Perhaps because I still find him beautiful, though we have long ago ceased expressing our desire for one another. Perhaps because he seems thin and frail without clothes. Or perhaps it was because he was so obedient, waiting to be bathed like a child. I approached with my preparations and knelt in front of him.

“The water may be cold,” I warned.

He nodded. There was no question that he would take the soap and rags from me and manage this task himself. He allowed me to dip the rag, rub some soap on it, squeeze it gently and apply it to his skin. I started with his hair, and then his face. By the time I was at his shoulders, he had decided to tell me what had happened.

“Flood was giving me my directions for the evening when another caller knocked at his chamber door. He left me by his bookshelf and went to the door and was some time involved in speaking with the caller. A book lay closed on the bench in front of me. I surreptitiously opened it and flicked through some pages, until I came to one which was headed in his own hand ‘soul magic.’ He has mentioned this term to me before. It is to do with why he is so old, and why he conducts his experiments.”

I carefully washed one arm, and then the other, and he was silent, thoughtful.

“You read it, Virgil? What did it say?”

“A week of torture would not persuade me to pass that information on to you,” he said, then continued in a whisper, “for if it is true, then it is enough to drive a sane man mad with guilt.”

Though his words frightened me, I chose to be rational. “Virgil, please, you must learn to approach things more calmly. Flood may very well write these things for his own amusement. They may mean nothing.”

“You won’t understand because you are not me,”

he muttered. “You have not done the things I have done, nor seen the things I have seen.”

I did not answer, moving behind him instead and rubbing his muddy neck.

“Flood turned from the door and saw me reading. I immediately flipped the book closed, but I know he saw me. He realised then, that I know what he does. But he said nothing, he merely gave me the

instructions for tonight’s disinterment and sent me on my way. His lack of reaction was probably more frightening to me than if he had lost his temper.

“I went to the graveyard and began my digging. The wind was icy and my hands felt numb even in my gloves. After an hour or so, though, the activity had warmed me, and I stripped off my coat to work with more ease. I hung it over the gravestone and turned to pick up my spade again when I noticed a movement in the distance. Do you remember, Georgette, early in the year before I grew sick, that I said I had seen something sinister in the graveyard?”

“Yes,” I said, crouching once more in front of him. I, too, had seen something in the graveyard, but I would not tell him and add to his anxiety. His legs and feet were clean because they had been covered, but I bathed them anyway, keeping my eyes down.

“I know what it was now. Flood has explained, for he is the master of the Wraiths. I tried to go back to my work, but I could see a shape advancing on me from the left, and one from the right. They were certainly these phantoms of Flood’s. I grew frightened, for they are accompanied by the most appalling breathing sound – though it is not really breathing for these beings are not living.

“For a little while I kept working. I reasoned Flood may have asked them to watch me, concerned that what I had read would send me running to the authorities. He bestows his trust poorly, does Flood, then regrets it deeply. This is why he has the Wraiths to attend upon him. I wished to prove that I deserved his trust and thus kept working for a time. But the fear I felt the closer they advanced, gliding unnaturally in the misty air, unmanned me. I started to wonder if Flood meant for them to kill me, because I knew his secrets. Panic seized me. I stood and dropped my spade, climbed out of the grave trying to keep an eye on each of the creatures. Watching them so closely that I did not realise the proximity of the third. I took two steps back, and felt against my bare back the brush of rough cloth and an icy finger of bone. I turned, and there was the creature. It dropped its head before I could see properly what face gazed upon me from under the hood, but Gette, I don’t believe there was a face.”

I gasped. “What do you mean?”

“Below that hood, before darkness fell upon it, I saw a discord of features and voids to defy the imagination. And I know I never want to see that countenance in any sharper focus. I screamed, of course. I backed off, grabbed my coat and ran.” He shivered in spite of the fire. “There is a half-dug grave in the middle of the cemetery, but I shall not return to it.”

I picked up his clothes and squashed them into the bowl, took them to the kitchen. Fetched a blanket and placed it around his shoulders. Working, working, because it was easier than thinking. Virgil caught my hand. “Gette,” he said, “do you think me mad?”

“You will not return to work?”

He shook his head. “I am done with it.”

“Then we shall pack up our things, and we shall run away to London, and I do not care how cold it is, nor do I care if you are mad or not.”

“We have debts in the village.”

“We’ll leave at night, when nobody can see us. I care nothing for our debts.”

“Then it shall be so,” he said. “Tomorrow night.”

And that is tonight. And while I really should not spend the time sitting here and recounting it all – for I should be packing our things – I want to relate this tale for I think I shall leave this Diary behind. It is nothing but a chronicle of loss and sadness, and all shall soon be different. Thank God for those phantoms in the cemetery, thank God for Virgil’s delusions, thank God for sinister Dr Flood with his soul magic, whatever that is. For they have managed to convince Virgil to leave this cursed village at last!

Tuesday, 16th December 1794

It aches in my teeth that we are still here, but somehow it is unsurprising. It is as though the Old Gods have arisen on Mt Olympus and are plotting our destiny against our intentions. But on consideration, I rather think it’s an old Man in the abbey who is plotting our destiny. Virgil sleeps. Henri sleeps. Only I am awake. We spent yesterday packing what few possessions we had and deciding what to leave behind. Because we intended to leave at midnight and without being noticed, we had decided to go on foot to Whitby and take the morning’s mail coach. Yes, that is where I should be now, aboard a mail coach, on the way to London. Instead, I sit beside this fire, my belongings packed up around me. There are three or four books to my left, which I nearly cried over yesterday for we simply could not take them with us: my first Bible, a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets, some other childish idles which meant more to me than they could to anybody else. Now I would gladly leave them behind. Night fell. Early, as it always does this close to Christmas. We waited. Little Henri sensed our anxiety and grizzled and would not sleep. At around nine o’clock, Virgil stood near the window in the parlour and gazed out towards the cemetery. I had just managed to get Henri off to sleep, and I joined my husband.

“What is the matter, Virgil?”

“He knows I’m not coming by now.”

“Flood?”

“Yes, I would have been at work by now if I were coming. And he would wonder why I didn’t return to him with a corpse last night. And he would understand that I read about his methods for soul magic.”

“There have been other times when you haven’t been to work. Perhaps he will think you are sick.”

Virgil turned his face to me. In the dim light reflected from the fireplace, I could suddenly see that Virgil had aged. The anxiety, the opium, the awful circumstances of our lives, had aged him. And I knew then that, of course, I must have aged too. That I probably looked like no other nineteen-year-old woman, just as he looked nearly twice his twenty-three years. I had a sense that there was no going back – even if we did return to London and manage to make a comfortable life there (never so comfortable as the expectation to which I had been bred), there was no regaining our youth. We were weathered and worn down by circumstance. I looked at my hands and saw that the skin was not fresh and silken as it had been just a little over a year ago when I met Virgil. Life has scarred me.

“He will know I am not sick,” Virgil said softly.

“The Wraiths from the graveyard are his ears and his eyes above ground. I fear what he might do.”

“He will do nothing. We are leaving in a few hours.” In the dark. Unprotected. “And he will be out of our lives forever.”

Virgil did not reply, but turned back to the window to watch. I sat nearby and gazed upon him for a little while, then began to drowse, and eventually slept. When I woke, Virgil no longer stood at the window.

“Virgil?” I called softly.

He emerged from the bedroom, holding Henri in his arms. “Take the babe,” he said urgently. “Cover his ears, rock him so he doesn’t wake.”

“What? What’s going on?” I said, taking the child. He made a motion for me to be quiet and led me to the window. “There,” he said. “Waiting for us.”

I peered into the darkness. At the end of our front path, a dark, hooded figure waited. My blood froze in my veins. “Why is it here? How did it know we are leaving?”

“It didn’t know. It has come to frighten me into going back to work.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because I know how Flood’s mind works. Another is in the back garden, but I know not where the third is.”

I felt helpless, hopeless. “What shall we do?” I asked, clutching the baby against my breast tightly.

“We can do nothing. We must stay inside. London will have to wait.”

From the back of the house, I could hear a faint scratching at a window.

“No, Virgil. We must be away from here.” I began to sob, for I was afraid and I was desperate to leave.

“I know, I know. Tomorrow night I will return to work for Flood. Just a few more times I shall work and convince him of my loyalty. And then we shall leave.”

At precisely this moment, we heard an awful scuttling sound from above us. Virgil’s eyes went heavenwards. Henri woke and his little face began to work as though he might cry. I was too horrified to move.

“What was it?”

As though in answer the thing upon our roof let out a demonic screech. I jumped. Virgil drained of all colour and yelped. Henri began to sob. I rocked him and shushed him, as the footsteps receded across the roof towards the back of the house.

My heart was beating madly. “Now, Virgil!” I cried. “We must leave now!”

“Not now. Within a week, perhaps.”

“A week! I want to go now. Tonight.”

“We cannot go tonight. Those creatures would tear us to pieces.”

The horror settled upon my heart and suffocated the last shred of Hope it contained. A year of desperation overcame me, and I lowered myself on to the ground to cry. Virgil crouched next to me, gently removed Henri from my arms. With a free hand he stroked my hair.

“Gette, I’m sorry. I am impossibly, unbearably sorry.” I could hear the catch in his voice and knew that I had made him cry. I stopped my own sobbing immediately.

“I’m fine, Virgil, I’m fine,” I said, though I was far from fine. “We shall go in a week. You’re right. We must be prudent.” I dared not look at him, for his eyes are so forlorn when he cries.

“I shall make amends for this,” he muttered, getting to his feet. “All the suffering that Flood has caused. I shall make amends.”

Virgil took Henri back to the bedroom. I waited near the window, watching the creature in the dark. It stood like a statue, seemed only to move when I looked away briefly, almost as though it could feel my gaze upon it. Virgil returned, stood by my side. I looked up at him.

“What is it? What is that creature? Is it a man?”

“It was once and perhaps will be again,” he replied.

“What do you mean?”

“It is a kind of ghost. Flood told me as much. Three of them work with him.”

I shuddered, and he pulled me closer. “I find it so unbelievable,” I said.

“I have seen many unbelievable things.”

“Whose ghost is it, then? Do you know that?”

Virgil spoke softly. “Three priests worshipped here in Solgreve before Britain became Christian. Although they are long dead, Flood summoned their souls. One of his experiments is bringing them back into this world.”

“And these are the pagan priests?”

“Yes.”

“How can he bring them back? Who can bring men back from the dead?”

“I can tell you no more.”

“But are they evil? Is Flood evil?”

He raised his voice, pulled his arm away from me.

“Ask me no more!” he cried. Then, softer, “Gette, ask me no more.”

I turned him to me, my fingers resting upon his cheek. “If it causes you pain, I shall ask you no more.”

His eyes were black in the firelight. He blinked once, twice, slowly. Then leaned forward and gently pressed his lips against mine. It was like the first time all over again, it had been so long since he had kissed me in this way.

“Gette, Gette,” he murmured against my lips. “I love you so.”

“I know,” I said, for his love was a tangible force in the room, full of despair and yearning. Then his kiss grew more intense, violent almost. He kissed me as though he might die were he to stop. I returned his passion, felt the familiar giddiness of desire sparking in my nerves. He parted my lips with his tongue, bent me so far I almost feared my back would break. We slid to the ground. An ache grew deep inside me. His despair was contagious. I held him as one might hold on to life itself. His warm hands had pushed up my skirts. I freed my breasts from their stays and his lips moved upon them, closing over the nipples one by one. I gasped and arched my body towards him. My hands fiddled with buttons and bindings, and I managed to get him half out of his clothes. But when I reached down, between his thighs, to find the hardness I wanted so much to guide within me, I found nothing but a handful of softness.

“Virgil?”

He did not reply. His face rested upon my breast. I stroked him, I kneaded him. Nothing. I pushed him onto his back, boldly attempted to arouse him with my lips and tongue, but he remained soft and powerless. Already my desire was waning – one cannot maintain lust through sadness, and Virgil seemed so hopeless, lying there half dressed. I could not speak. I readjusted his clothes and my own, and curled next to him on the floor in front of the fire.

“Never mind,” I said, for I felt I should say something.

“In a week, we shall be away from this place,” he said. “Everything will be different.”

“Of course. We shall have our happiness back.”

We took our embarrassed bodies to the bedroom, exchanged chaste goodnight nods, and soon Virgil was asleep. I could not sleep. I rose and returned to the window. The dark sentinel still stood there. I wondered where the others were. I sat in the chair by the fire, drowsing occasionally, getting up to check on the dark figure in between dozes. At one stage I was lost in dreams until the day broke. When I woke and looked again, the figure was gone. A creature of the darkness. Pagan priests coming back from the dead. Where did my life take such a turn away from the ordinary and acceptable? Was it eloping with Virgil? Agreeing to move to Yorkshire? Maybe all this ruin is my own fault, for I cannot be harder on Virgil, I cannot force him to behave appropriately. His pain and guilt are a burden too great for me to bear. Falling in love has led me to such Misery, Diary. If I could live the last fifteen months differently, I should never do it again. Wednesday, 17th December 1794

Virgil has been much occupied in writing today, furiously scribbling as I have not seen him do in nearly a year. While it buoys me that he is immersed in what he loves, I am still apprehensive about tonight, which is when he intends to return to work. I am also apprehensive about a call we had this morning from the glass man. Our account is overdue and because he knows how poor we have been in the past, he is demanding full payment immediately. I gave him a crown (which I had hoped to use for food on our way down to London) and promised him the rest by the end of the week, by which time I hope to be away from here. But I do so hate to lie and to cheat and to steal.

Virgil insists that Flood will pay him tonight and we can use that money for our journey. I would do almost anything to get Virgil away from here and not have him go to work tonight, but I would not risk my son’s life out there in the dark with those ghostly pagans waiting for us. So I remain in anticipation of our eventual escape, and I try not to panic –

As I was writing the last, Virgil approached me and handed me a sealed letter. It seems he has not been working on poetry at all today.

“What is this?” I asked.

“It is a letter, detailing all of Flood’s activities. We will deliver it to the authorities in York on our way down to London.”

“Then why give it to me?”

“Tuck it for safekeeping in the back of your diary. I know you protect it avidly. And if anything should happen to me . . .”

“What will happen to you?” I asked, frightened.

“Do you anticipate something happening to you?”

“No, no,” he said, smiling gently, shaking his head.

“Only if. He must be stopped.”

I turned the letter over in my hands, examined the seal.

“I have sealed it against your eyes, Georgette,” he said soberly. “I am sorry.”

He then readied himself for work, and I

farewelled him half an hour ago. I did as he asked, and have tucked the letter in the back of this Diary. I long to pick off the seal and read its contents, but he would know the instant he saw the letter again that I had betrayed his trust. Perhaps one day when we are away from here, he might volunteer to tell me what he knows.

I think I shall not sleep until he comes home, whole and uninjured. I do not like him to say “if anything should happen to me” as though it were a possibility. Late

He is home and in bed next to me. My worries were unfounded.

Wednesday, 24th December 1794

These silent words fall upon no ears, and yet I must keep producing them, for should I leave the words inside me they will bruise me and poke me with their scratchy edges and heavy lines. So here are the words I must write, to preserve myself.

We were packed and ready to leave on Monday night, anticipating Christmas in York. I was anxious because it had started to snow in the afternoon, but by nightfall the snow had eased and not much had settled upon the ground. I was aware that my little Henri is not the most robust of babes, and I worry excessively about the cold. I knew that our journey on foot to Whitby would be cold, unpleasant, miserable – but I was eager to make it, to say goodbye to Solgreve. Virgil had worked six nights in a row, and the dark figures had not returned to our home. Still, Flood had refused to pay him.

“He says he cannot pay me until next week,” Virgil admitted, coming home empty-handed again early Sunday morning. “But I do not want to wait. I suspect he is withholding the money because he has some idea I’m leaving.”

“Have you told him?”

“No. But Flood is an intuitive man. There have been times when I have thought he may be able to read my mind.” Here he laughed nervously, but I

remembered the time I visited Flood and suspected that he could hear my thoughts.

“You shall not go to him again,” I said firmly. “We will away on our journey tonight. Sleep now. We will survive without Flood’s money.”

He woke in the early afternoon and we passed our time in preparations and plans. We thought we would stop by in York for a few days – I hoped that Virgil would not be too proud to call in on Edward Snowe, who I was certain would help us on our way to London. I would not even have minded staying in York, for it is a big town and I was certain that Virgil could find work there. Decent work so that Henri could one day be proud of his father.

Night fell, we waited. We had supper, though neither of us had much of an appetite. The snow had eased and the sky was clearing through clouds above, so some stars were visible. Stars that should have smiled down upon us on our way.

At last we gathered our few belongings. It soon became apparent to me that we would hardly be able to carry half of them, as I had to hold the baby and Virgil had only two arms.

“I have thought ahead, Gette,” Virgil said. “I brought home with me last night the cart I use for transporting the bodies.” And then he laughed and said,

“the cart I used, for it is no longer my occupation.”

I squeezed his hand and smiled up at him in hope. Yes, hope.

“You gather our possessions by the door. I have hidden the cart around the side of the house. I shall bring it, and we shall be away.”

He went to the door. I returned to the parlour, took a last look around, then picked up one of our bags – Henri’s clothes and a few books Virgil would not part with. I was halfway to the door when I heard the most –

How can I carry on? How can I write this as if it is of no concern to me? My whole body shakes and I cannot –

I heard the most appalling scream. I knew instantly, with the sickest dread in my heart, that it was my husband. I dropped everything, careless. Nothing mattered. My body was hot with fear, alive and on fire with fevered realisation. I raced, I ran as fast as I could. My eyes seemed to have clouded over, my senses . . . as though in a dream, a nightmare. The cold air outside stung my face. I did not even think for my own safety. I saw the creature speeding away towards the graveyard. And a pale shape on the ground. Virgil, oh God, my husband, my only love, the other half of my soul.

He lay in his own blood. The creature had gouged some sharp protrusion through his shirt and his flesh. Virgil was still conscious. His eyes were opened, he looked at the wound bewildered. I was at his side in an instant, my hands were covered in his blood, my skirts trailing in it. My mouth seemed to be stretched into a scream, a sob which would not emerge from my lungs.

“Gette,” he cried. His body shuddered. He turned his bewildered eyes upon me.

“Virgil,” I sobbed.

“I’m going to die.”

“I love you. I love you.”

“Don’t let them put me in the ground here in Solgreve.”

I was moaning and crying and could not heal his wound with my hands.

“Promise me,” he said. Breathless.

“Virgil, Virgil. Don’t die. I cannot bear for you to die.”

He fell silent. My sobs shuddered in the night air. Yes, Virgil is dead. I watched the sun come up and I’ve watched it set and arise again and I am no closer to comprehension. His body is gone. The Reverend came for it. They will put him in the poor’s hole, and what am I to do? I have no money for a proper burial, for removing him to Whitby. I know he did not wish to be buried here, but Flood will surely not steal the body of one he knew in life. Even he must delineate a boundary he will not cross. I sometimes find myself thinking of these things: my husband’s burial; whether I can face Flood and whether he will give me Virgil’s money; how Henri and I can get out of Solgreve without the tailor or the glass man seeing us go. Mundane, trivial things. They give me a moment’s respite from the grief, but always lead me back there eventually, for it is the terminus at which all my hopes for the future are irretrievably halted.

Henri cries and cries as though he understands what has happened. Were my heart not already broken, I might go to him and pick him up and do anything to stop the progress of his tears. But it seems somehow a fitting accompaniment for my mood. I let him wail his distress and I sit here mutely. For if I let just one sob pass my lips, my body would crack in two and the breach would be impossible to mend.

Tomorrow is Christmas and Virgil is dead.

And so I shall copy out the last of the sonnets which he wrote, and I shall pray fervently that his eternal soul has received a more gentle reception than that he anticipated.

A brightly burning angel of the Lord

Spread his blazing wings and ope’d his eyes; And fire licked round the edges of my soul,

Tearing from my throat my ragged sighs.

To my knees with wonderment I fell,

And fear with frozen tread in my heart crept –

The world with muffled heart-beats carried on, While “God forgive!” I wept, and wept, and

wept.

For not as watercolour to a child,

Nor soft with whispered breath of Bible page, But sharp and hot with pain the seraph comes –

A messenger of grievéd Father’s rage.

And though it is of mercy that he sings,

I find my spirit crushed between his wings.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Maisie bit her lip and blinked back tears. Sacha was still reading part two of the diary. She laid the section she had just read on the floor and stood. Sacha looked up.

“Any answers?” he asked.

“I don’t know. But it’s very sad.” Her voice trembled, she took a big breath.

“I’ll try to read faster.”

“Take your time, I’ll go cook something for dinner.”

He smiled. “Just not instant noodles.”

“When have I ever given you instant noodles?”

He returned his attention once more to the diary and Maisie went to the kitchen. Tabby followed her and nudged emphatically at her empty bowl.

Distracted, Maisie pulled the cat food from the cupboard and poured some out for Tabby. Flood had brought pagan priests back from the dead? That fitted with Cathy’s information that Solgreve had once been a sacred pagan site, but it didn’t fit with any kind of rational position. Virgil may have been delusional. He believed that Flood was centuries old, so he was hardly a reliable witness.

Maisie defrosted some chicken breasts in the microwave and leaned against the counter to think. Now was hardly the time to take a rational position. The Wraiths had been all over her house – but only two of them, not three – and she knew they were supernatural beings. Nothing human moved or sounded or looked like that. So they were still around, these phantoms that Flood had once summoned back from the grave. They had killed her grandmother just as they had killed Virgil, and they were still here. Was it the cottage? Did they have some kind of fascination with it? The microwave pinged and Maisie went about making a stir-fry, wondering who might have lived here between Georgette and Sybill, and if they’d also had problems with evil spirits.

She was getting wine glasses out when Sacha came into the kitchen.

“Finished?” she asked.

“Yeah. You’re right. It’s too sad.”

“I can’t bear to think of her pain.”

“She’s long dead by now, Maisie. And at peace.”

He walked to the stove and checked in the pan. “Can I do anything?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“I’ve got your jacket in the van, the one you left at my dad’s.” He jingled his keys in his pocket. “I’ll go get it.”

“Sure. When you’re back dinner should be ready.”

“Great.” He disappeared. She poured the wine, hesitated a few moments and then thought, dammit, she would light some candles. After all, sad tales aside, she still intended to elicit a romantic thrill out of the evening. She lit the candles, turned out the lights, and Sacha returned.

“Here,” he said, handing her the jacket. As he did so, some change fell out of the pocket.

“Thanks,” she said, hanging it over the back of her chair.

He bent to pick up the change. “Candlelight dinner, huh?” He offered her the handful of coins.

“Just put it in my purse.” She indicated where it lay on the bench. “The candles are just for atmosphere.”

She felt embarrassed. Was is too obvious that she had romantic designs on him?

“Is this Adrian?” He had flipped open her purse to put the coins away and caught sight of the photograph she kept inside.

“Ah, yes.”

“You look happy together.”

“It was our third anniversary.”

He looked up from the photo to her, then closed her purse and sat at the table. “Three years?”

“Actually, nearly four,” she muttered.

“Cathy likes him.”

“Everybody likes him. You’d like him. He’s very easy to like.” She concentrated on serving their dinner. Trust likeable Adrian to make an appearance, albeit only photographically, just when she was entertaining another man by candlelight.

“Are you going to marry him?”

She sighed and slipped into her seat across from him. At length she answered him. “I don’t know. I suppose so.”

“You don’t sound very keen. Do you love him?”

She nodded. Kept her eyes on her food. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“It’s all right,” he said, tucking into his meal. “I understand. How you can love somebody and yet not be sure. They don’t tell you that in movies or books – love is supposed to be this thing that obliterates confusion.”

“Exactly.”

“Still, if you’ve got something special with Adrian, you should protect that.”

She looked up. He held her in his steady gaze. Was he warning her off? In that instant, she knew tonight would surrender no hot kisses, no murmured

approval, no fulfilled desire. Before she’d even asked him, he was telling her no.

“I know.”

“The chicken’s good.”

“Thanks.” She sipped her wine. Wished she could gulp down the whole bottle. The thought that her desire, her intentions, were transparent to Sacha made her feel sick. She shouldn’t have lit the candles. What was she thinking? The problem was she wasn’t thinking. At least not with her head.

“Is it okay if I stay a few days? I don’t have to go back to work until Wednesday.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll show you the little cave I used to play in as a kid. It’ll be fun.”

Fun. Like friends have fun. Not the kind of fun lovers have. She forced herself to smile. “Yeah, that would be fun.”

“Is everything okay? You seem a bit down.”

She shrugged. “Just thinking about the diary. And about Sybill.” She looked up, embarrassed about the candles between them. “And what I can do about it.”

“What we can do about it,” he said. “Between the two of us, I’m sure we can figure it out.”

“Do you think it’s at all possible that the letter Virgil wrote is still tucked into the back of Georgette’s diary?”

“It’s possible.”

“Because there might be more diary around here somewhere.”

“Well then, that’s our first task.” He emptied the last of his wine and leaned forward to refill it.

“Tomorrow, we start searching for diary number four.”

They spent all day Sunday digging through the junk in Sybill’s cottage. Maisie got stuck into the masses of stuff stacked in the old desk in the back room, while Sacha went about tapping walls and checking behind recent fittings. They found nothing important, but had enough useless papers and books to build a bonfire in the early evening. They watched television together and had spaghetti on toast for dinner.

Monday morning found them searching again, but by now Maisie realised she was soon going to run out of boxes of junk to sort. She had already done so much – half-heartedly though it may have been – since she first arrived. The cottage was starting to look almost spartan. Almost.

In the late afternoon, Sacha came to join her in the back room. “Let’s stop for a while. Go for a walk.”

“Fine,” she said, climbing to her feet and brushing dust off her pinafore. “You know, there may not even be another diary piece. Or Sybill may not have found it. Or it could be destroyed.”

“I’ve thought all those things. But, damn, if we could get hold of that letter that Virgil wrote, detailing what Flood did . . .”

“I know, I know. But we might have to accept that it’s not here.”

She brushed past him and grabbed her coat, glove, scarves and hat from the bedroom. When she emerged, he too had rugged up against the cold.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you the cave.”

They locked the house and went through the back garden and into the wood. The air was freezing. Above them, no blue glimmered. All was white, as though the sky had fallen in. The sea breeze chafed their cheeks. Maisie pulled her hat down harder over her ears. As they approached the cliff-top in the sea wind, the cold intensified. She wasn’t so afraid walking through the wood with Sacha by her side. She stole a glance at him. He had pulled a grey beanie over his ears, and looked like a soccer hooligan.

On the edge of the cliff they paused and gazed out to sea. The wind came in powerful gusts that filled her mouth when she spoke. “It’s pretty frigging cold out here.”

“Don’t worry, the wind’s not so bad down on the beach.” He led her down the long, sloping path to the shore. She followed him, trying not to slip on loose pebbles. The salty sea air rushed around her, and the roar of the ocean nearly drowned out the sound of her own ragged breathing. A flock of seagulls shrieked past. On the shore, the wind was not so gusty, but the crashing waves shot up sprinkles of rimy dampness. They picked their way over the rocks, trying not to tread in the cold pools. Maisie’s nose started to run. She sniffed, wiped her glove across her face. Why did she never remember to bring a tissue?

“It’s just up here a little further,” Sacha said. Maisie nodded. Her ears were aching. She followed him about ten minutes more and then they started to ascend another slope.

“See?” He was pointing to a hollow in the cliff face.

“Uh-huh,” she said. She was out of breath and her eyes were streaming .

In a few moments he was helping her the last, steep few metres into the cave. It smelled musty and junk food wrappers had been plugged into the corners. But it was a welcome relief from the wind battering outside. Not even enough room to stand inside. They wriggled into the back corner and stretched their legs out in front of them.

“I suppose we should have brought a picnic,”

Maisie said.

“Never mind,” he replied. “Isn’t this wonderful?

You have a great view of the sea, but it’s mostly protected from the wind.”

“It’s still cold,” Maisie said, surreptitiously wiping her nose on her sleeve. Then, realising she was whingeing, she added, “It is great though.”

“I came here all the time as a kid. I even built a little fire once, but I smoked myself out.”

“And what did you do when you came here?”

“I just sat here to think. When I was about nine I wanted to be an inventor. I used to come here and imagine inventions.”

“What kind of inventions?” she asked, removing her hat and self-consciously rearranging her hair.

“Stupid things. Toys that could communicate with you and put themselves away at night. A dog-walking machine. I had no idea how I’d make them, I’d just imagine them.”

“And you don’t still want to be an inventor?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t have a head for science. How about you? What did you want to do when you were little?”

“I think I wanted to be a ballerina. I don’t know. It was decided for me really. By the time I was nine I could already play three instruments – cello, piano, and flute – and it was just a matter of finding out which one I’d be best at.” She leaned her back against the wall and they sat together in silence for a little while, watching the endless to and fro of the sea. But it was not a comfortable silence for Maisie. The sea made her feel restless, yearning. For what, she didn’t know. But it made it no easier that Sacha sat so close to her, his dark eyes fixed on some point beyond the horizon, his smooth cheek exposed to her hungry gaze.

“The other night you said you understood about how confusing love could be,” she ventured. “Have you been in love?”

“Yes, of course. I’m nearly thirty.”

“Who was she?”

“There have been a few.”

She didn’t want to hear it, not really. She imagined these other women, capable of attracting Sacha’s love, must have been superior beings – all beauty and wisdom and smooth body parts.

“Go on.”

“The last time was with a girl named Vanessa.”

A fitting name for a superior being, Maisie thought. She had been stuck with a grandma’s name, and other girls went around with names like Vanessa. She wondered if this was the girlfriend with the taste for Baudelaire. French poetry seemed like the kind of thing a girl named Vanessa would be interested in.

“It didn’t work out?”

“No. She wanted to get married and I didn’t, so she ditched me for some guy that did. I think they’re still very happy together. I probably made a mistake.”

“Do you still miss her?” A tug in her heart. Not sympathy, just plain jealousy.

“Not really. Sometimes.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. She wasn’t like me, really. She wanted different things, and perhaps if we’d stayed together we would have been miserable.” He turned to look at her. “Why do you ask?”

“You asked about Adrian. I suppose I was curious.”

His eyebrows drew almost imperceptibly closer, as though he was thinking, keeping her in his gaze.

“Maisie . . .” he started.

“Yes?” For some reason her heart sped a little. He seemed so intense.

Then the intensity was gone. He shook his head.

“No. It’s nothing.”

“Go on, what were you going to say?” She now knew the meaning of the phrase, dying to know.

“Nothing, honestly. Just me being stupid. Come on, let’s head home.”

He helped her up and they began the hike back to Solgreve. What had he been about to say? Something inconsequential? It drove her mad . . .

The air outside was positively crackling with cold by now, and tiny snowflakes started spinning out of the sky as they were walking up the front path of the house.

“Snow!” Maisie cried. “I’m still so excited by it.”

“Well, if we get a good layer, we’ll make a snowman tomorrow.”

She unlocked the house. It smelled warm and inviting. “That sounds like fun.”

He closed the door behind them and took off his coat. “If your phone bill can stand it, Maisie, can I make a few calls and see if I can track my mother down? I think we need her help. She might know if Sybill had ever found more than three pieces of the diary. She might know loads of helpful stuff.”

“Sure,” she said, waving him in the direction of the phone. “I’ll start dinner.”

She busied herself in the kitchen, cutting up vegetables and trying to keep an ear on what Sacha was doing. She could hear his voice, but not really what he was saying. In a few minutes he had joined her.

“I found her. She’s on her way up.”

“Up to Whitby?” Maisie asked, filling a pan with water and putting it on the stove.

“She’ll probably come here. Is that okay?”

“Of course? They were really close, weren’t they?

Sybill and your mother?”

“Yes. Ma first met Sybill when she was only a teenager. They told fortunes together in Scarborough for a few years before Ma went wandering again and Sybill came up here. They even shared a flat while I was away at school.”

“I’m dying to meet her. I hope she won’t mind if I ask a million questions. When will she be here?”

“Hopefully by the weekend. I’ll come back here after work on Friday to wait for her.”

“Where will you both sleep?”

“Hey, we’re gypsies,” he joked, “we can sleep anywhere.”

The snow falling on the roof was not audible while Maisie was awake. But as soon as she slept, she could easily hear its soft whisper in the dark. She listened to it for a while, enjoying a feeling of peace, then realised she was dreaming. She was outside on the street, looking down at Sacha’s van and the cottage in darkness. The fire glowed somewhere deep inside the house.

“Why am I out here?”

She turned and looked around her. The snow fell in big flakes, the wind blowing it diagonally against her. Each delicate white spur seemed to bite into her hands and face with cold. Whatever she had to do in this dream, she wanted to get it over with quickly, before she froze. She moved along the street, past Elsa Smith’s house – all the lights were out there – and past the cemetery on the left. She stopped in front of the abbey. The snow appeared to glitter as it descended on the ruins. The wind and weather of centuries had worn the stone into gargoyles. Maisie’s eye followed the curves of the remaining arches and tried to imagine what the building had looked like when whole.

Almost as soon as she formed the question in her mind, her dream shifted and changed. In crisp daylight, the sun shone on the buttresses and darkly gleaming stone of a thirteenth-century cathedral. She stood at the huge, arched doors. One of them creaked open and she peered inside, caught a glimpse of a large figure dressed in cardinal’s robes, then found herself back outside the ruin of the abbey. Night-time. Wondering what she was supposed to do here.

“I want to go home.” Her voice echoed dully around her skull. It was no use. She was stuck in this dream. She advanced to the corner of the abbey, remembering Georgette’s diary, and moved like vapour through an iron door in the spire. Below her, a trapdoor in the ground.

All right, I’ll go down there. Soon she was descending dark stairs, moving along the tunnel and up to the two sealed doors. Sealed doors could not stop her; she breezed through the one on the right easily and found herself in a dark chamber. No, not dark. Here at the back of the room, a wall of glass bricks gleamed dimly phosphorescent.

Around her, rather than an empty room, was a fully stocked scientist’s studio. But not a modern scientist –

in fact, the room was exactly as Georgette had described it, strange glass jars and old books and halffinished experiments cluttering the benches. As though it had not been disturbed in all these years. She approached the phosphorescent wall and looked at it closely. Something about the sick, pale glow caused a nauseous dread to churn in her stomach.

“I want to go home. I want to go back to bed.”

Here she awoke. Still dark outside. She kicked off her covers and went to the window, watched the snow fall. She couldn’t see the abbey from here, but she could imagine its ghostly lines and arches. Had she really gone below ground? Or had she just dreamed what Georgette had described? She supposed it was possible that Flood’s things might still be down there. If nobody knew about them, nobody would ever have cleared them out.

She anxiously scanned the front garden. She had woken up panicky, and that made her concerned that the Wraiths were out there somewhere. She opened the bedroom door and tiptoed into the hallway. Sacha, like Cathy, had chosen to drag the mattress out by the fire to sleep. Maisie saw Tabby curled up behind Sacha’s knees, sleeping peacefully. She went to the laundry window and checked the back garden. Nothing. Thank god.

As she was moving quietly back up the hall, Sacha called out sleepily, “Maisie? Everything okay?”

“Yes,” she said, standing in the doorway to the lounge room, “I had a weird dream is all.”

He sat up, pulling Tabby into his lap. His skin was golden in the firelight, his drowsy face miraculously unpuffy. “What about?”

“I dreamed I went below the abbey and Flood’s room was still there, just the way Georgette described it.”

He yawned. “Maybe it is.”

“Well, we can’t know for sure unless we go down there, and I think that would be even less popular than looking in the cemetery, so don’t suggest it.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest it.”

Maisie watched Tabby sleeping contentedly in his arms. “She never sleeps on me,” she said.

“You might move around too much.”

“I’m going back to bed.” She didn’t want to go back to bed. She wanted to curl up there next to Sacha, near the fireplace.

“Goodnight,” he said, wriggling back under the covers again. “Snowman tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay. Goodnight.”

The air-conditioning in the supermarket was a welcome relief from the sweltering heat outside. Adrian took a basket from near the entrance and headed in. It was his first day back in Brisbane and his fridge was almost empty. Sappy piped music accompanied him as he headed for the frozen food section. He was leaning into one of the freezers, grabbing a bag of frozen vegetables when he heard someone say his name.

“Adrian?”

He stood up and looked around. Sarah Ellis, Cathy’s sister, stood there, leaning on an overloaded shopping trolley.

“Sarah, hi!” he said, placing his basket on the ground. “How have you been?”

“Good. And you?”

“Not too bad.”

“I was sorry to hear about you and Maisie.”

Adrian tipped his head to one side. “Me and Maisie? What about us?”

“You know, how she’s run off with that other guy.”

“Maisie hasn’t run off with another guy.”

“Oh,” said Sarah, clearly embarrassed. She put her head down so her hair covered her face. “I’m sorry. I must have –”

“Has Cathy said something?”

“No, no.”

Adrian found himself suddenly awash with

suspicion. He wanted to clutch her sleeve, ask her desperately, What have you heard? Instead he said, feigning a normal tone, “Did Cathy say something about the gardener?”

“Um . . . yeah. The gypsy guy.”

Gypsy? “Sacha?” he asked.

“Yeah, that’s his name. I thought Cathy said that Maisie had . . . you know, run off with him or something. But I must be mistaken.”

“You are. You are mistaken. You are very mistaken.”

“Sorry.” She laughed self-consciously. “God, what an idiot. Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.” He picked up his basket and nodded goodbye. “Nice to see you.” It hadn’t been, not at all.

“Yeah, see you round.”

He was about ten metres away when she came

running up. “Adrian, I’ve got to tell you. You deserve to know.”

He turned around, annoyed but curious. “Know what?”

“Cathy told me that Maisie is totally in love with this Sacha guy and that she talks about you like she’s bored with you.” She put her hands up, palms first.

“There, now I’ve told you. Do what you want with that information.”

“It’s not true, Sarah.”

“Whatever. I just wanted to tell you what Cathy told me.” She was already backing away, rejoining her shopping trolley halfway up the aisle. “But you might want to ask yourself why Maisie didn’t come home early like she said she would.”

“She had a fight with her mother. And she hasn’t finished cleaning out her grandmother’s place.”

“Okay, then there’s nothing to worry about.” She turned with her trolley, didn’t look back. He stood watching her a few beats, then left his half-full basket in the aisle and headed for the car park. It was six in the morning over there, not too early to call. And even if it was too early, he didn’t care.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Dawn was still a half hour from the Reverend’s bedroom when he heard the faint tapping on his window. He sat up blearily, blinking against wakefulness. Had somebody knocked?

Again the tapping at the glass. He reluctantly climbed out of bed and reached for his robe. Padded on cold feet to the window, his heart speeding a little. He cautiously drew the curtain a crack and peeped out.

As he had expected, one of the Wraiths stood in the shadows outside. He opened the curtains fully and knocked on the window so the creature would know he was there. It lifted an arm, curled a bony finger in a beckoning gesture, then glided away in the last of the darkness, leaving the Reverend quaking in his bare feet on the thin carpet.

He had been summoned. He was hardly ever

summoned. His meetings with the doctor were usually scheduled. Sometimes the Reverend went below ground to ask favours. But being summoned was very, very rare.

The Reverend hurriedly dressed himself, washed his face and put his teeth in. He despised those dark creatures, whatever they were. The doctor had told him once, about how many centuries they had been his faithful servants, but he hadn’t really listened. It was best not to listen too carefully when the doctor began to tell stories. One might hear something one couldn’t live with. And for occasions when he did hear too much, a faulty memory came in handy.

He wrapped himself up tightly in overcoat and scarf, jammed a woollen hat over his head. He knew he looked ridiculous in it, but his scalp got so cold if he didn’t wear it and besides, he was well past needing to care about his appearance. With trembling hands, he let himself out of the house and headed for the abbey.

Once down the stairs and along the dark hallway, he could see the glow of a light under Dr Flood’s door. He knocked and was answered almost immediately.

“Reverend,” Flood said, guiding him inside. “You see, I have lit the lantern in your honour.”

The Reverend often complained – quietly, of course

– about how difficult it was to see anything in the chamber. Flood worked solely by the light of the phosphorescent wall, a creature who had become adapted to the dark.

“Thank you,” the Reverend murmured. “Why do you need me?”

“I do not need you,” Flood replied, settling himself in his chair. “I am merely curious.”

“About what?”

“Somebody has been in my chamber.”

“When?”

“Early this morning – a few hours ago. I was in the other chamber working on an experiment, and when I returned I could sense that I had been visited.”

“That’s not possible. I have the only key and I was fast asleep.”

Flood bowed his head a little way, giving the Reverend a chance to examine him in the dim light. In the nearly seven decades the Reverend had known Flood, the doctor’s appearance had not changed. As though his body had aged as much as a body could without the flesh actually falling from the bones. His scalp was crisscrossed with deep grooves, his face a sea of lines and sagging flesh. But when Flood looked up again, his eyes were as alert and shrewd as a teenager’s. “And yet, someone has been here.”

“It’s simply not possible.” The Reverend’s mind was racing. Could Tony have made another set of keys on the sly? Could somebody have broken in?

More importantly, was he going to be blamed for it?

“Perhaps someone in spirit, and not in body,”

Flood said cryptically. Then, “Tell me about the girl.”

“The girl . . .?”

“The one your parishioners want me to drive out of town. Is she like her grandmother? Does she have the Gift?”

“She’s nothing like Sybill. Sybill was cunning, deceitful, and quite openly out to get us. This young woman may be curious, but I don’t think she means us any harm. And I believe she will return home soon.” The Reverend didn’t know for certain why he was protecting the girl. He put it down simply to not wanting another death on his hands.

“But does she have powers? Does she have

the Gift?”

The Reverend nodded reluctantly. “I believe so, yes.”

Flood steepled his crepey fingers against each other and rested his chin upon them.

“But I don’t think –”

“Shh,” Flood said curtly, “I’m thinking.”

The Reverend shifted from one foot to the other. Flood never asked him to sit down, didn’t even have a spare chair. Minutes ticked by. He assumed dawn was breaking somewhere above them, not that Flood would ever see it down here in his dark chamber. Finally, the doctor spoke. “I don’t think we need worry about the girl.”

“No?”

“Sybill knew things because one of my Wraiths told her. But the traitor was dispatched back to the grave, and my remaining two subjects are quite loyal. There is no way the young woman can find out anything.”

“But if she came here . . . in spirit as you say . . .?”

“It’s a matter of a simple protection spell, like the one over the cottage.” He shifted in his seat, grew more animated. “Of course, it’s her spell, a fresh spell, not Sybill’s. That’s why the Wraiths could not gain access.”

“Are they still trying? The villagers wanted her scared out of town.”

Flood shook his head. “No, they have given up.”

“But if she doesn’t leave soon . . . I mean . . . the villagers have demanded that I ask for her to be killed if she’s not gone by the end of this month.”

“It’s no matter. I’ll have her killed if that’s what they want. You know that I look after the villagers.”

“I don’t want her killed. There could be an investigation, her family would come, the media –”

“There are ways that do not look suspicious. A slip, a fall on the clifftop . . .”

“But . . . she doesn’t deserve to die. She’s no harm to us.”

Flood waved his hand dismissively. “The graveyard would only be improved by the addition of fresh young flesh. If they want it done, I’ll arrange it.”

“Can’t we just scare her off? Can’t we try –”

“She will not be scared off!” Flood boomed. Then, more quietly, “She has proved that to us. It may be she will come to regret her obstinacy. However it goes, I now know that she has been here and I can protect myself against her return. We have learned something this morning, Reverend. That’s the most a man can hope for, to learn something new each day.”

He stood, moved forward and placed a hand on the Reverend’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to get you out of bed, Linden. Thank you for coming.”

The Reverend tried not to recoil from the doctor’s touch. “Goodbye, Dr Flood.”

“Take the lantern with you. It’s rather too bright and it hurts my eyes.” Flood handed him the paraffin lamp. The Reverend used it to light his way to the stairs and out into the weak daylight.

It seemed Maisie had only just got back to sleep when the phone rang and woke her again. She heard Sacha pick it up and was pulling on her dressing gown when he knocked lightly on the door.

“Maisie, Adrian’s on the phone.”

“Thanks,” she said opening the door. “Sorry to wake you again.”

“It’s fine. It’s after six. I’ll go make us some tea.”

She went to the lounge room and picked up the phone, trying not to yawn. “Hi Adrian, what’s up?”

“You tell me what’s up.” Hostility.

“Adrian?” She felt guilty even though she hadn’t done anything. As though her intentions had been broadcast to him across the miles.

“Is Sacha staying there?”

She looked over her shoulder, hoping Sacha wasn’t near by. “He’s just here for a couple of days. You suggested it yourself. You didn’t want me to be alone.”

“That was before I knew.” It was unlike him to be so angry. Usually Adrian was even-tempered until the last possible moment. So what had set him off?

“Knew what? Adrian, what are you talking about?”

“I ran into Sarah Ellis today in Coles.”

Sarah. Cathy. Realisation. “And?” Trying not to sound guilty.

“And she said that you told Cathy you were in love with Sacha.”

“That’s ridiculous. I never said –”

“And that you were bored with me.”

Such a confusion of emotions took hold of her she could barely stop her knees from shaking. Awful guilt for what she had said. Desperate fear that she had hurt Adrian. And savage anger at Cathy. She sat down and breathed deeply.

“I didn’t say those things.” Not exactly like that, anyway.

“What did you say, then, to make her think that?”

Next decision: how much to lie? Perhaps going all the way was safest. “I said nothing like it. I don’t know where Cathy got the idea from. Probably out of her own demented imagination. She and Sarah probably cooked it up between them – Sarah always fancied you, you know.”

Adrian fell silent a few moments.

“I’m going to fucking kill Cathy,” Maisie said.

“Don’t swear, Maisie. You know I don’t like it.” At least he sounded like he had cooled down a little. Not much, just a little.

“Well, how dare she say things like that to her sister?”

“Just come home. I’m sick of this. I’m sick of you being so far away and I don’t trust that Sacha guy. Just come home.”

“Not yet. I’m still –”

“Nothing that you’re doing there should be as important as being home with me.” He sighed.

“Maisie, I know this sounds terrible, but I’m not even sure if I can trust you any more.”

“Me? What have I done? I’ve done nothing.”

“You’re just so reluctant to come home. And where would Cathy have got her ideas about you and Sacha from? I mean, even if you said nothing, maybe she can sense something between you, I don’t know. And he’s sleeping there . . . I really don’t like it.”

She could hear Sacha moving about in the kitchen. She dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. “Well, I really don’t like being told what to do.”

“Come home.”

“Soon.”

“When? Give me a date.”

“No.”

“If you don’t give me a date, I’ll come over there and get you.”

“Let me think about it a couple of days.”

Again, Adrian fell silent.

“Adrian?”

“I hate that you have to think about it. I hate that I’m not more important to you.”

“Oh, Adrian.” She could feel tears pricking her eyes. “You are important to me. You know I love you. This is just something I have to do. Please try to understand.” She brushed an untidy curl out of her eyes. “I’m not like you.”

“Are you like Sacha?”

“Don’t even ask that. That’s a really dumb question.”

Sacha entered the room then, set down a mug of tea in front of her. She wondered how much, if any, of the conversation he had heard. She gave him a strained smile.

“I’ll phone you Friday,” Adrian was saying. “And you’ll tell me what day you’re coming home.”

Although she hated it, she felt too guilty to disagree. “Okay.”

“I’ll speak to you then.”

“I love you,” she said.

“Yeah. Bye.” A click and he was gone. She replaced the receiver and sat back in her chair.

“Is everything okay?” Sacha asked.

She shrugged. “Fine.”

“Lovers’ tiff?”

“No. Everything’s fine.”

“Drink your tea. There’s a nice layer of snow out there, and you did promise me you’d build a snowman with me.”

She nodded, tried to look cheerful. “Okay, sure. After breakfast and a shower.”

“When the sun comes up.”

If the sun came up. At eleven o’clock, a heavy cloud layer kept full daylight at bay and threatened more snow. Somehow, despite her misery and anger, Maisie managed to get herself rugged up sufficiently to go outside. Sacha tried his best to keep the conversation light as they assembled a crooked snowman, and Maisie did her best to answer his questions and smile from time to time. But her heart was sick in her chest. Sick because Adrian had been hurt. Sicker because Cathy had betrayed her confidence. And sickest because she had to go home. She’d always known she’d have to go home eventually, but the longer she put it off, the easier she could pretend that this cool, damp journey into intrigue and psychic powers and desire was never going to end. Her joints ached with knowing that she had to return to her old life; as much as she loved Adrian, she didn’t want to go back to him. Not yet.

“Is there an old hat or something in Sybill’s cupboard?” Sacha was asking. “Something we can put on his head?”

“No,” Maisie said. “I threw out all the old clothes on the first day. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. He can stay bald.” Sacha’s eyes were bright and his cheeks pink from the cold. “Maisie, if you’re not up to this, we can just go back inside.”

“No, it’s fun.”

“Just which part of it are you enjoying?”

Maisie shrugged. “I . . .” Oh no, she was going to cry. She hated crying. “Damn,” she said, palming her eyes with her gloved fingers.

“Maisie?”

“Damn,” she said again, tearily, lowering herself to the ground and sitting on the snow. “Damn it. Damn it.”

Sacha crouched beside her, reached out to touch her cheek. “Why are you crying?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice cracking over her tears. “It’s all stupid.”

“It’s not stupid to feel something. Why are you crying?”

“Because Adrian and I had a fight and he wants me to come home, and I don’t want to go home,”

she sobbed.

He put his arms around her and rocked her

gently. She pressed her face into his sleeve and cried like a baby.

“Why don’t you want to go home?” he asked in a soft voice.

“Because I’ll be there forever.”

“Not necessarily. You’ll travel again. You might move somewhere different.”

“Home’s not just a geographical place.”

“Oh. I think I understand you now.”

Already the urge to cry was retreating, and now she felt foolish. She sat back and wiped her eyes. “Sorry. Sorry to be so stupid.”

“It’s not stupid. Maisie, why do you think it’s stupid to cry?”

She shrugged, wouldn’t answer.

He stood up, helped her to her feet. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

“But it doesn’t look like a snowman yet,” Maisie said, surveying their work. It looked more like three misshapen blobs on top of each other, with poorly positioned twigs for arms.

“We can finish him another time.”

Later that evening, after a few more idle attempts to find the fourth diary piece, Maisie stood in the lounge room gazing out onto the snowy front garden. Their snowman cast a shadow in the dark, standing sentinel out the front. Sacha was watching television, but keeping one eye on her. She knew she’d been distant all day. Not just for Adrian’s sake, but for her own. Her desire for Sacha was more than half her problem, and having him there, being so concerned and caring, was compounding her misery.

The phone rang and Maisie sat in her chair to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Maisie, it’s me.” Cathy. Maisie felt her temperature rise. But Sacha was sitting right there watching the TV, and she was hardly going to reveal the details of the conflict in front of him, seeing as how he was so thoroughly implicated.

“Hi, Cathy. How’s uni?”

“Good. How are you going? No more scary stuff?”

“Not really. Couple of weird dreams.” She could hear that her own voice was strained over the top of her anger.

“Well, do you want to come to York for a few days? Get away from it all?” Cathy asked. “I’m getting lonely again. When classes start I’m always reminded that everybody else has friends and I don’t.” She laughed lightly. Innocently. With no idea how despised she was.

“Sure, hang on.” Maisie covered the receiver with her left hand and turned to Sacha. “Sacha, can I get a lift to Whitby with you in the morning?”

“Of course,” he said.

“I’ll be there tomorrow morning,” Maisie said to Cathy.

“Hang on. I’ve got a class tomorrow morning. I thought you might like to come down on the

weekend.”

“I’m busy on the weekend.”

“Okay, I’ll be back in my room by about three o’clock. Meet me then?”

“Sure.” Maisie relished the chance to let Cathy have the edge of her anger.

“And you’ll stay a couple of nights?”

“I’ll see how I feel.”

If Cathy sensed something was wrong, she didn’t let on. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Bye.” Maisie hung up.

“Going to see Cathy?” Sacha asked.

“Yes.” Going to sort her out.

“That should be fun.”

“Yeah. Heaps of fun.”

Because she was in York hours earlier than she needed to be, Maisie found herself wandering around the shops looking for a present for Adrian. She knew it was a peace token, a way to ease her own guilt, but it suddenly seemed very important that she prove to him that she loved him. It was only when she whipped out her credit card to spend £280 on a black suede jacket for him that she realised just how guilty she must be. She didn’t even have a job to pay her credit card bill with when she got home, but all those worries could wait. Alleviate guilt now, pay later. She found a post office, packaged the gift up and sent it airmail to Australia with a hastily written note:

Adrian,

I saw this and couldn’t resist it. Love you heaps, always and forever. M xxx

Maisie spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around frosty York, planning in her head what she was going to say when she saw Cathy. She had never been particularly good at confrontations. But Cathy had it coming to her. By ten to three, when she walked up to Cathy’s place, she was a wreck. Angry, tired, frustrated, teary again. What was happening to her? Evil spirits couldn’t make her leave the house but an argument with Adrian could turn her into a gibbering mess. The front door was ajar so she let herself into the boarding house and walked up the stairs to Cathy’s room. Knocked at the door.

“Maisie!” Cathy had opened the door and grabbed her in a hug before Maisie knew what was happening.

“Come in. It’s great to see you.”

“Hi,” Maisie said, extricating herself from the hug, not cracking a smile. She closed the door behind her. Didn’t sit down.

Cathy was searching on her book shelf. “I’ve got something for you.” She pulled a folded piece of paper out of a book and handed it to Maisie.

Maisie shoved the piece of paper in her bag without looking at it. Probably some new age ten commandments where “Thou shalt not keep a secret”

was top of the list.

“What’s up?” Cathy asked. “You look upset.”

“What did you tell Sarah about me and Sacha?”

Cathy’s blue eyes widened. A flush crept up her face. “What do you mean?”

“Sarah. Your sister.” Maisie worked to keep her voice cold. “She ran into Adrian in the supermarket and told him I was in love with somebody else.”

Cathy still didn’t answer. Obviously, she hadn’t anticipated that she’d be caught out.

“Have you any idea how much trouble you’ve

caused me?” Maisie asked.

“Oh, Maisie, I’m so sorry,” Cathy blurted at last.

“I mentioned it in passing – just that you had a bit of a crush on this guy – and Sarah should never have . . . I’m going to kill her. Honestly, I am.”

“If you’d never told her anything, she couldn’t have passed it on to Adrian. And don’t give me this

‘mentioned it in passing’ bullshit. You and your sister –

with all your new-age-hippy-bullshit-love-everybody crap that you go on with – you and your sister got so involved in gossip you didn’t even realise you could hurt someone. Not very fucking Zen is it?”

“Maisie. Maisie, I’m so sorry,” Cathy said again, reaching a hand out to touch her arm. Maisie flinched away from her, took a step back. “Was Adrian really angry?”

“I’ve been ordered to return home.” Maisie’s voice broke. She did her best not to cry. “He wants me home and I’m not finished here yet.”

“But Maisie, what are you doing here anyway?

You’d be better off at home. You’ve –”

“Shut up!” Maisie shouted. “How dare you tell me how to run my life?”

“Now don’t get yourself all worked up,” Cathy said. Her reasonable tone was as intolerable as fingernails on a blackboard.

“You’re incredible. Do you understand what I came here to tell you? You betrayed my trust. You are not my friend.”

“Maisie, please try to calm down.”

“No,” Maisie spluttered, and the tears came and she could feel her whole body grow hot with anger. “I won’t calm down.”

“I’ve said sorry, what more do you want me

to say?”

“Goodbye,” Maisie said. “I’m going back to

Solgreve.”

“Come on, Maisie. Let me make you a cup of tea and we’ll talk reasonably, and you can stay over. You can’t have come all this way just to yell at me.”

“I did. And now I’m going to get on the next bus home. And I never want to see you again. And next time you talk to your sister tell her I never liked her. I never liked either of you, and if you weren’t the only person in this hemisphere that I know, I would never have called you.” Maisie wrenched the door open and stalked out.

“Jeez,” Cathy said in an exasperated gasp. “No wonder you’ve got no fucking friends.”

Behind her, Maisie heard the door slam.