Sorrow Spring

Olivia Isaac-Henry

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2024

Copyright © Olivia Isaac-Henry 2024

Cover design by Holly Macdonald

Cover photographs © Miguel Sobreira / Trevillion Images (birds and branches), © Nic Skerten / Trevillion Images (house) and Jana Klouckova Kudrnova on Unsplash (birds)

Olivia Isaac-Henry asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008656362

eBook Edition © September 2024 eISBN: 9780008656386

Version: 2024-07-26

In memory of my father

Contents

Prologue

2019

My Sister Rina

1978

The Commune

Rooks

Laburnum Lodge

The Night Visitor

Caterpillar

Church

Sermon

Diligence

The Moot Hall

Fairy Tales

Joy and Hope

Mrs Reed

Temperance

Peter

Phoning Home

Flattery

Charity

Appetites

Thirteen

Sinners

Humility

Robes

Procession

Feast

Cocoa

Oblation

2019

Sorrow Spring

The Village

Brook Farm

1978

Gone

City

Harmless

Gratitude

Stars

Deceived

Chastity

Lust

Jealousy

Distaff

Sloth

Wrath

Protection

Shame

Blanche

Devil’s Bread

Polaroid

Thunder

Vanity

Thwarted

Cruelty

Patience

St Faran’s Spring

2019

Locals

Gordon

Enquiry

Bravery

Arson

Dumb

1979

Your Aunt

Sweet Spot

Dose

Sodom and Gomorrah

Conception

Demands

Luke

2019

Safe

Aunt Agatha

The Vicarage

Water

Ark

Dislocation

Emesh

Practice

Leaving

2020

Successor

The Old Ways

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by Olivia Isaac-Henry

About the publisher

Prologue

A full moon provides you with just the right amount of light for both surveillance and concealment. Good things of day begin to droop and drowse. Your pulse quickens at the thought of re-enacting the assassination from Macbeth. And it will be an assassination, not murder. Apart from a mild distaste, you hold no personal dislike for Fletcher Sun. His death is necessary. A mercy killing almost. At nearly eighty, he hasn’t long left, and what quality of life does he have anyway? With filthy clothes and matted hair, he resembles a vagrant more than the wealthy landowner he’s become. Formerly abstemious, Sun has recently acquired the stagger of a drunk. From the trees, through binoculars, you follow his stumbling zigzag from the edge of the woods towards the barn.

He used to live in the farmhouse. During his many absences you were free to wander about the place. It was clean and in good order. But last week, for reasons unknown, he decamped to one of the outhouses – a converted barn with living accommodation over two storeys. A happy, homely place once, going by the floral sofas and watercolours, it’s now in a foul state. The beams are rotten, the walls mildewed and the floor encrusted with rodent droppings. If time wasn’t of the essence, you could safely leave Sun to die of Weil’s disease or a collapsing roof. The sight of a supposedly intelligent man, allowing himself to fall so low and live in such abject squalor, turns your stomach.

When Sun’s meandering finally brings him to the
barn door, he fumbles with the latch and topples inside. His alcoholic haze means he misses the jerry can of petrol you stashed behind the rusted farm equipment propped against the outside wall. After an hour you leave your hiding place amongst the trees and lope across to the barn, pausing outside to listen. Nothing stirs within. For the last two nights, he has somehow managed to drag himself upstairs before passing out on the bed, meaning it’s safe to slip the latch and step inside. You pick your way through the old newspapers and empty cans of Special Brew. The fetid stench Sun’s left in his wake forces you to cover your nose with your sleeve.

You mount the stairs. Creaking floorboards aren’t a problem. A brass band could play every verse of ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ without disturbing Sun. He’s curled up in a nestlike bundle of sheets, dead to the world.

The room has no curtains and moonlight streams in. You take slow deliberate steps across the floor. When you drop your hand from your face, the smell brings you near to retching; still you keep to your purpose and draw a fifteen-inch hunting blade from your belt. The original plan was just for a fire, but you worry the smoke could rouse him. No, you need to dispense with him first, then set the blaze.

You lean over him. Traces of vomit streak the grizzled beard that covers much of his face. Death will be a kindness to this man. You’re doing him a favour. So much so, you’re surprised to see the knife shaking in your hand.

… screw your courage to the sticking place,

And we’ll not fail.

You use your left hand to steady your right. The strike has to be accurate and precise. The blade can’t mark the bone. There must be no telltale signs that anything other than fire and smoke inhalation killed Sun. Lifting the thick layers of clothing, you prod his loose skin with a gloved finger before driving the knife deep into his guts.

He cries out. Just once. A low, anguished moan. Warm, viscous liquid seeps into your sleeve.

… who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

A new sensation surges within you. It flushes out the fear and disgust. What is it? Power? Elation?

No, acceptance. Acceptance of your destiny.

For to take a life, is to be a god.

This is fate. It was no coincidence that letter fell into your hands.

All your life has been leading up to this moment, this act.

And the ones soon to follow…

Downstairs, you fetch the jerry can, pile the old newspapers into the centre of the room and douse them with petrol.

You step outside and strike a single match. That’s all it takes for the room to explode into flame. Then you sprint to the farmhouse, which you’ve already drenched in accelerant.

Another match.

Whoosh.

Both buildings stand as beacons of light in this dark, damp, godforsaken valley.

Back amongst the trees, you let the intoxicating scent of petrol and wood smoke fill your nostrils, stand in wonder at the fierce orange light and you watch the fire climb to the barn’s first storey.

Then above the hiss and crackle of splintering wood, a terrible cry erupts. A thousand voices screaming, as a dark column rises above the smoke.

Rooks.

No birds were roosting in that barn when you scouted it – no nests, no feathers. Yet now, hundreds of them take to the night sky. A great flock, black against the moon. They swirl, twisting and turning, until the column forms the shape of a man.

Below, in the furthest window of the barn, you catch sight of their mirror image. Fletcher Sun silhouetted against the flames, his arms outstretched, spinning and whirling in a maniacal dance of death.

You blink. You’re seeing things. He could not have survived both the blade and the smoke.

You look again.

He’s gone.

The column of rooks collapses.

Then, in a rush of air and feathers, they streak towards you.

You throw yourself to the ground.

The birds dive into the trees, cutting through the branches, screeching above your head before disappearing, leaving the night silent, but for the groans of barn timbers splintering in the flames.

What have you done?

You no longer feel like a god.

You’re lightheaded and too weak to move. Damp seeps into your clothes. A badger rustles amongst the withered bracken. Constellations glide across the sky.

How long have you lain there when, in a distant valley, a siren starts to wail?

You grab a branch and pull yourself to your feet.

You have to go. You mustn’t be missed.

You need to be back in Sorrow Spring by dawn.

2019

My Sister Rina

Granny’s room should have been cleared long ago. My husband, Rob, says the twins need their own space. At nine, Alice and Ben are far too old to be sharing. But I can’t bring myself to part with a single one of her things. Not the green batik dress and sequined slippers she wore to pick me up on my first day at school. Nor the bangles that jingled up and down her wrists, announcing her presence long before I spotted her through the sea of mothers waiting at the gates.

She was special, way more fun than any of the mums.

Granny never forced me to eat my greens or do my homework. On weekends she gave me a small glass of wine with dinner, and I was allowed to stay up late and watch horror movies long after I knew my classmates would be in bed.

Her selflessness saved me from a life of childminders and ready meals. I was three months old when my mother died in a car crash. Without asking, Granny rolled up her glamorous life in the Côte d’Azur and returned to a nondescript suburb of Bristol so she could devote herself to my care.

Everyone loved her. No matter how cantankerous the neighbour or officious the traffic warden, they all buckled to her charm.

That’s why I won’t believe Dad’s accusations.

He’s confused.

Granny would never abandon a child, let alone her own daughter. And before his stroke, Dad never spoke about a sibling.

My sister Rina.

Never recounted the time he and my sister Rina ran anti-clockwise around the Devil’s Oak in Gossdale, hoping to raise Old Nick. And he didn’t talk endlessly about playing pirate ships with my sister Rina on the long table outside the Wroxwood Commune’s farmhouse.

No daughter was mentioned in the eulogy at Granny’s funeral.

Dad is an only child.

I try hinting he’s made a mistake. Perhaps it’s a friend he remembers?

No!

A Google search on Prosperina Fuchsia Pine returns nothing.

I riffle through Granny’s boxes of random junk. She wasn’t a great one for paperwork and I don’t expect to find a birth certificate. But if Rina ever existed, shouldn’t some trace of her remain? Granny took hundreds of photographs: boyfriends, travelling companions and Dad at every age from one to sixty. Yet the only girl to appear in any of these pictures is me.

I tell Dad straight, he never had a sister.

That’s when he demands I bring him Lullaby’s jewellery box. He always called Granny ‘Lullaby’, not ‘Mum’. It was fashionable in the 1960s to use your parents’ first names. And even Lullaby was made up. She was christened Lily.

I find the jewellery box at the bottom of the wardrobe, hidden under a pile of alpaca ponchos and silk palazzo pants. It’s made of oak and lined with red velvet faded to pink. Rings, shells, semi- precious stones and earrings fall out when I release the clasp, all so jumbled they would take days to untangle. After stuffing them back inside, I carry the box down to the dining room, which has become Dad’s sickroom since the stroke left him with paralysis down his right arm and leg.

‘Here.’ I place it on his lap.

The fingers of his good hand trace the dragon carved on top and in slow, slurred speech he says, ‘I went to find my sister Rina, once. They said she’d gone to London with some lad. I knew it was a lie, but I did nothing.’

Where did he go and when? Is this memory any more reliable than his others? I don’t ask. He’s already agitated and the doctors say he must be kept as calm as possible.

‘I’m sure you did what you could,’ I say.

Dad shakes his head.

‘I’m her older brother. I should have protected her.’ He starts to cry. That’s something else he never did until the stroke. ‘As time passed, it was easier to forget, until now when there’s no time left – not for me. Rina’s all I think about.’

He takes a moment to compose himself before managing to open the box. He fumbles with a grubby ribbon on one side. His hand isn’t strong enough to grip and I have to help him. Pulling the ribbon raises an inner tray, below which sits another compartment. Shielded from the sun, this velvet is the original blood red. A white envelope sits on top next to a pendant, which Dad tells me to take.

‘You should wear this. The stone is blue john – for bravery. Lullaby wore it whenever we travelled.’

I hang it around my neck.

‘Why do you think I have to be brave, Dad?’

‘Because of them.’

‘Who?’

He nods at the envelope.

I open it and a single sheet of paper falls out. Written with a fountain pen in cramped handwriting is a letter.

Sorrow Spring

Worcestershire

February 1st 1978

Dear Lily,

The Sistren’s patience is running thin. I hardly need warn you of the consequences, should you fail to honour our agreement. This shall be the last letter I write on the subject.

Lily, you must bring us the girl.

Agatha

I fold the letter back into the envelope.

‘Who are the Sistren?’ I ask.

Dad starts to cry again.

1978

The Commune

I don’t believe I’ll ever get over my mother’s betrayal. Lullaby, as I was made to call her, told me we were heading off on an exciting adventure. Her latest ‘friend’, Maurice, would be taking us in his Triumph Stag. Isn’t that a treat, Rina?

This was in May 1978, a couple of months before my thirteenth birthday. The Iranian revolution was in full swing, the former Italian prime minister had just been assassinated, and a man called Jim Jones was in the process of creating a utopian settlement in the Guyanese jungle, where he and his followers could live freely and in harmony. Only the latter news resonated at the Wroxwood Commune, where we lived. But Guyana was thousands of miles away and our main concerns were finding buyers for our alpaca wool and trying to stop Forest’s mother drinking all the blackberry wine.

I imagined a Triumph Stag to be a deer-drawn sleigh and was most disappointed when Maurice arrived in a bright orange car with little more than a shelf for the back seat.

‘Are you ready for your trip, Rina?’ he shouted as he pulled up.

A vague uneasiness swelled in me. Lullaby hadn’t specified our destination and Maurice was uncharacteristically jovial. Still, I was intrigued. I had rarely travelled by car before, or even ventured more than a few miles from the commune.

Wroxwood’s founder, Fletcher Sun, stumbled upon the Pennine valley of Gossdale in the 1960s. He bought an ailing farm, along with its enormous house and numerous outbuildings, and set up a commune. Cold War tensions were ratcheting up, nuclear Armageddon seemed inevitable. All he could do was create a haven of peace in a picturesque valley, far from a turbulent world. Freedom, fresh air and good food was our only philosophy.

From his travels in Peru, Fletcher had brought back the idea of alpaca farming, and this supported the commune.

Lullaby had been born and raised in the village of Sorrow Spring. There, she married an optician and gave birth to my brother, Emesh. But that life was too confined for Lullaby and she longed for adventure. Travelling to South America, my brother in tow, she met Fletcher and followed him back to Wroxwood.

Our lives were simple. A hundred and twenty of us worked, ate and lived together; a mixed bunch from across the globe: eighty permanent residents and forty or so others who would wash in and out. My father was one of them. He came after a tip from an old friend of Fletcher’s. An American, he played tenor sax in a jazz band that was touring Europe and had taken time out to explore life beyond the music circuit. Lullaby told me he was tall, handsome, warm and kind. He stayed for six weeks before heading back on the road. She only knew him as Cal and was unable to recall his surname, home state or what his band was called.

Such casual liaisons came as no surprise to the good people of Gossdale. Wroxwood was synonymous with drug-taking, orgies and even satanic rituals. True, Fletcher had a special greenhouse for his more exotic plants. But I doubt the commune’s sexual practices differed much from those in the farms and pub back rooms of the surrounding neighbourhood. And our only ritual was morning yoga.

At twelve, I was an odd mix of worldly wise and utterly naïve. I knew about sex and drugs, but remained completely ignorant of religion, politics and popular culture. The life of a typical 1970s child – watching Tiswas on a Saturday morning, going to the park to drink cans of Vimto and sharing packets of Spangles – was alien to me. My unorthodox upbringing left me ill-equipped for life outside the commune. The bizarre behaviour and beliefs of the Sorrow Spring Sistren appeared less strange because I knew no different. Warning signs, which would have screamed danger to almost anyone else, failed to register with me until it was too late.

I should have acted upon my initial misgivings about the trip with Lullaby and Maurice; questioned why my brother was not coming with us and why all my clothes were packed for what was supposed to be an overnight stay.

And then there were the reactions of Emesh and my friend Forest. We three were the children closest in age and shared a love of den building and adventure novels. Forest started crying at Maurice’s arrival. Emesh handed me his most treasured possession, a disintegrating copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.

‘I’m only away for one night,’ I said.

Forest looked at Emesh and burst into tears again.

Emesh stepped forward and looked as if he meant to hug me but dropped his arms at the last moment and said, ‘That car’s well cool, Rina. I wish I could go in it.’

His cheer sounded forced. I looked at Maurice, leaning out of the driver’s side window, smoking a cigarette.

‘I suppose so,’ I said.

Ravi, one of the cooks, ran out of the barn that served as our kitchen and passed me something wrapped in a white handkerchief.

‘For the journey,’ he said.

‘Thanks, Ravi. See you soon.’

He nodded, smiled and looked sad.

Fletcher rushed out from the farmhouse with his camera and insisted on taking a photo of me and Lullaby.

‘I can’t have you going off without getting a picture,’ he said.

We posed in front of the car. Fletcher took his snap before hugging me goodbye. Maurice rolled his eyes and flung his cigarette butt to the ground. Lullaby opened the passenger door for me. I wriggled my way onto the narrow back seat.

As we drove away, I turned and waved at my friends. Forest was still crying and Emesh’s face was in a fixed grin. By the time the house, my friends and the grazing alpacas had slipped from view, foreboding had threaded its way into my heart.

At some level, I understood my childhood was coming to a close.

Rooks

We journeyed west across the Pennines before turning south down the M6. Around Wigan the novelty of travel, the motorway with its thundering lorries and leathered bikers roaring past, began to wear off. My calves were cramping and my bladder ached.

‘Can you tell me where we’re going now?’

I asked. ‘I told you, darling, it’s a surprise,’ Lullaby said.

‘Just tell her,’ Maurice said. ‘You’re going to have to grow up, stop hanging around with those smelly hippies, put a skirt on and go to school.’

‘School?’ I said. ‘Why can’t I learn with Forest and Emesh?’

‘You misunderstand, my love.’ Lullaby turned round and squeezed my knee. ‘You’re not going to school now. We’re visiting your aunt at Laburnum Lodge.’

‘I haven’t got an aunt.’

‘Of course, you have, silly. My older sister. I’ve told you about your aunt Agatha before.’ She certainly had not. ‘You’ll like her. She loves young people.’

‘Then why have I never met her?’

‘Because she lives in Worcestershire. It’s too far just to drop in.’

The journey seemed interminable. We stopped only once, at a service station, where I ate my present from Ravi, a sort of Indian sweet made with almonds and condensed milk. Whilst nibbling it at a wooden table outside, I noticed the strange looks we received. Lullaby’s swishing pink and orange robes and large blue stone pendant, so beautiful and glamorous to me, were raising smirks in passers-by. Most of the men dressed like Maurice, in polyester trousers and shirts unbuttoned to the navel. The women wore flower-print smocks. Lullaby was from a different age. When she returned their scrutiny with a hostile stare, Maurice simply raised his eyebrows, as if to say, see. However, even Maurice’s more conservative clothes didn’t escape the derision of one group. All in their late teens, they fell out of a Transit van, in slashed clothes held together with safety pins, their hair spiked and dyed red and green. I gaped in amazement; Maurice in disgust.

‘What you starin’ at, Granddad?’ one of the girls said, seeing him gawp at her barely there, rubber skirt. One of the boys put an arm over her shoulder and turned to Maurice, flicking two fingers at him.

Maurice stood shaking with rage. Lullaby quickly smothered a smile.

‘Punks,’ Maurice said when they’d disappeared inside the service station. ‘Just look at them. I saw them in London last year. I didn’t realise they’re coming up here now. It should be illegal. If you ask me, they’re worse than those Rastafarians everyone’s so enamoured with.’

‘Now, now, Maurice,’ Lullaby said. ‘We were all young once.’

‘Yes, but we didn’t behave like that.’

Looking at Lullaby, his face creased a little as if doubting his own statement when it came to her.

Lullaby didn’t notice. She was playing with her sleeve, allowing the copious fabric to shiver in the breeze, gazing with wonder at its elegance.

‘I like their spirit,’ she said. ‘It’s just such a shame that, as the century drifts on, we’re giving way to such ugliness.’

‘You can’t dress like that when we go to …’ Maurice stopped himself and Lullaby looked up. ‘Here, Rina.’ He reached into his pocket and brought out some change. ‘Why don’t you go and get yourself a hamburger? There’s a Wimpy Bar. That sweet won’t fill you up.’

He pointed me in the direction of the service station building.

‘Ask for extra cheese. It’ll be a damn sight tastier than those bean stews you get at Wroxwood.’

The commune was vegetarian and the smell of grease and burning flesh coming from the kitchens turned my stomach. I thought of spending the money elsewhere, but Maurice was bound to ask me and I was a hopeless liar. So I ordered the burger and stuffed it down as quickly as possible to avoid the taste. Unused to the meat and high fat content, my digestion rebelled and I had to dash to the toilets to throw up.

‘This is what happens to a child brought up on lentils and lettuce. She can’t stomach real food,’ Maurice said when I came back.

I returned to the tiny car seat, clutching my belly.

‘Can we go home now?’ I asked.

‘No, we can’t,’ Maurice shouted at me in the rear-view mirror.

Acid churned around my guts and my temples throbbed from retching. I pulled my knees up and nestled my face in them, so Lullaby and Maurice couldn’t see me cry.

As we travelled south, the North’s sharp slopes gave way to the Midlands’ gentler hills; lush, green and interspersed with woodland.

By the time we turned off the motorway two hours later, the sun was low in the sky, my plaits had unravelled and my hair splayed around my head in an unruly halo. The car stank of the regurgitated ketchup that stained my clothes, and my face was smeared with snot and swollen with tears.

Lullaby and Maurice resorted to communicating in hisses and were still blaming each other for my state as we turned up a steep hill, which stood black against the red disc of the setting sun.

‘Why is it my fault?’ Lullaby said. ‘You gave her the hamburger.’

‘She’s your child,’ Maurice was saying, when a dark shape darted out in front of us.

He slammed on the brakes and attempted to swerve. Something thudded against the offside of the car and spun out of view. We veered across the road before Maurice yanked the steering wheel in the opposite direction. The car lurched back and my head smacked into the window as we bumped to a standstill against the kerb.

‘What the hell?’ Maurice was out of the car and running his hands over the side panel before Lullaby could undo her seatbelt.

‘Stay here,’ she said to me.

I ignored her and climbed over the front seat, still rubbing my face where it had hit the glass.

Lullaby had walked away from the car and was standing beneath an ash tree next to a sign reading ‘Sorrow Spring’. Three rooks landed on the branches above her.

At her feet lay a mass of blood and tabby fur.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘A cat,’ she said.

The creature’s ribs rose and fell in short, shallow blasts.

‘No damage done,’ Maurice called from the car. ‘Let’s get going.’

‘We can’t leave it here,’ Lullaby said. ‘It’s still alive.’

Maurice came over. He poked the cat with his toe. What was left of the head rolled backwards, the neck flopped to an unnatural angle, a single rasping breath escaped it and the rise and fall of the ribs ceased.

‘Well, it’s dead now,’ he said.

Lullaby remained staring at the bloody mess.

‘It’s just a cat. No one’s going to miss it,’ Maurice told her, and returned to the car.

Amidst the gore, something was glinting. I leant closer. It was a small silver disc. A name tag, ‘Mr Proudfoot’.

Someone was going to miss it.

‘Shouldn’t we …?’ I began.

‘There’s nothing we can do,’ Lullaby said. ‘Come away now. Maurice is waiting.’

I stayed staring at the cat’s mangled flesh and nausea rose in me again, thinking of the hamburger meat sitting on my stomach.

‘Rina,’ my mother called again.

As I turned towards her, a figure stepped out of the dark.

It had hideous misshapen features – a twisted mouth and hollow eyes. I stood frozen and mesmerised. It grabbed my arm and pulled me close, the terrible face next to mine, peppermint and tobacco breathed against my cheek.

I wanted to scream but the sound died in my throat.

‘I’m looking for my Jimmy,’ said a thin, hoarse voice.

It had been a trick of the light, those warped features. As she moved out of the shadows, I saw a woman around Lullaby’s age or a little younger, with the sunken cheeks and emaciated limbs that only illness brings.

Lullaby came to my side and prised the woman’s hand from my arm.

‘Can we help you?’

‘I’m looking for my Jimmy. Have you seen him?’

Lullaby glanced at the cat.

‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘We’re very sorry. He ran in front of us. There’s nothing we could do. I’m sure he didn’t suffer.’

The woman stood, turning her head from side to side, her eyes unfocused and confused.

‘Where is he?’ she said.

Lullaby nodded in the direction of the signpost.

‘But that’s Mr Proudfoot,’ I said.

The woman didn’t hear. She moved towards the carcass, then let out an unearthly wail.

‘You think this is a joke?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean,’ Lullaby said.

‘My boy, my son, where is he?’ She spun round and screamed into the darkness, ‘Jimmy!’

Lullaby’s expression changed from sympathetic to frightened.

‘We’ve not seen a boy.’

The woman grabbed my arm once more. ‘Help me find my son,’ she said.

Her eyes were so desperate and pleading that, despite my fear, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.

Lullaby pushed her hand away, tugged me towards the car and thrust me inside.

‘But Jimmy, my Jimmy!’ the woman screamed.

‘Maurice, go,’ Lullaby said.

Enjoying the drama, Maurice slammed his foot on the accelerator and the car screeched away.

‘Who’s Jimmy?’ I asked.

‘No one,’ Lullaby said.

‘Was that woman drunk?’ Maurice snorted. ‘I guess there’s not much else to do in a place this small.’

I looked back through the window. The sun’s dying rays caught the top of the ash tree. One of the rooks raised its beak and cawed to the sky. The two others copied. Then all three swooped down on the remains of Mr Proudfoot.

Jimmy’s mother had disappeared.

Laburnum Lodge

The road wound up the hill to the edge of the village where we turned onto a narrow driveway overhung with tall firs and the golden boughs of laburnum trees that gave the house its name.

Maurice drew the car to a halt in front of it. As he got out, he looked up and whistled through his teeth.

‘Nice,’ he said.

Laburnum Lodge was a Victorian house set in an acre of land at the top of the hill overlooking Sorrow Spring village. Three storeys high, its turrets made it look still taller. Ornate gables, intricate plasterwork and ivy climbing the walls gave it a medieval appearance. It was no larger than the farmhouse at Wroxwood, so I wasn’t overawed, though I was surprised to learn it had just one occupant.

‘What does your sister do with all this space?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t she lonely?’

‘She won’t be for long,’ Maurice muttered.

Lullaby pulled a rope to ring the bell. By now, the sun had disappeared over the hill and birds were starting to roost in the nearby trees. A bat flitted overhead and disappeared beneath the eaves, just before a child-size shadow was thrown against the glass panels of the front door.

It creaked open.

I couldn’t help gasping at the woman before me.

I had expected to find an older version of Lullaby, who wore her hair long and loose, and dressed in vibrant colours. My aunt was a tiny bird of a woman. At only twelve, I dwarfed her; the black dress she wore would not have fitted over my shoulders. She stood, hunched and grey, on the threshold, her arms crossed, her face pinched in displeasure. A tightly pulled bun left insufficient hair to cover the scalp, and a sharp nose gave the impression of a beak, adding to her avian appearance. Similar women tottered around Gossdale. Usually, they dragged trolley bags behind them and traded in Green Shield Stamps. However, the moment my aunt spoke, all notions of frailty disappeared. Her voice was firm and commanding, and her accent, strange to my ears, with its muddied vowels and intonation that dipped and turned at odd moments.

‘It’s been a while, Lily,’ she said.

‘Lily?’ Maurice turned to my mother in amusement.

‘It’s Lullaby these days, and, yes, Agatha darling, it’s been far too long.’ My mother stretched out her arms for an embrace.

The gesture was not returned.

‘Too long, or not long enough, Lily?’ Agatha asked.

‘Too long,’ Lullaby said, still attempting a smile. Realising a kiss or hug would be rebuffed, she turned to introduce us. ‘This is Maurice.’ Agatha made a humph sound. ‘And my daughter, Prosperina Fuchsia.’

Agatha stared at me as if I were some exotic zoo specimen.

‘This is your daughter?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure, Agatha,’ Lullaby said.

‘She looks foreign.’

‘Her father’s American. Is that going to be a problem?’

Agatha sighed.

‘There’s so little room to be fussy these days. It would have been better if you’d brought the boy as well.’

‘Agatha, we have an agreement.’

Agatha looked at me, her lips pursed.

‘You’d better come in.’

*

The scent of beeswax and lavender filled the hall, whose décor could not have changed much since the house’s construction: eau-de-Nil wallpaper painted with birds of paradise, the grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs ticking unevenly and showing the time to be four o’clock, when it was gone seven. The Wroxwood farmhouse rooms were light, airy and square; here all was irregular and the dark wood panelling of the staircase, illuminated by a solitary bulb, made for a gloomy arrival.

Lullaby was looking around and admiring the objects. The giant vase next to the door, painted green with ugly flowers protruding.

‘Great-Aunt Liz’s, wasn’t it?’

A brass plaque from a ship.

‘Was that the one Father served on?’

Agatha didn’t reply until we reached the kitchen, where she turned to her sister and sniffed.

‘Let us come to an understanding, Lily. This contract extends only as far as …’ here she glanced in my direction, ‘… as far as previously agreed. You’ve been generously reimbursed. Now, everything in this house belongs to me. If you must follow all this heathen nonsense, chanting and garish clothes—’

‘There’s no law against bright clothing,’ Lullaby said. ‘You’re as bad as that vicar in Gossdale, tut-tutting just because we don’t dress as if we’re going to a funeral. He made all sorts of ridiculous accusations too. And how you can lecture me on heathen practices, I don’t know.’

‘What on earth do you mean? I attend church every Sunday. And as for my dress, I have been to a funeral. Poor Maude Barrowcroft fell through her banisters. Jed was going to go round the next day and mend them. Such bad luck. Maude never recovered – died in hospital. Between you and me, she hadn’t long to go, but still, such a dreadful end. You remember Maude, don’t you?’

‘All you Sorrow Spring ladies look the same,’ Lullaby said. ‘It’s lucky you’re here on your own, or I wouldn’t have recognised you.’

‘I’ve never cared for sarcasm, Lily, so kindly mind your tone. I’m doing you an enormous favour—’

‘Favour?’ Lullaby looked incredulous. ‘Favour?’

‘Yes, Lily, a favour. I didn’t have to agree.’

Lullaby looked at me. ‘Perhaps you could point Rina to her room, and we can discuss this amongst ourselves.’

‘There’s nothing to discuss. Come, child,’ Agatha said to me. ‘You must be in need of some supper. Sit down at the table and I’ll fetch you something to eat.’

‘Better not,’ Maurice said. ‘She’s had a gippy stomach ever since that burger at Knutsford.’

‘What do you expect if you feed her such rubbish?’ Agatha said. ‘She needs something wholesome. I’ll put a pan of soup on.’

As she took a match to the stove, I noticed a pewter ring sitting on her middle finger, with two heads engraved upon it, one a woman’s, the other a bird’s. It was far too heavy and chunky for her tiny hands and stood in contrast to the rest of her small, neat demeanour.

The stove gave a satisfying whoosh as the gas caught.

‘How much is this place worth?’ Maurice asked, picking up a glass figurine from the dresser. ‘Is this Lalique?’

‘Can you put that down?’ Agatha said. ‘It belonged to our mother. I shouldn’t like to have it broken.’

Maurice held the piece at arm’s length, examining it before putting it back.

‘But this place,’ he continued. ‘The land alone must be worth a fortune. Pull it down, build some flats. You’d get at least—’

‘Laburnum Lodge is not, nor ever will be, for sale,’ Agatha said.

Maurice was unused to being spoken to so sharply. Lullaby rushed to soothe him.

‘This is our family home,’ she said. ‘It’s not just about money, Maurice.’

‘If you say so,’ he said, unconvinced. ‘But why you’d want to stay in this old place is beyond me. It must be freezing in the winter, and with all these oddball locals. You know we were accosted by a drunken woman on our way here?’

‘Oh dear,’ Agatha said. ‘Blanche, was it?’

‘No,’ Lullaby said. ‘Actually, I was going to mention it. This woman was very upset.’ She looked pointedly at her sister.

‘Upset?’ Agatha said.

‘We killed her cat,’ I chipped in.

Agatha didn’t seem to hear.

‘Damn thing ran out into the road.’ Maurice said. ‘ “Jimmy” she called it. What sort of name is that for a cat?’

‘Jimmy wasn’t the cat,’ I said. ‘The tag said Mr …’

I tailed off. Agatha still wasn’t listening. She was staring at Lullaby, her mouth open in horror. Lullaby took Maurice by the arm and led him to the corner.

Agatha recovered and returned to the stove.

‘Where were we? Soup?’ she said. ‘I think you must have met the Frain girl. She’s not quite right in the head. Gets all sorts of notions. Sit down, Prosperina Fuchsia, and I’ll bring it over to you.’

Agatha poured the soup into a bowl and placed it on the table in front of me. Ravi’s soups were thick and creamy with warming spices. This tasted of carrots and little else. I took a few spoonfuls and watched Maurice and Lullaby over the top of my bowl. They whispered to one another before he nodded and she stepped towards me and placed a hand on my shoulder.

‘As you’re settled, Maurice and I better get going,’ she said. ‘It’s a good four hours home.’

I put down my spoon.

‘Going – without me?’

‘Yes, darling. You’re staying with your aunt for a while. Won’t that be fun?’

‘How long is a while?’

‘We’ll see.’

‘What about Emesh, why isn’t he here?’

Lullaby gave a shallow cough. ‘Sorrow Spring air doesn’t suit him,’ she said, watching her sister out of the corner of her eye.

‘I don’t want to stay here on my own,’ I said.

Since birth, all I had known was the commune. I shared one of the barns with six other children between eight and twelve years old. The thought of passing a night at Laburnum Lodge, alone but for this strange woman, frightened me. And I couldn’t quell the tears, which spilt down my cheeks and plopped into my soup.

‘Good God, she’s at it again,’ Maurice said, and mouthed the word ‘brat’ at Lullaby.

‘Don’t cry, darling,’ she said. ‘You’ll love it here. Your aunt Agatha will look after you and you’ll soon make friends.’

This only made the tears run faster, as I thought of my Wroxwood friends playing without me in the den we’d made in the woods, or re-creating the most exciting scenes from Treasure Island, using the long, outside dining table as our ship. ‘I want to go home,’ I said.

‘Oh dear,’ Agatha said. ‘I see we’ve got a bit of a sulky temper. You’re quite the baby.’

‘I’m not a baby,’ I said, and pushed the bowl away from me, sloshing soup onto the table.

Maurice let out a snort. Lullaby leant towards me.

‘Of course you’re not a baby, darling,’ she said. ‘And you must prove it by not making a fuss. It’s not for ever, and once you get used to it, you’ll love Sorrow Spring. I grew up here and it’s a beautiful place.’

‘But, Lullaby … Mum …’

‘I’ll be back at Christmas.’

‘Christmas? That’s ages away.’

‘It’ll pass in no time. Now dry your eyes and give me a hug.’

I did as I was told and tried not to look at Agatha for fear the sight of her would renew my tears. I followed Lullaby along the hall, hanging onto her arm, desperate for her to change her mind. When we got outside, I clung to her again.

‘Hurry up, Lullaby. We’ll not get back until tomorrow morning at this rate,’ Maurice called from the car.

Lullaby took my hands from around her neck, then kissed me on the forehead.

‘One day you’ll understand why I had to do this,’ she said.

I suppressed the sob rising in my throat and Lullaby kissed me once more before she too got into the car.

Maurice screeched off, slowed momentarily at the end of the drive before speeding down the hill. The engine’s roar faded to a hum as the headlamps snaked away from me. I ran to the end of the drive and watched the lights dwindle to pinpricks before disappearing into the night.

*

I stood gazing into the pitch black and trying not to cry, until a noise in the bushes at the end of the drive startled me. I looked back towards the house. Agatha was already inside. The bushes rustled and swayed. Had Jimmy’s mother followed us here?

‘Hello,’ I said.

More rustling from the bushes.

‘Is anyone there?’

No reply.

The door to Laburnum Lodge opened and Agatha called for me. I walked back to the house, wiping my eyes on my sleeve.

‘What a lot of fuss,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d be a little more grown up.’

‘There’s someone out there,’ I said. ‘In the bushes at the end of the drive.’

‘No one will be hanging around at this time of night. You must have heard a fox or a badger,’ she said. ‘Lily was always seeing things in the dark. I do hope you’re not going to take after her too much. Come inside.’

I did as she said. But as I looked back into the darkness, I had the distinct feeling of being watched.

The Night Visitor

In the murk of the hallway, the grandfather clock struck seven as I walked through the door.

‘Nearly ten o’clock,’ Agatha said. ‘No wonder you’re in such a pet. You should have been in bed hours ago.’

She stopped to scrutinise me once more. Her expression was difficult to read, her mouth downturned, her eyes alight. She ruffled my hair.

‘You must be overtired. Go and get some sleep. Take your case to your room. It’s the second on the right. The basin’s in the corner and I’ve left a fresh towel for you. Wash your face and I’ll come up and see you in a few minutes.’

My room must once have belonged to another girl, with its faded cherry striped wallpaper and flower stickers around the mirror. The bed was next to the window. Its dark wooden headboard had a bird’s head carved into it. A rook, like the ones that devoured Mr Proudfoot. I placed my case on top of the mattress. It contained few items: socks, knickers, one pair of shorts, two pairs of dungarees and three T-shirts, Emesh’s The Count of Monte Cristo, and a fluffy bunny called Harold. I was far too old for such a toy. I wondered if Forest had stuffed him in there, knowing he was my secret favourite. It was comforting to have him in that unfamiliar place.

Shortly, Agatha came up to the room and placed a mug of cocoa on the bedside table.

I expected her to leave; instead, she sat down next to me.

‘I don’t suppose you say prayers at that Wroxwood place.’

‘We do a sun salutation every morning.’

‘Humph. As I suspected,’ she said. ‘Get some sleep tonight. In future you’ll be saying prayers with me morning and evening. Do you understand?’

As I had no intention of spending many nights in an eerie house with a strange woman, miles from my friends and family, the easiest answer was, ‘Yes, Agatha.’

‘Aunt Agatha,’ she said. ‘Children do not address their elders by their Christian name alone.’

‘I’m not a child.’

‘And children do not question their elders.’

The ‘why’ hovered on my lips a second before I swallowed it.

‘Yes, Aunt Agatha,’ I said.

‘Good girl.’ She patted my hand.

*

I didn’t undress. Instead, I lay on top of the bed with Harold tucked under my chin. Sleep wouldn’t come. I remembered the cocoa on the side. It was lukewarm and a thin film was forming on the surface. I filched it out with my finger, put the mug to my lips and took a tiny sip. It was made with water and only a little milk and, despite being overly sweet, it had a bitter aftertaste. I pulled a face and slung the remainder down the sink before returning to my bed.

Apart from the dripping tap in the basin, the house lay silent.

I counted to a hundred, then a thousand, hoping to bore myself to sleep. Nothing worked. I wondered if I would be able to find my way back to Wroxwood on my own. Some of the wash-ins used to hitchhike. Was I too young?

The hall clock struck nine, which meant it was closer to midnight. It was then I heard someone moving around outside below my window, followed by the sound of Aunt Agatha in the kitchen and the back door opening. No one had rung the bell so the visitor must have been expected. Perhaps this was whoever had been lurking in the bushes.

The possibility of sneaking out of the front crossed my mind.

I took my plimsols in my hand, stuffed Harold into my dungarees and crept halfway down the stairs. Aunt Agatha was talking to someone in the kitchen. A man, so not Jimmy’s mother, although I could not make out what he was saying. Only Aunt Agatha’s high, plaintive voice was clear.

‘We must all take our share of responsibility. I have the girl. That was no mean feat.’

Was she talking about me?

I slid down a couple of stairs, trying to hear what the man was saying. He remained indistinct.

‘I’ve locked the telephone in the study and if she runs, she won’t get far,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘But I’ll keep an eye on her for the next few days.’

So they had anticipated my escape. Tonight wasn’t the time to act. It would be better if I could find a payphone and call Wroxwood. Fletcher was sure to want me back and come and fetch me. But for now, I would stay and await my moment.

I was moving back to my room when my aunt and her visitor coming into the hall, forced me to stop.

‘You should leave as you came,’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘No one will see me at this time of night,’ the man replied.

His accent was far thicker than Aunt Agatha’s, as if he were chewing as he spoke, and I had to listen closely to understand.

‘She’s definitely the one?’ he said. ‘Your sister hasn’t swapped her daughter for another child?’

‘Lily wouldn’t take such a risk with a girl. Now the boy …’ Aunt Agatha let the sentence hang.

‘No chance of the boy?’

‘They’re going to France.’

France? I stuffed my fist in my mouth to stifle a cry. It must be a mistake. Lullaby wouldn’t leave me and travel so far away.

The man walked towards the door and I could see him through the banisters. He was much younger than I had thought – late teens or early twenties – tall, thin, with narrow eyes and a smattering of acne across his cheeks. He turned the handle then paused and looked back down the hall.

‘It’s not the end of the world. There are other boys,’ he said.

‘Wait,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘We have another problem. My sister saw Emily Frain, here in the village. She was asking for Jimmy.’

‘Shouldn’t she be in Canada? You need to use your police contact to get rid of her.’

‘He’s on suspension over another matter.’

‘Dammit.’ The man hit the wall with the side of his fist. ‘Do you know where she’s staying?’

‘It must be somewhere close.’

‘One more thing for me to sort out,’ he said. ‘You better keep your side of the bargain after all this aggro.’

‘As soon as the transaction’s completed.’

‘I could go to prison for this. If I get done, don’t think I’ll keep my mouth shut.’

‘Why should you get done?’

‘Things have been said. People suspect.’

‘Suspicion isn’t proof,’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘All I’m saying is, I expect what I’m owed. My old man always told me to stay clear of you lot.’

What lot – who did he mean?

‘Where your father was concerned, the feeling was mutual,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘Every second or third generation of your family chooses to forget who keeps this village safe. We would never have asked if times weren’t desperate. St Faran’s Day is around the corner. Our numbers are shrinking. More and more children are born in hospital and the Distaff line is nearly at an end.’

‘Your sister won’t have any more? And I’m guessing you’re a bit old for all of that now, aren’t you, Agatha?’ The man gave a low laugh.

Aunt Agatha stiffened.

‘God did not bless me with children,’ she said.

‘It seems the Good Lord is rather stingy when handing out virgin births.’

‘How dare you?’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘I dare because I’ve risked everything for you lot. And I expect what I’ve been promised.’

‘You have my word and that of the Sistren.’

‘That’ll have to do for now. If you were younger, I might have asked for something else. Nana had an old photo of you – quite the looker once.’

He leant forwards, taking her chin in his hand, turning her face to the light.

‘Not bad. Not bad at all.’

Aunt Agatha drew back. He smiled and let go.

For a moment, he lifted his head and stared in my direction. I was in complete darkness and he could not have seen me. Yet the weight of his gaze pressed upon my flesh and revulsion prickled over my skin.

Who was this man?

His attention shifted back to Aunt Agatha and I relaxed.

‘Till next time,’ he said.

She watched him leave, before bolting the door and putting her face in her hands. Her breathing came hard and fast. Then she took one slow, deep breath and returned to the kitchen.

I went back to lie on my bed and tried to make sense of their conversation – the Distaff line, children born in hospital, virgin births. Holding Harold close to my chest I asked him, ‘Why has Lullaby left me here? And where’s Jimmy?’

His soft ears flopped against my neck and my only reply was the mendacious chimes of the grandfather clock below.

Caterpillar

On my first day at Laburnum Lodge, I woke to bright sunshine streaming through thin curtains. As I sat up and looked around the unfamiliar room, the sharp stab of abandonment hit me once more. Here I was, far from home and alone except for a strange woman who claimed to be my aunt.

Harold the Rabbit had fallen off the bed during the night. I picked him up and hugged him to me. In the morning light, I could see one ear was moth eaten and the stitching that formed his smile had come loose.

‘Who are these people, Harold?’ I whispered.

The events of the previous night seemed distant and blurry, but I couldn’t shake them from my mind. Your sister hasn’t swapped her daughter for another child?

‘Did he really mean me?’ I asked.

The rabbit stared back, his mouth crooked in indecision.

Perhaps I had misunderstood.

I placed Harold on the windowsill and walked over to the basin. My eyes were still swollen from yesterday’s crying, so I splashed cold water on them to avoid further accusations of being a baby.

‘Is that you, up and about?’ Aunt Agatha called from the kitchen.

‘Yes, Aunt.’

‘About time. Come and have some breakfast.’

I dried my face and plodded downstairs.

The hall was no less gloomy. Daylight only accentuated the shabbiness of the rug and the darkness of the corners.

The kitchen, which had larger windows and plain cream-coloured walls, was far cheerier.

‘Your breakfast’s on the table,’ Aunt Agatha said.

A small egg sat next to a single slice of white bread, spread with a wisp of margarine and cut into soldiers. I said nothing about being too old for soldiers and dipped them into the bright yellow yolk. The white was underdone and clung to the bread like mucus on the rim of a nostril. I finished the bread instead and crushed the eggshell in on itself so that Aunt Agatha couldn’t see how little I had eaten. She was leaning against the sideboard next to the sink, drinking a cup of tea and didn’t seem to notice.

‘With names like Prosperina Fuchsia, I suppose you’ve never been christened?’ she said.

‘The vicar in Gossdale used to come and tell us we ought to be. Fletcher always told him to get lost.’

Aunt Agatha screwed up her mouth.

‘The vicar was right, and I don’t much like the sound of this Fletcher. And even without being christened, I do think your mother could have called you something that wouldn’t attract so much attention at school.’

‘School?’

In the commune, our education was one or two hours a day, and dispensed with entirely if it was sunny enough for swimming in the river or snowy enough for sledging. To me the threat of going to school was the equivalent of going to the workhouse in a Dickens novel. We used to pity the Gossdale children hurrying about, weighed down by bulging satchels and trussed up in their uniform blazers and ties whatever the weather.

‘Do I have to?’ I asked.

Aunt Agatha peered over the top of her teacup, regarding me for some moments; my bedraggled hair and the dungarees still filthy from the previous day’s journey.

‘The holidays are nearly here. Perhaps it’s best to wait until September. In the meantime, we can start on learning some Scripture. I take it they at least taught you to read in that place.’

‘We read adventure stories every day.’

‘And arithmetic?’

‘I helped Fletcher with the bookkeeping.’

‘That’s something. School in September then.’

I pouted.

‘You want to make friends, don’t you?’ she asked.

‘I have friends.’

‘I mean here, in the village. You must meet Joy and Hope. They’re my friend’s granddaughters.’

‘Is that who came last night – your friend?’ Our night visitor had been far too young to be a grandparent but I wanted to test my aunt.

‘Visitor?’ she said.

I didn’t want to tell her I’d earwigged their conversation so said, ‘I heard someone come to the back door.’

‘Ah, yes. That’s another friend. A farmer. He brings me fresh produce now and then.’

‘Why does he come late?’

‘Well, farmers work all hours, you know.’

‘Did he come looking for Jimmy?’ I asked.

‘Jimmy? Oh, that woman you saw on your way here – she’s not quite right in the head and doesn’t know what she’s saying.’

‘But what’s happened to her son?’

‘You ask too many questions, Rina. It doesn’t pay to be curious in Sorrow Spring. You’ll come to understand our ways by and by. As I said, you must meet Joy and Hope. They won’t be in your school year – they’re a little older – but at least you’ll know what to expect. Today you can help me in the garden.’

‘Can I have another slice of bread first?’

‘It’s may I. And do you really need two slices of bread for breakfast? Lily didn’t warn me I’d be eaten out of house and home.’

‘We take as much as we want at Wroxwood.’

‘I can well imagine. Have another slice today. But you’ll need to work even harder in the garden, agreed?’

‘Yes.’

She looked at me, her head cocked to one side in expectation.

‘Yes, Aunt Agatha,’ I said.

*

At the top of Sorrow Spring Hill, Laburnum Lodge had a three-hundred- and-sixty-degree panorama. To the south lay the Worcestershire plain, a patchwork of fields and farmhouses, which ended abruptly at the Malvern Hills’ steep slopes. And in the distance on clear days, the outline of the Welsh Black Mountains mottled the horizon. To the north rose an urban landscape, the chimneys, roads and high-rise flats of Birmingham and the Black Country.

Wroxwood sat in a valley – we always looked up – the hills closing in upon us, absorbing us. At Laburnum Lodge, I felt disconnected. All was beneath me and far away.

The kitchen door opened onto a patio with wide herb beds to either side. I had often worked with the commune herbalist, Angharad, and Aunt Agatha was pleased that I knew many of the plants’ names and their medicinal purposes, although she was shocked that we used so many for cooking.

‘Potatoes with rosemary? What a waste. They’ll regret it come winter when they’re eaten up with rheumatism.’

‘Isn’t cannabis better?’

‘What?’

‘For aches and pains, we use cannabis.’

‘We do not grow such plants here.’

‘What’s in your greenhouse then?’

It stood unobtrusively to the side of the herbs behind a low wall where other beds lay, some covered with wire netting. I wandered closer to have a look. Aunt Agatha followed, laying an arm on mine, preventing me from getting too near.

‘These are medicinal plants that must be treated with caution. For your own good, touch nothing beyond this wall.’

‘Are they poisonous?’

‘Well, you know what they say – the dose makes the poison. Belladonna, for example, can help with aches and pains, but too much induces convulsions, even death.’

‘So all of them can be deadly?’ I asked.

‘Not at all. Tansy, penny royal and black cohosh are all helpful for female complaints.’ She pointed to the bright yellow, mauve and white blooms. ‘But others should only be handled by experts.’ We stopped in front of an innocuous-looking plant with small white flowers. ‘I may teach you someday. Until then, this area of the garden is out of bounds.’ She gave a sad smile. ‘I learnt all this from my mother and she from hers. But these arts are dying. It’s all about modern medicine. And I’ll not deny there’s been much progress. But at what cost?’

Aunt Agatha appeared not to be addressing me and I didn’t reply.

‘Come along. Let’s not get distracted,’ she said. ‘The vegetables require our attention.’

Beyond the patio and herbs, a small orchard of apple, damson and pear trees encircled a lawn. Behind the last of these trees lay another stretch of land where Aunt Agatha grew vegetables.

At the very end stood the chicken coop for bantam hens to lay their tiny eggs, which suited Aunt Agatha, who considered gluttony the gravest of sins.

That day we were to work on the vegetables. Given her age and tiny frame, Aunt Agatha was strong and fit, interspersing heavy digging with spraying and cutting. I was to help with weeding around the emerging broad beans and lettuces, and had to pluck off the multitude of caterpillars munching on their leaves.

Again, I was able to please Aunt Agatha by telling her the best way to catch slugs – a beer trap. She said she’d heard this before but never believed it. She was less amused when I told her the men used to pee around the chicken coop to ward off foxes.

‘How disgusting. I’d sooner put up with the foxes.’

Aunt Agatha’s reaction made me laugh, much to her bemusement.

Outdoors and away from the oppressive atmosphere of the house, my mood began to lift. Maybe I had misunderstood. Lullaby’s absence could be temporary. Perhaps she and Emesh were only visiting. Maurice, I remembered, had family on his mother’s side, who lived near Nîmes.

‘Can I ask a question, Aunt Agatha?’

‘Is it an impertinent one?’

‘I don’t know. It’s just you’re Lullaby’s sister.’

‘She’ll always be Lily to me.’

‘But you’re well … old.’

I was lucky, ‘old’ was the last adjective to offend Aunt Agatha. Age was something to glory in, not flee.

‘She never explained about us?’ Aunt Agatha asked.

‘She never mentioned you at all.’

‘Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?’ she said tartly. ‘You may as well know, we’re half-sisters, as well as cousins.’

I crumpled my forehead trying to figure out how this twofold relationship was possible.

Aunt Agatha put down her trowel and stretched her back. I noticed the pewter ring now hung on a chain around her neck.

‘Our mothers were sisters, who both loved the same man. My mother was much older than Lily’s. She was only seventeen when she had me. Lily was born when Aunt Nancy – that’s your grandmother – was in her late forties. She and Lily were so alike. Neither could settle in the village, but nor could they settle elsewhere. Lily came to live with us here, at Laburnum Lodge, when Aunt Nancy went off on one of her adventures. My own mother died when I was still very young. And after Nancy up and left, I more or less raised Lily on my own. Much good that did. I never had any influence over her. When all’s said and done, we’re simply different people from a different generation.’

‘In what way?’ I asked.

Aunt Agatha sighed. ‘Tradition, duty, loyalty are held cheap by the young. It’s all about love and self-expression. No sacrifice. No hard work. Lily would never help in the garden. I’d lay money down that she never so much as watered a pot plant at that commune of yours.’ I repeated Fletcher’s explanation of why my mother didn’t have to work on the farm or in the kitchens like other members of Wroxwood.

‘Lullaby sacrificed herself for the community by going out to work in a town and understanding the outside world.’

‘Did she, indeed? The poor thing,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘And what sort of work did she do?’

‘Something in an office. Maurice worked there too.’

Lullaby left early in the morning and came back late at night. Several Maurices had materialised over the years. In the commune she preferred socialising with the women, because the men were ‘so possessive and tiresome’.

No one would describe my mother as beautiful, but she emitted an energy that attracted others. I longed to be just like her.

After a couple of hours, my back became sore and I slowed. I came to the last of the lettuces and saw a fat caterpillar chomping away. Bending towards it, my fingers outstretched, I saw it was jiggling and jerking about in such a bizarre manner, I thought something must be vibrating the plant. Nothing, however, disturbed the rest of the leaf.

‘That’s weird,’ I said.

Aunt Agatha stood up straight and reached her hands behind her back to rub the base of her spine.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

‘Something’s up with this caterpillar.’

‘I don’t care what’s up with it. Get it off my lettuces.’

Again, I stretched my fingers forwards to pluck it from the leaf, but it continued to jerk about, and its skin appeared to be boiling; a sight so repellent, I drew back.

‘What’s the matter, child? It’s only a caterpillar. You’re as squeamish as Lily.’

I was far from squeamish. Wroxwood’s live-and-let-live philosophy hadn’t extended to grubs. My hand hung above the leaf, and still I recoiled.

Aunt Agatha marched across.

‘Really, stop making such a fuss.’

She leant over the lettuce, and she too stopped.

‘Oh dear,’ she said.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

At that moment, the caterpillar’s writhing became so intense it appeared to be dancing on the leaf. Then its thick green skin split open and a thousand tiny maggots poured forth, crawling across the remains of its flesh.

I cried out in disgust and turned away.

‘What’s happening?’ I asked.

Aunt Agatha’s voice was cold and flat.

‘Wasps. They lay their eggs inside the caterpillar. When they hatch, they feed on its live flesh until they’re fat enough to leave.’

‘Can’t you stop it?’

‘Nature is cruel,’ she said. ‘I thought they would have at least taught you that at Wroxwood.’

‘I’ve never seen that. Not ever.’

‘I’ve not seen it for a while,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘It doesn’t bode well.’

I couldn’t look at the caterpillar, but had recovered enough to glance at Aunt Agatha. Her eyes had drifted north to the heat-hazy outline of the urban sprawl beyond the hill.

‘If the wasps kill the caterpillars, doesn’t that mean you’ll get more lettuces?’ I asked.

‘I wasn’t thinking about the vegetables.’

‘What then?’

‘Nothing you need concern yourself about,’ she said. ‘Now, you must be hungry. You’ve done a good morning’s work. Run along and wash your hands and I’ll make lunch.’

*

The image of the caterpillar, writhing with maggots, and Aunt Agatha’s strange reaction, wouldn’t leave me and I had little appetite for my lunch of cheese salad, or for the special treat of preserved pears topped with cream, which she served afterwards because I had worked so hard.

As I ate, Aunt Agatha retrieved a bag of dark, purple meat from the utility room and pastry from the refrigerator, which she had prepared that morning before I had risen. She hummed ‘Sing a Song of Sixpence’ as she rolled it out and laid it across the base of an enormous ceramic dish. I couldn’t imagine how the two of us would get through the whole thing before it spoilt. And my experience with the hamburger at the service station had left me a little nervous of meat.

‘Do I have to eat that?’ I asked.

She looked up at me.

‘Would you mind?’

‘I don’t think I like meat,’ I said.

‘This isn’t any meat. These are the rooks the farmer brought me.’

‘Rooks?’

‘They’re a pest. He traps them and brings them to me.’

I thought of the rooks eating the dead cat. And Aunt Agatha eating the rooks. My face must have shown my disgust because she said, ‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to eat any yet. Although it is delicious. This is for the ladies.’

‘What ladies?’

The pewter ring had returned to her finger and Aunt Agatha twisted it as she said, with what seemed to me unnatural animation, ‘The Sorrow Spring Church Ladies, or the Sistren, as we call ourselves.’

‘Sistren?’

‘It’s an old word meaning sisters. We meet every week after Sunday service and usually I make a pie for us. Although now and then one of the other members does the honours. We’re friends – family, almost. Us Pines have always been active members. You will be too when you’re old enough. The Saint’s Day is in a few weeks and there’s so much to prepare. I don’t suppose Lily told you about our saint.’

‘No,’ I said.

‘St Faran died many hundreds of years ago, you understand, but the village still venerates him. And the ladies like to play their part. We’ll visit the spring tomorrow after church and you’ll get to meet them. Everyone’s dying to be introduced.’

The Sorrow Spring Church Ladies made me think of the older Gossdale women in their Sunday best, smart wool coats and matching hats; the height of respectability. But the Sistren frightened me; a unnatural, hissing word from another age. It licked at the nape of my neck and, in the warmth of the kitchen, I shivered.

Church

The following day was Sunday, which meant church. Aunt Agatha insisted I changed out of my dungarees into something more suitable.

‘I don’t have a dress,’ I told her.

‘No dress? Does your mother want you to grow up to be one of them. As if Ms Lowther and Ms Fisk aren’t enough for the village.’

‘Enough what?’

‘Never mind,’ she said irritably. ‘I’ll find something for you to wear. There must be a dress large enough somewhere.’

I had not inherited the Pines’ elfin figure, being broad shouldered and long limbed. Athletic, if one was feeling charitable. Aunt Agatha was not.

‘I can’t believe our little Lily produced such a heifer. If it wasn’t for your dimples and general sulkiness, I’d swear she was trying to pass off another’s daughter as her own. Here, try these.’ She pulled a green plaid pinafore dress and white blouse from a wooden chest. ‘These belonged to Joanne. A big girl in every sense of the word.’

I sniffed at the cloth, which was infused with a musty odour.

‘Put them on and stop making a fuss,’ Aunt Agatha said.

The pinafore and blouse flapped about me.

‘They’re horrid,’ I said.

‘Nonsense. You look like a nice young lady.’

I looked ridiculous. It was not my dress, however, that caused comment amongst the Sorrow Spring Church Ladies.

*

St Faran’s church lay just outside the village, about a mile from Laburnum Lodge; its red sandstone walls hunched in a dip, as if apologising for its existence. The road stood level with its roof and the tops of giant yews, whose branches reached across the graves and pointed to the winding path leading past the church and down to the saint’s sacred pool: Faran’s Spring, or Sorrow Spring as it came to be known, where all sickness and sorrow would be washed away.

My clothes were unsuited to summer walking, and I pulled at the bow, which Aunt Agatha had fastened too tightly around my neck.

‘It’s such a shame you won’t get to hear one of Reverend Rivers’ sermons this time,’ she said. ‘I always find them such a tonic. But you will get to meet Mrs Vane’s granddaughters, Joy and Hope. It would be lovely if you could all be friends.’

A solitary bell started tolling as we approached and we stopped at the timber-framed lychgate, the figure of St Faran carved in the central truss.

‘Now, let’s have a look at you,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘Your shoes are covered in dust and you’ve made a mess of that bow.’

She grabbed the ends and pulled them more tightly than before.

‘That’s better, and wipe your shoes on the grass.’

I did as she asked. It left them no cleaner than before. When Aunt Agatha looked away, I wriggled my neck and shoulders, trying to loosen the bow without her noticing.

The prospect of meeting Joy and Hope was making me nervous. The girls from the town in Gossdale wore make-up, listened to chart music and rolled up the waistbands of their school skirts so they finished halfway up their thighs. We commune children were misfits, viewed with suspicion. I had been indifferent to their hostility, because Emesh and Forest were with me. In Sorrow Spring, I was on my own.

A green car pulled onto the grass verge opposite.

‘Ah, here’s Verity,’ Aunt Agatha said.

A woman emerged from the driver’s side. She was around Aunt Agatha’s age, mascara and a touch of rouge hinting at the beauty she must once have been. Her clothes, a powder-blue suit, cream hat and small pearl earrings were more appropriate for a wedding than a Sunday service, especially next to Aunt Agatha, who wore the same plain black dress she had on my first evening in Sorrow Spring.

Verity approached with, what appeared to me, a forced smile.

‘And who is this?’ she asked.

‘My niece, Rina,’ Aunt Agatha said.‘I did tell you she was coming.’

‘Yes, but …’ the woman’s eyes trailed up and down me with such intense distaste I had to look away. ‘Surely you’re not serious,’ she said.

‘Deadly,’ Aunt Agatha said.

Verity opened her mouth as if about to say something else, but closed it again and only looked at me once more in a sort of amazed contempt.

Next to the car stood two girls, who were smirking and whispering behind their hands.

‘Come along, Joy, Hope,’ Verity said. ‘This is who I told you about, Miss Pine’s niece, Rina.’

They remained whispering by the car.

‘Girls,’ Verity called again.

This time they did come towards us. Joy was around sixteen, tall and toned. Her defined nose and strong jaw mirrored her grandmother’s, the sort of face considered handsome rather than pretty. She was rolling a lollipop around her mouth, the stick hanging out from one corner. A childish habit, at odds with her otherwise sophisticated appearance.

Hope was a little younger and less impressive, being short and squat, with dull eyes.

To my confusion their mocking expressions disappeared as they stepped forwards, shook my hand, dipped their heads and introduced themselves in an almost reverential manner.

‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ Joy said. ‘We’ll have to come and see you sometime at Laburnum Lodge.’

She looked to her grandmother as she spoke. Verity’s face gave little away.

‘Why don’t you go and check that the gate to the spring is open, Joy?’ she said. ‘We don’t want any fuss or delay getting in.’

Joy’s shoulders dropped and I thought she was about to refuse. However, she took Verity’s keys and sloped off. Hope followed.

Together they wound their way through the gravestones and along the path leading away from the church, before disappearing from view.

I was left with Aunt Agatha and Verity, who chatted about the rota for flower arranging as they ambled down the main path to the church and joined a small group of women gathered out front. Were these the Sorrow Spring Church Ladies – the Sistren? I didn’t get a chance to find out.

‘Go inside, Rina,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘We have matters to discuss that aren’t for your ears.’

The church door was open. Inside was dark and gloomy.

‘Can’t I stay out here?’ I asked.

‘I suppose you could look around the churchyard,’ she said. ‘Don’t wander too far.’

I noticed the ladies staring at me. One, who had a Yorkshire terrier yapping at her feet, murmured something to her neighbour, who agreed enthusiastically with whatever she had said. Their scrutiny made me uncomfortable and I walked to the far side of the church to escape their gaze.

A hawthorn hedge divided the church grounds from the field of grazing horses beyond. Here the graves were older than at the front and many of their dedications had been worn illegible by wind and rain. But there was an area of newer graves, some with flowers left on them.

Jeremiah Anthony. Maria Cox. And then one caught my eye. Violet Pine. Was this Aunt Agatha’s mother? I looked more closely at the inscription. ‘Violet Pine. Wife and Mother. Died 1919.’ No date of birth. Everyone buried in this section had died in 1919. All on different days so not an accident, some other misfortune.

Each grave had a similar dedication – no date of birth only that of their death. As I bent down to look at the bouquets, I had the feeling of being watched, the same sensation I’d had on the drive at the end of Laburnum Lodge when Lullaby left me.

I whipped around, scanning the crooked headstones.

No one.

Turning away from the graves and moving towards the church, I noticed how tiny white flowers had managed to find enough soil in the wall’s cracks and crevices to take seed and blossom. The cool, ruddy stones were rough beneath my fingers. Then something sliced into my left palm. I squealed and snatched my hand back to find blood oozing from a jagged gash. I brought the wound to my mouth and sucked at it.

A sharp, shiny object jutted from one of the cracks. It was wedged in fast, but I managed to wrench it free with my good hand. It looked like a small horn, dark grey, polished and curved.

‘What are you doing?’

I jumped back.

It took time for my eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight beyond the shadow cast by the church, and I saw only the silhouette of a man. When he stepped closer, I could see it wasn’t a man but a boy, a few years older than me. He had sharp cheekbones, a delicate mouth and soft down on his chin, but what struck me most were his eyes: they were dark – nearly black – and flecked with gold. The only other person I knew with eyes like that was my brother, Emesh, but where he was short and timid, this boy was tall and bold.

‘You placed something in that wall,’ he said.

‘I was pulling it out. It cut me.’ I showed him my bleeding palm as proof and held out the shiny object in my other hand. ‘I don’t know what it is.’

He took it from me and turned it over.

‘A bird’s beak,’ he said. ‘A crow, or possibly a rook.’

‘Why would anyone put a beak in a church wall?’ I asked.

He gave no answer, only stepped closer and with a sly smile said, ‘You’re Rina Pine, aren’t you?’

‘How do you know? Have you been watching me?’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Someone has.’

I had no way of knowing if he had been the person in the bushes at Laburnum Lodge, but he wasn’t Aunt Agatha’s night-time visitor. His face was unmarked by acne and his voice was smooth and without the local accent.

He looked at me half amused, then leant forward and whispered, ‘People have been talking about you.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘That’s what I’d like to find out. Why are they talking about you? Why are bird’s beaks stuck into the walls of the church? Why do a bunch of old ladies make the vicar so nervous?’

Up close, he smelt of cut grass and cinnamon. The scent made me giddy, a hot tingling sensation spread from my stomach and I was too confused to speak.

‘How much do you know?’ he asked.

‘About what?’

‘About Sorrow Spring.’

‘I just got here.’

‘But you must have picked up on something,’ he said.

I thought of our late-night visitor and of the sad, desperate woman next to the dead cat. An idea came to me.

‘Are you Jimmy?’ I asked.

His brow contracted.

‘And where did you hear that name?’

‘Your mother’s looking for you,’ I said.

‘I doubt that.’

‘We had to get out of the car – Maurice hit a cat, Mr Proudfoot – and she came and asked us if we’d seen you.’

‘Mr Proudfoot,’ he repeated.

‘It’s not your cat?’

He didn’t seem to hear me and was staring over my head, lost in thought.

‘So you’re not Jimmy?’

He looked back to me.

‘My name’s Luke Glebe. I’m staying with Reverend Rivers. He’s my godfather.’

He grasped my hand and shook it.

The heat of his flesh against mine and the minute twitch of his finger sent a thrill through me, one I’d never experienced before, and I pulled back as if I’d received an electric shock.

‘The main reason I wanted to speak to you was because I was told that under no circumstances were we to meet,’ he said. ‘Why’s that, do you think?’

Then I remembered Aunt Agatha’s words: It doesn’t pay to be curious in Sorrow Spring.

‘I’ve no idea. And forget what I said about Jimmy.’

‘I can’t forget it and you need to find out why we can’t meet.’

‘What does it matter?’ I asked.

‘Because you’re living with her – Agatha Pine.’

‘So? She’s my aunt.’

‘I know. The reverend told me you were coming. He didn’t say you were so young. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up like her.’

The thought of being old and fussy, of wearing dresses and coming to church each week made me so angry, I forgot my embarrassment.

‘I’m never going to be one of them,’ I said. ‘What’s it to you, anyway?’

My outburst surprised him into laughter.

‘So you don’t know anything?’ he asked.

‘About what?’

From the front of the church, I could hear Joy and Hope calling to their grandmother. Luke stepped back.

‘I need to go. We shouldn’t be seen together,’ he said. ‘And it’s best if you don’t mention our meeting to anyone.’

The thought of this beautiful, intriguing boy leaving my side suddenly seemed unbearable and my anger evaporated.

‘Will I see you again?’ I asked.

‘We’ll be neighbours soon,’ he said. ‘Keep your eyes and ears open, and when you find out where Jimmy is, come and tell me.’

‘How? I don’t know—’

But he was gone, loping amongst the graves, out through a gap in the hedge and then, vanished.

Were it not for the bright sunshine and the residual warmth of his hand in mine, I would have thought I’d seen a ghost.

Sermon

Winter still clung to the interior of St Faran’s church. Chill air rose from its thick flagstones and the narrow windows allowed little light to enter. Only the stained-glass behind the altar and on the west wall provided colour, speckling the dais with red, blue and gold.

My head was still full of Luke. The tingle of his touch lingering on my palm made my heart beat hard against my ribs. I took a seat next to Aunt Agatha and tried to compose myself. A rotund lady, one I remembered from the group outside, said hello and sat in the pew behind us.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ I said, looking at the books before me and numbers on the wooden board next to the pulpit.

‘Just copy what I do,’ Aunt Agatha said.

I turned round to see that Joy had joined her grandmother and was whispering furiously in her ear. Verity Vane gave a quick nod every time Joy paused. When they saw me watching, they stopped, smiled and picked up their hymn books.

Above them, the stained-glass window’s crude design depicted a wooded glade, a boy dressed in purple and a tall huntsman carrying an axe.

Aunt Agatha nudged me.‘Mr Wilson is standing in for Mr Rivers,’ she said. ‘We must be attentive and welcoming.’

The replacement vicar was an elderly man with a ring of white hair around the sides of his head but only tufts on top. His face was kindly and his voice soft. The exact opposite of the disapproving vicar in Gossdale. After leading us through the opening prayers, Mr Wilson addressed the congregation.

‘I must admit, prior to my visit to Sorrow Spring I was ignorant of Faran’s story.’ He gestured to the stained glass that had caught my attention. ‘Such tales, laced with local colour, are always fascinating and their narratives often hold lessons from which we could all benefit. Forgive me if, as an outsider, I read the tale that I know many of you will be familiar with.

‘Faran the Holy inherited the lands of Sorrow Hill at the age of seven. From infancy, his devotion and piety impressed his elders and he demonstrated a wisdom far beyond his years. His elder sister, Osana, pretended to love her brother, but the devil planted a seed of jealousy within her bosom.’

Aunt Agatha shuffled on the pew next to me.

‘And so it was, on a hunting trip her husband, Alfred, lured the boy away from the main party to a secluded ash grove. There, with a single blow of the axe, Alfred cut the boy’s head from his body.

‘So virtuous was Faran that where his head fell, water erupted from the ground and flowed down the hill forming the stream we know today as Sorrow’s Brook, and all who drank from it came into good health.

‘On hearing of Osana and Alfred’s treachery, the villagers dragged them to the very tree under which Faran had been slain. There, they were hanged and their bodies left until the rooks picked clean their bones.’

To me, the story sounded like the ones in the books Forest’s dad used to send him, and we’d all wait impatiently to borrow.

‘The tale is, of course, allegorical,’ Mr Wilson said. ‘A warning of betrayal by those dearest to us. But it also tells us that when we succumb to our baser instincts – envy, avarice and lust – we have set ourselves upon the path to damnation.’

Aunt Agatha lifted her head from contemplation of her hymn book.

MrWilson cleared his throat. ‘It’s always an honour to come to a parish and learn its ways. And I was keen to see your St Faran’s Spring, as mentioned in the legend.’

‘Legend?’ Aunt Agatha said, loud enough for the rest of the church to hear.

The vicar glanced at her and hesitated a moment before ploughing on.

‘The glade and spring are very picturesque and remind us of the glory of nature granted to us by the Lord. However, I was astonished to see the nearby trees hung with rags and to learn that parishioners drink the water to supplicate healing. Those seeking relief should do so through prayer. Votive offerings to the spirit of the well, although under the guise of a saint, is no less than paganism.’

‘Nonsense,’ Aunt Agatha said.

Mr Wilson looked at her in alarm. Mutterings ran through the congregation. The vicar ran two fingers under his collar and took a deep breath.

‘Far be it from me to criticise Reverend Rivers.’

‘Indeed!’ Aunt Agatha again, accompanied by a general rumble of dissent.

‘Far be it from me,’ Mr Wilson repeated, in a louder voice this time. ‘I understand the esteem in which such a diligent parish priest is held. However, I’m surprised the bishop hasn’t interceded. And I would urge all of you here to look into your hearts and ask yourselves, is this the Christian way?’

Aunt Agatha smacked her hymn book onto her lap. The whack echoed off the surrounding stone. Her face hardened and she leant forwards, as if about to stand. I thought she was going to march out of the church in disgust. Everyone was looking in her direction except for Joy. She was turned towards her grandmother, who observed Aunt Agatha with her shoulders lowered and her head still and steady, in much the same stance as a cat stalks a mouse.

Mr Wilson remained on the pulpit, open mouthed and anxious.

Silence fell on the church.

Then Aunt Agatha bent her head. Others followed. The vicar looked around in relief before proceeding to the next prayer.

I tried to understand what had passed. My eyes flicked over to St Faran’s window, the axe taking on a new meaning.

But my mind was still too full of Luke to spend much time pondering the vicar’s words and my aunt’s strange reaction. Besides, the punks’ behaviour at the motorway service station had been equally as incomprehensible, and I put it down as one of the many things I would have to get used to in the world outside Wroxwood.

Diligence

Aunt Agatha offered Mr Wilson no more than a cursory nod as he stood at the church door and said farewell to his temporary flock. A gesture copied by most of the ladies on leaving. Verity Vane ignored him entirely.

At Wroxwood, disputes were dealt with by a gathering of all members of the commune. The warring parties took turns airing their complaints before the group. Compromises were made and bridges mended. Sorrow Spring’s preferred option of frosty civility and decades-long feuds was unknown to me.

Once outside, Verity’s list of grievances poured forth at a volume calculated to carry to the vicar’s ears.

‘How people have the nerve coming into our village and lecturing us on our traditions, I don’t know. It seems to me the modern Church lets just about anyone take the cloth. What next – some happy-clappy preacher? A papist? I’d rather go without a Sunday service than have to listen to such interfering, sanctimonious cant.’

Aunt Agatha took her arm and hurried her down the path that ran next to the church.

‘This is neither the time nor the place, Verity,’ she said in hushed tones.

‘But it’s intolerable,’ Verity said, her voice no lower. ‘Someone should take a stand and we look to you, Agatha.’

My aunt pulled Verity further along the path.

‘We must choose our battles,’ she said. ‘The last thing we need is the bishop becoming involved. Mr Rivers will return next week, and this sorry substitute will be back preaching his ridiculous notions in some Yorkshire pit village.’

‘Even so, Agatha, such an insult.’

‘Discretion must take precedence over pride. We are at a delicate stage. I told you about the caterpillars. An ill omen, Verity.’

‘The caterpillars aren’t the only ill omen, if you ask me. That niece of yours …’ She looked in my direction.

‘What have I done?’ I asked.

‘Who taught you to use that tone with your elders? Those filthy hippies, no doubt.’

‘That’s enough, Verity,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘We cannot afford to quarrel amongst ourselves. Jimmy’s mother has returned. We have bigger fish to fry.’

Her words did little to quell Verity’s indignation and she looked as if she had plenty more to say. However, on seeing other ladies gather behind Aunt Agatha, their heads cocked to one side like sparrows along a fence, she held her tongue and only glared at me as if I had been the one to condemn their practices.

I lowered my head. No one seemed to want me here. The unfriendly scrutiny of the women outside the church and then to be called an ill omen only cemented the fact. Even Aunt Agatha viewed me as a burden, although from her conversation with the night visitor, I knew it was she who had insisted Lullaby hand me over. I didn’t want to stay in Sorrow Spring another week, let alone until Christmas.

Only the thought of seeing Luke again made the future less awful. I searched for him amongst the headstones.

He was nowhere to be seen.

Apart from the ladies following Aunt Agatha, the congregation had left the church grounds by now. Only one other person remained. This one held a bunch of flowers and stood in front of a grave. Dark earth covered the mound, and a temporary marker stood instead of a headstone. It read ‘Maude Barrowcroft – Beloved mother and grandmother’. The man nodded to Aunt Agatha and Verity. He was turned from me, but something in his lanky stance looked familiar. I was certain this was our night visitor. I glanced back after we had walked past but he was facing the grave, his features hidden, so I couldn’t be sure. And the name on the grave, Maude Barrowcroft, rang a faint bell.

We hurried through a gate at the edge of the church grounds, where the paved path became a dusty track that wound through brambles and nettles for about a hundred yards before coming to a group of ash trees surrounding a pool. As Mr Wilson had described, multicoloured cloths and ribbons dangled from the branches; a ragged version of the bunting I’d seen hanging in Gossdale Village for the Queen’s Silver Jubilee the previous year.

‘What are they for?’ I asked Aunt Agatha.

‘The spring brings healing,’ she said. ‘If you tie cloth to a nearby tree the wind and rain will rot that instead of your flesh. You will be cured.’

‘Er … that doesn’t sound right,’ I said.

We may have been labelled hippies at Wroxwood, but herbs and crystals were only ever used for mild complaints. Lullaby supplemented Angharad’s plant concoctions with a spoonful of Buttercup cough syrup from the pharmacy and called her a crank behind her back.

My scepticism didn’t bother Aunt Agatha.

‘It’s a more recent custom,’ she said. ‘Only the spring and its water are of true importance.’ She moved to a small stone sculpture of a boy next to the pool. ‘This is St Faran. He was slain on this spot.’ Above us a rook squawked from one of the boughs, as if disappointed Alfred and Osana no longer hung there to feast upon. Aunt Agatha looked up, probably thinking of her next pie. Wisely, the bird fluttered to a higher branch.

The pool was nearly empty and its flow was more of a trickle than a stream.

Innumerable springs, waterfalls and pools surrounded Wroxwood, all of them more impressive than this one.

‘It’s just a puddle,’ I said.

Verity Vane turned to me with a sour look.

‘Show some respect.’

‘No, Verity,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘Rina is correct. At this time of year, it is a little dry. But it’s not the force of the water that’s important.’

‘Still, it pains me how little there is now,’ Verity said.

Two other women had followed us along the path with Joy and Hope. One I recognised as the rotund lady who had sat on the pew behind us.

‘It’s better than the drought two years ago,’ she said. ‘Do you remember, it was completely dry? I was listless all summer.’

‘We all were, Blanche,’ Verity said. ‘That year we had no water, but we had certainty. This year – oh dear – it troubles me.’

I couldn’t help thinking her display of despair a little melodramatic.

Aunt Agatha straightened her back and didn’t acknowledge the comment. Instead, she brought out a pewter ewer from the bag she carried. The engraving on it was the same as her ring: the heads of both a woman and a bird. The image was large enough for me to see that the bird was a rook. Meanwhile Blanche had to kneel in the dirt to fill the ewer.

Then Joy and Hope took a step back and Joy tugged at my arm and I too retreated.

Aunt Agatha took the ewer from Blanche and held it aloft. She muttered some words I did not understand and poured the water into a cup, which she drank from, then passed it to Verity, who did the same. Blanche received it last. After taking a large gulp she returned it to Aunt Agatha, who stood for a moment in silence contemplating the empty tankard before raising her eyes and saying, ‘Do you know where we are, Verity?’

‘What a strange question,’ Verity replied. ‘Of course I know where we are.’

‘And yet you ask for certainty.’

Verity said nothing and waited for an explanation.

‘You were concerned by Mr Wilson’s denunciation of our traditions.’

‘If he had his way, the bishop would bar our access to the spring,’ Verity said.

‘By next Sunday it will no longer be under the bishop’s control,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘You may not be aware, but next week I’m travelling into Rowlstone to see a solicitor. As Jed Barrowcroft’s trustee until he reaches twenty-five, I must be present. You see, soon the spring will no longer lie on church land. The diocese is in need of money and is selling off all unnecessary property. From next week, the spring forms part of the Barrowcrofts’ farm.’

Now I realised why the name on the grave marker was familiar to me. It had been Maude Barrowcroft’s funeral Aunt Agatha attended on the day of my arrival in Sorrow Spring.

‘The Barrowcrofts have bought the spring and you never thought of saying anything to me or the other ladies?’ Verity asked.

‘Secrecy was paramount. I know it’s difficult to believe, but even among us there are those who would like to have our access cut off so my leadership would be seen as a failure.’

‘Surely not,’ Verity said.

Her hands travelled to her pearl earrings, which she proceeded to turn between two knobbly fingers.

‘It’s shocking that anyone would put personal ambition above the future of the Sistren.’ Aunt Agatha dipped down and refilled her cup from the ewer. ‘Some people think I’m past my prime and no longer as sharp as I once was. Others simply hope this is the case. In one thing that fool of a vicar was correct: the story of St Faran serves as a warning that those close to us may also betray us.’

She drank from the cup.

‘You cannot think …?’ Verity said.

Aunt Agatha raised an eyebrow in amusement. ‘You, Verity? Of course not. Why would you want to replace me? The patience and diligence required for leadership is onerous. It would weigh you down. As you’ve told me many times, you’re glad this burden has fallen upon the Pine family.’

Verity gave a weak smile, unsure of Aunt Agatha’s sincerity. Joy’s eyes darted between the two women.

‘Why so downcast?’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘Rina will think you’re not happy to save the spring. This is her first time here.’

Verity continued turning her earrings. ‘Of course. It’s excellent news. I’m sure that, given enough time, your niece will appreciate it. She ought to, as a member of the Distaff.’

She cast her eyes around to see the reactions of the other women, all of whom seemed to find the bushes suddenly fascinating.

‘A member of what?’ I asked.

My question was ignored, but I saw Hope smirk and Joy scowl.

*

‘Do you know what they mean by the Distaff?’ I asked Joy as we made our way back from the pool.

Aunt Agatha and Verity were walking ahead. Blanche, the rotund lady, laboured behind us with the ewer full of spring water.

‘Ask your aunt,’ Joy said.

‘Are you one – a member of the Distaff?’

For some reason, my question annoyed her. She scowled as she had at the spring, and her sister spoke instead.

‘There’s no harm in saying.’ Hope stopped walking. ‘It’s only that—’

Joy grabbed her arm. I noticed her hands had large palms and thick fingers. I imagined them when she was older, thin, gnarled and veiny like her grandmother’s. She saw me looking and, appearing self-conscious, let go of Hope.

‘That’s enough,’ she said. ‘Granny’s waiting so she can drop us home.’

When we reached the road, Verity called Joy over and said something to her. There was a short discussion I couldn’t hear before Joy sidled up to me and said, ‘Would you like to come to mine next Saturday? We can, y’know, hang out.’

Hope frowned in confusion.

‘But we’re meeting Luke on Saturday.’

My ears pricked up.

‘In the evening. Rina’s too young to be out late. Isn’t that right, Rina?’ Joy said.

I hadn’t warmed to Joy and Hope, and I was sure they disliked me. However, the faint hope of seeing Luke again made me eager to go. Out of the corner of my eye, Aunt Agatha gave me a quick nod and I agreed.

‘Excellent,’ Verity said, and clapped her hands together. A reaction I didn’t altogether trust.

‘We’ll come to Laburnum Lodge before then. But we want to make sure you’re free next week.’

‘I can speak for Rina,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘She’s nothing planned whatsoever.’

‘See you soon,’ Joy said.

‘I’m dropping the girls off now,’ Verity said. Her eyes travelled to me as she added, ‘I look forward to the meeting.’

*

Aunt Agatha’s pace on our return journey made no allowance for the rising heat and I had to jog in my cumbersome pinafore to keep up with her.

‘What is the Distaff?’ I asked.

‘Distaff refers to the female line. Mother to daughter rather than father to son.’

‘Doesn’t that make every woman a member of the Distaff?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘So what is the Distaff? Joy said I was to ask you.’

‘Really, this is most annoying. Lily should have explained all of this to you long ago. Now is neither the time nor the place.’ Her pace increased.

‘Joy and Hope know.’

‘The Distaff are privileged. Only we can take the water from the pool and only when we reach a certain age. Others aren’t allowed without special permission.’

‘Who’s to stop them?’

‘No one. It’s just tradition.’

‘Who has special permission?’

‘The sick, when deserving and our usual vicar, Reverend Rivers.’

‘What about Luke, his godson?’

‘Luke Glebe?’ she said. ‘What made you think of him?’

I tried to look innocent as I said, ‘Joy and Hope were talking about him.’

‘I might have known,’ she said. ‘You put that boy out of your head. Next Saturday, I’ll expect you home by five.’

Naturally her instructions only made him more intriguing. And all I could think of were a pair of dark gold-flecked eyes as Aunt Agatha talked on about Ms Fisk getting a part-time job and the mess Verity always made of organising the church flowers.

At the edge of the village, instead of turning left towards Laburnum Lodge, Aunt Agatha walked straight on.

‘Aren’t we going home?’ I asked.

‘Have you been listening to a word I’ve said? Of course we’re not going home. We have Sunday service to attend.’

‘We’ve already been to Sunday service,’ I said.

‘The real one,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘At our Moot Hall.’

I was hot, tired and bored.

‘Can’t I go back to the house? At Wroxwood, we did what we liked on Sunday.’

Aunt Agatha stopped and looked me directly in the face.

‘You are not at Wroxwood now. You are in Sorrow Spring. You will attend the meeting at the Moot Hall. The ladies need to be introduced to you. You are a Pine. That means you’re part of this village and this village is part of you.’

‘I don’t want to be part of this village.’

‘Immaterial,’ she said, and strode off.

The Moot Hall

The Moot Hall was a low, pitched-roofed, pebble-dashed building set back from the main road. Few would notice it, just as few would notice the ladies now congregating there, awaiting my arrival. Once these women had other definitions: wife, mother, receptionist, nurse, teacher. Now they were simply poor old dears; their soft faces loosened by jowls, their swollen ankles spilling over the top of thick- laced Hush Puppies. Irrelevant, unthreatening and invisible – a horde of such grey-haired biddies could have descended on any high street in the country without anyone remarking upon it.

Aunt Agatha bustled me through the Hall’s narrow entrance and into a large, rectangular room where a semi-circle of expectant eyes formed around me. In their own domain, the ladies’ scrutiny was more invasive than at the church. As one, they leant forwards, their noses twitching and inquisitive. I edged back to the door. Aunt Agatha gently, but firmly, pushed me towards them.

‘She’s very dark,’ said the rotund lady who had carried the urn.

‘Her father’s an American, Blanche,’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘American – how wonderful.’

In contrast, Verity glowered at me and reached out a bony hand, the knuckles swollen, the fingers emaciated, and prodded my arm. I wasn’t used to old people. To me, that hand was a deformed and scaly claw. I brushed it off with a little screech.

She withdrew the claw and cradled it next to her chest as though wounded.

‘I told you, my dear, she’s positively savage. Look how she just attacked me.’

‘She did nothing of the sort,’ Blanche said. ‘You frightened her, Mrs Vane.’

Verity sucked in her cheeks, as if forced to swallow vinegar. ‘You wouldn’t allow me my say at church, Agatha. But this –’ she pointed to me, ‘– this just won’t do. There have to be other options.’

‘May I remind you, Verity, that I am the leader of the Sistren. The point is not up for discussion. Rina is my niece and Lily’s daughter. And unless you’re intending to have more children at your age, that’s an end to the matter,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘How often you’ve told me you’re glad you don’t have to shoulder the responsibility of leadership. And nor could you, even if Rina had not come to join us.’

No one had told me I had joined anything. But in that hall, with all eyes upon me, I hadn’t the courage to protest.

‘Everyone knows, I have no ambition in that direction,’ Verity said. ‘I’m only thinking of the Sistren and—’

Aunt Agatha raised a forefinger to silence her. ‘As you have no ambition, you can have nothing more to say. More important business is at hand. We’re behind with the St Faran’s Feast preparations as it is. This must be our priority. I wish to continue the meeting as usual.’

Verity Vane took a moment, then with very ill grace, waved her crooked hands.

‘Tea and pie, everyone,’ she said.

While most of the semi-circle dispersed, the shortest and most wrinkled woman shuffled towards me. She clasped the arm of my blouse and her foggy eyes peered into mine, whilst emitting short mewing noises and rubbing the cloth between her hands.

‘That’s enough, Mrs Reed,’ Blanche said.

Mrs Reed carried on pawing at me and making the pitiable noises of an injured animal. After Verity’s reproof, I daren’t push her off.

‘Come along, dear,’ Blanche pressed. ‘Let’s have a nice cup of tea.’

But Mrs Reed continued to stare, pursing and loosening her lips, drool running from the corners of her mouth. Suddenly the fog vanished from her eyes and her expression contorted from benign befuddlement to malicious exhilaration.

‘You did it. Don’t think you won’t pay.’ She gave a sort of hissing laugh.

Blanche looked alarmed and tugged at her arm. As quickly as it had disappeared, the fog returned and Mrs Reed retreated beneath the folds of her skin. Blanche forcibly detached my sleeve from her grip and Mrs Reed allowed herself to be led away, meek and subdued.

The other ladies observed with wide eyes and a knowing silence.

Aunt Agatha stepped in.

‘Come on, ladies. Chop chop. We haven’t got all day,’ she said. ‘Cut the pie, please, Verity.’

The ladies did start to move towards the trestle table on the far side of the room, but none of them could resist turning to me on their way and lingering in confusion before continuing to the refreshments.

I stayed put. Mrs Reed’s words had disquieted me, and I wished I were anywhere but in the Moot Hall.

A large metal urn stood next to the great rook pie Aunt Agatha had made the day before. If anyone were in doubt of its filling, a ceramic fledgling burst from its centre, its beak open, demanding to be fed.

Verity took up a large knife.

‘To our forebearers,’ she said.

‘Our forebearers,’ the other women repeated as Verity cut herself a thick slice before doling out thinner ones to the other ladies. They attacked their plates with alarming ferocity and I watched, half fascinated, half appalled, as they sank their teeth into the dense flesh with near animal relish.

None was offered to me and I wouldn’t have accepted it if it had. On the way to the Hall we had passed the Sorrow Spring sign. And though all evidence of Mr Proudfoot had gone, I couldn’t push the image of his mangled body from my mind, nor that of the rooks swooping in upon his freshly dead carcass with a voracity mirrored by the elderly women gathered before me.

When the pie had been demolished, they patted their mouths with lace handkerchiefs as if they had nibbled upon scones. Then they drew close together in small conspiratorial groups.

I thought perhaps they didn’t take into account the sharp ears of the young compared to the old because, although they lowered their voices, their discussion was perfectly audible to me.

‘Mrs Reed may be senile, but I think she understands more than we give her credit for, don’t you, Mrs Anthony?’ Verity said.

‘Oh, rather! Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, and so on. And after all, what is Mrs Reed if not a child again now?’

‘Rina seems a sweet enough girl to me,’ Blanche said.

Her opinion was drowned out.

‘No good will come of it.’

‘She can’t really be one of the Distaff?’

‘I’m not sure that Agatha’s still the full ticket.’ This from Verity, who tapped a finger to her temple. ‘What a time to bring this girl among us.’

‘And with St Faran’s Feast in a few weeks.’

‘Exactly, Mrs Cox. And having to call it St Faran’s Feast,’ Verity said with distaste. ‘Another of Agatha’s innovations. A new name to make it more acceptable. Kowtowing to the diocese. Since when did we defer to them?’

Mrs Cox, I realised was the woman with the yappy dog. I had observed her feeding it pie morsels under the table and wondered what Aunt Agatha would make of this waste.

‘Kowtowing indeed,’ Mrs Anthony said. ‘And you know we have a plague of parasitic wasps. They’ve infested the caterpillars. I saw them myself. So revolting, I nearly fainted. A plague so close to the Saint’s Day – St Faran’s Feast – ridiculous new name as you say – that cannot be a good sign.’

‘Most certainly not.’ Mrs Vane shook her head.

She turned in my direction. I thought finding me within earshot would disconcert her. A venomous smile told me she had known I was there all along and had wanted me to hear every word.

Blanche separated herself from the group and approached me in a cloud of lily of the valley scent.

‘So you’re an American?’ she said.

‘Er … no.’

‘I’ve always loved Americans – jazz, rock ’n’ roll, Motown.’

I had no idea what she was talking about.

‘Don’t mind Verity Vane or the others. Their bark’s worse than their bite. They’re not used to outsiders, but we’re really a very friendly bunch. And when you’re settled in, you must come to tea at my house and listen to some of my old seventy-eights. My father only approved of classical music. But with my first pay packet I bought a gramophone and a recording by Count Basie. And what could he say? It was my money, after all.’

‘What’s a gramophone?’

‘You’d call it a record player. You know, you do remind me so much of a little girl who was in my class when I was still a teacher. A lovely little girl, Angie. I often wonder what happened to her.’

She swayed a little and, beneath lily of the valley, I smelt gin.

Aunt Agatha appeared at my side.

‘We’ll be going in now, Blanche,’ she said to my new friend. ‘Take Mrs Reed, will you?’

Blanche intercepted the old woman as she shuffled towards me once more.

‘Prayer Room now,’ she said in a cheery voice and dragged her away.

‘What’s wrong with Mrs Reed?’ I asked Aunt Agatha.

‘Poor Lavinia. She’s in her second childhood,’ she said. ‘We must humour her. She barely knows what day of the week it is. And Mr Proudfoot seems to have made it so much worse.’

My stomach lurched.

‘Who?’

‘Mr Proudfoot. Her cat. Mr Murray from the shop found him next to the road. It looked like he’d been hit by a car. But we can’t tell Mrs Reed that. We just say he’s gone roaming. That’s what cats do, isn’t it? The problem is she’s realised something’s wrong. Anyway, pay no attention. It’s nothing to do with you. You can amuse yourself for half an hour while we’re in the Prayer Room, can’t you?’

I nodded.

It was lucky that Aunt Agatha was distracted by the ladies milling around the Hall, or she may have noticed my panicked look. Floored by learning of Lullaby’s meeting with Emily Frain, she’d not recalled my admission about the cat. But Mrs Reed did seem to know, or at least sense something. Were the same rooks that fed on him cooked in the pie? Had Mrs Reed, in a roundabout way, been eating her own cat?

I slipped into the kitchenette and poured myself a glass of water and, from there, watched as Aunt Agatha called out.

‘Ms Lowther. Ms Fisk.’

The two ladies nearest the back, pulled open heavy oak doors. The others stood aside as Aunt Agatha and Verity Vane strode into the Prayer Room, followed by Mrs Cox and Mrs Anthony, struggling with a huge copper ewer. Once they had passed, the other ladies joined them and the doors shut.

After a time, I could hear Aunt Agatha’s voice, but what she said was indistinct.

There was little in the room to occupy me other than the bookcase. Judging by the layers of dust, its contents were of no more interest to old ladies than to a twelve-year-old girl: The Holy Bible, The Book of Common Prayer and one bound in black leather – The Comprehensive History of the Saints. From this last one, a small piece of purple cloth hung between two pages.

It fell open at ‘The Legend of St Faran’. I saw in more detail the image I had seen in the stained glass at the church – a boy kneeling next to a man carrying a broad-bladed axe.

Jealous of the respect and wealth Faran commanded, his elder sister, Osana, and her husband, Alfred, conspired to kill the boy, so that they may rule together.

Alfred led Faran to a remote field. There he smote off his head with an axe. Where his blood fell, a spring burst forth from the ground, granting healing to all who drank from it.

The picture upset me and I shut the book, replaced it on the shelf and walked to the back window. I was able to see into the Prayer Room, which was half the width of the front part of the building. Its long stained-glass windows appeared incongruous against the pebble dash.

The ladies all faced Aunt Agatha, Verity Vane and Mrs Cox, who addressed them from a raised stage. Had they turned round, they would have spotted me, but they were too engrossed in their discussion. Aunt Agatha’s furrowed brow told me that the topic was urgent and important. Fletcher had a similar expression when discussing Wroxwood’s finances.

The space immediately in front of the window was occupied by a small square of tarmac where Verity Vane had parked her car.

Inside sat a boy. He looked about my age.

My mind leapt to a name.

Jimmy.

I raced outside and around to the back of the hall.

Luke would be impressed I had found him so quickly.

Fairy Tales

I peeked around the wall to check none of the ladies were looking in my direction, then approached the car and tapped on the window. The boy swivelled in his seat, squinted at me and smiled. Something about him – the thick-lensed glasses, perhaps – reminded me of Forest, though they were very different as this boy was much younger and shorter.

I pulled the car door open.

‘Are you Jimmy?’ I asked.

‘How do you know about Jimmy?’ He looked frightened.

‘Someone was looking for him,’ I said. ‘You’re not him?’

He hung his head.

‘Aunt Verity has given me Jimmy’s school shirt to wear. His nametag is stitched inside.’

‘Verity Vane is your aunt?’

I considered returning to the Hall.

‘Not my real aunt,’ he said. ‘But I have to say she is because … oh, I can’t remember the reason.’

‘Who are you if you’re not Jimmy?’

‘Peter,’ he said. ‘And I know who you are, Rina Pine. I saw you gardening with Miss Pine. We live in the white bungalow down the lane. Why are you looking for Jimmy?’

‘I met his mother. She doesn’t know where he is.’

‘But she does want to find him?’ Peter’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘Do you think my mother will come?’

‘How should I know?’

He hung his head again.

‘She won’t. I know she won’t, but my nana might. As soon as I can, I’m getting away.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘You should too.’

My instinct and this boy’s instruction both pointed in the same direction.

‘How old are you?’ I asked.

‘Fourteen.’

He looked closer to ten or eleven, with a smooth face and narrow jaw.

‘Can’t you call your nana and tell her to come and fetch you?’ I asked.

‘Aunt Verity’s locked my wheelchair in the boot. I can’t get around without it.’

I looked down at his legs. Through his trousers, I could see they were very thin.

‘She can’t do that to you,’ I said.

‘She does what she likes. Says I’m useless,’ he said. ‘If I was a dog, I’d be put down.’

His face crumpled and he appeared on the verge of tears. I was so angry with Verity, I felt like marching into the Prayer Room and telling her what a hateful old witch she was. Then I had another idea.

‘Tell me your nana’s number and I’ll phone for you.’

‘Would you? You can’t tell anyone. Especially not Miss Pine. She mustn’t know. You’ll have to use the phone box opposite the Red Cow Inn.’

I’d yet to venture into the village and had no idea where he meant.

‘Why does Verity keep you here, if she doesn’t like you?’

‘It’s charity, she says. The water from their sacred well is healing. If I had enough faith, I’d be able to walk.’

‘That’s all made up,’ I said. ‘The saint didn’t really exist. And the water isn’t special. In Gossdale there was this tree, the Devil’s Oak. The villagers said if you ran around it anti-clockwise three times at midnight, the Devil would appear. We tried loads and it never worked. It’s all fairy tales.’

‘Aunt Verity says the spring worked with her nephew. Luke nearly died until the water saved him.’

Luke. My stomach backflipped.

‘What did he nearly die of?’ I asked.

‘Couldn’t breathe after he was born or something,’ Peter said.

‘Do you know him well?’ I tried not to sound too interested.

‘A bit. He’s all right, better than the others, and he comes and sees me sometimes.’

‘Perhaps I can come and see you as well. I mean, until your nana fetches you.’

‘Sure. Come to the bungalow. It’s only a couple of hundred yards down from you.’

‘Cool. Do you like books? I’ve got The Count of Monte Cristo. We could read it together.’

Peter’s mouth went to form the word ‘yes’, but he didn’t get to articulate it.

‘And just what might you be up to, young lady?’ a voice said.

I spun around. My conversation with Peter had made me incautious and I hadn’t noticed that only two ladies now addressed the group in the Prayer Room. Verity Vane stood three feet away from me, malice dancing in her eyes.

‘I’m not up to anything,’ I said.

‘Did anyone give you permission to leave and run around outside to flirt with boys?’

‘I wasn’t flirting. And I don’t need your permission.’

‘We’ll see about that.’

She grabbed my arm, the misshapen knuckles digging into my flesh. Her joints might be swollen and her hair a blue-grey but she was quick and strong.

Verity marched me back into the Hall.

Aunt Agatha had left the Prayer Room and was waiting for me. ‘I told you,’ Verity said as she released my arm. ‘You’ll have trouble with this one.’

‘I haven’t done anything,’ I said.

‘No, dear. But ask before you go outside next time,’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘Do you know she takes Peter’s wheelchair away and keeps him prisoner?’ I rubbed my arm where Verity’s grip was still imprinted upon it.

‘What nonsense,’ Verity said.

‘He can’t go anywhere.’

‘Peter is allowed his wheelchair if he behaves,’ Verity said to Aunt Agatha. ‘Otherwise he’s uncontrollable. He’s lacked a father’s firm hand. Absolutely no discipline. Something he has in common with your niece.’

‘That’ll do,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘Why don’t you go back to the Prayer Room and tell the ladies we’re finished for today?’

But Verity Vane had no intention of finishing.

‘You can’t be soft with her, Agatha. She’s a true Pine, headstrong and reckless, just like her mother, and look how she ended up.’

Lullaby had let me down, abandoned me and I was angry with her, but she was still my mother.

‘How dare you speak about Lullaby like that, you stupid old cow,’ I said.

Verity’s eyes widened in disbelief.

‘See – see, Agatha. This is what we’re dealing with. This is the girl you want us to take in as our own.’

A low murmuring emanated from the far end of the room. The rest of the Sorrow Spring Sistren had left their seats in the Prayer Room and were looking at us through the open doors, mumbling their concern.

Aunt Agatha’s reaction was swift.

‘Meeting over. Come along, ladies. You’ll look after Mrs Reed, won’t you, Blanche? The rest of you, no need to dally.’

Verity Vane threw me a vengeful look, then retreated to her companions, where she hissed about hippies and promiscuity.

At that moment, I missed my brother and my friends more than ever. They would have been at my side. The time a Gossdale boy set his dog on me, Forest and Emesh threw pebbles at it until it ran away. Here, there was no one to take my part. Everyone was strange and their ways unfathomable. Aunt Agatha must have sensed my distress because when everyone had gone, she took my hand in hers. Unlike Verity’s, it was soft and paper thin.

‘Don’t take it personally. Verity’s never much liked us Pines.’

‘Why?’

‘I put it down to jealousy. Our family have always been of more importance to the Sistren than hers. However, there is some truth in what she says about Peter. You’d do better to stay away from that boy.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

She tilted her head. ‘Nothing, as such. But you know, you have a special standing in the village, being my niece.’

‘It doesn’t feel like it.’

‘You do,’ she insisted. ‘And Peter – he’s rather rough. Anyway, he’ll not be staying long. His mother’s coming for him soon.’

I was pleased for Peter, but a little sad for myself. I had hoped to see him and, even more so, Luke.

‘Peter said he was going to his nana’s not his mother’s,’ I said.

‘Did he?’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘I must have got it wrong.’

*

As soon as we arrived home, Aunt Agatha took the key she kept in her purse and opened the study, which lay on the ground floor at the back of the house, next to the kitchen and overlooking the patio. Its wooden shutters were kept closed at all times. I tried to listen from the stairs and could hear the click of the telephone dial turning but Aunt Agatha spoke too softly for me to hear her words. I didn’t have to wait long to know their purpose, however. That night a visitor came. Whether it was the same one as before, I couldn’t tell. Whoever it was arrived and left by the kitchen and all I got to hear was the opening and closing of the back door.

Joy and Hope

Over the next week, I started to become accustomed to the ways of Laburnum Lodge. Worcestershire days were warm and long; tomatoes ripened quickly in the summer sun and the cherry trees hung heavy with fruit. In the mornings we were either out in the garden or visiting some woman ‘with child’. These women were usually young, unmarried, and had come to Sorrow Spring to stay with one of the village families. Aunt Agatha would bring special tisanes of rose and mint to alleviate morning sickness and, after the birth, send over jars of home-made jam and any excess from the orchard. Whenever I questioned her interest in these young women, she maintained that she was merely being useful to the less fortunate.

Her afternoons and evenings were spent reading the Bible and crocheting baby jackets and booties while I explored the house. On the first floor were my and Aunt Agatha’s bedrooms, along with two spare ones and a bathroom. The second-floor rooms were unfurnished with only a few chests and broken tables, gathering cobwebs. In the furthest of these a staircase led to the attic.

Aunt Agatha told me it had once been servants’ bedrooms, but they had fallen out of use after the First World War. A small window inserted in the roof allowed a view of the whole village, and sometimes I went up there and pretended that a distant dot moving along a street was Luke.

I tried to follow his instruction to ‘keep my eyes and ears open’. But other than the night visitor, whose existence I was reluctant to reveal, I had nothing to report. Luke already knew Peter, so Jimmy’s hand-me-downs wouldn’t be news.

Without friends or access to many books, the days became long and the evenings interminable. Joy and Hope didn’t keep their promise to come to Laburnum Lodge, I’d not managed to spot Luke on our morning visits and I was forbidden to see Peter.

‘Take my word for it, Rina, Joy and Hope are far better companions for you,’ Aunt Agatha said when I asked. ‘You’ll soon be as close to them as your friends at Wroxwood.’

‘But they’re not going to be my friends, are they?’ I asked. ‘You said the Vanes are jealous of us.’

Aunt Agatha pressed her lips into a smile.

‘I must say, your maturity in some matters surprises me. You’re correct. The Vanes are not our friends. And yet we must be theirs. How else will we know what they’re up to? Who was it said, keep your friends close and your enemies closer? Lord knows, some of the people I have to deal with make my flesh crawl. It’s good that you understand these things. We can’t always pick our company. We are Pines. One day you’ll come to understand what that means.’

In the end, it wasn’t the faint hope of seeing Luke, nor a spirit of espionage that took me to the square, modern house at the centre of the village where Joy and Hope lived. By the time Saturday rolled around, a gnawing loneliness made any company desirable. So at eleven in the morning, I presented myself, freshly bathed and wearing my pinafore dress.

Their father answered the door. He resembled Verity, though he had a weak chin and his eyes lacked his mother’s sharpness. He took a moment to appraise me before ushering me inside. From the hall I could hear Joy’s mother saying, ‘It’s only one day. She’s Agatha’s niece and your grandmother insists.’

Mr Vane pretended not to hear and swept me into the lounge with a smile.

‘Here she is.’

His wife rearranged her face into a look of delight. Joy sat on the sofa, a lollipop thrust into the corner of her mouth. She raised a hand in greeting but didn’t speak, whilst Hope sprawled on the floor in front of an enormous television.

Luke wasn’t there.

‘I’ll let you young people get on with it then,’ Mr Vane said. When he and his wife had left the room, Joy and Hope returned their focus to the television. They were glued to an anarchic programme where everyone ran around shouting and hurling foam flans at one another. The audience hooted with laughter every time a flan splatted someone in the face. Joy and Hope joined in, tears rolling down their cheeks.

I had no idea what was going on.

‘Don’t you like Tiswas?’ Hope asked.

‘Aunt Agatha doesn’t have a television. She says it rots the brain. And at Wroxwood we couldn’t get reception.’

I could see Hope struggling with this notion.

‘Yeah, well, we like it,’ she said.

Her attention switched back to the screen.

Going to their house had been a mistake. I wasn’t wanted and felt more alone in a room with two people ignoring me than I ever did at Laburnum Lodge. As the frantic uproar on the television was incomprehensible, I picked up a magazine that had been left on the side table. It was called Jackie, a new one to me. I usually had to make do with Lullaby’s cast off Cosmopolitan or Spare Rib. Inside it had black-and-white photo strips telling different love stories. The first one was of a girl who had her heart set on a boy. He didn’t seem to notice her and preferred her friends. Then one night at a party they started talking. He admitted she’d always been his favourite and they ended up kissing. The photo had the girl’s lips pressed to the boy’s. I gasped. I had never kissed anyone and couldn’t help imagining myself and Luke replacing the figures in the picture. I read the story over three more times, then tore out the pages, folded them up and stuffed them into my pocket.

Joy and Hope were too engrossed in Tiswas to notice what I was up to and only looked away from the television when the doorbell rang.

My heart thudded at the thought that it was Luke, arriving early.

Joy answered the door.

It wasn’t Luke, but another man. He had a strong local accent and faint whine to an otherwise gruff voice – Aunt Agatha’s night visitor. Moments later he entered the room, dressed in the same clothes I’d seen him wearing next to Maude Barrowcroft’s grave. I could see now that he was in his twenties. A thin moustache stretched across his top lip; pimples pock-marked his cheeks. I was more certain than ever that this was the person who had come to Laburnum Lodge that first night.

‘I’m heading into Rowlstone with Jed,’ Joy’s mother said. ‘Can you take this stew round to Mrs Reed? I won’t have time later and she hardly eats if someone doesn’t cook for her.’

‘We’re watching Tiswas, and it stinks round there,’ Joy protested.

‘It won’t take you five minutes.’

‘It’ll take five days to get the pong out of my clothes. I think she pees on the floor.’

‘That’s enough, Joy. Just do as I say for once. I’ve had enough of your backchat.’

Joy was about to continue the argument when Jed said, ‘I think you’ll find it’s worth your while.’

He raised his eyebrows and both Joy and Hope appeared to understand his meaning.

‘All right, then,’ Joy said.

‘Excellent,’ her mother said. ‘And Rina won’t mind, will you?’

‘Perhaps I’ll just go home,’ I said.

‘No need for that,’ Joy’s mother said. ‘It will give the girls a chance to show you around the village. Why don’t you buy an ice cream from the shop on the way back? There’s some change in the jar by the hob, Joy.’

This speech brought me to Jed’s attention.

He stepped forwards and I automatically stood up.

‘Rina. Miss Pine’s niece, right?’

He stuck out his hand and I had no choice but to take it in return. His palm was moist and he held onto mine longer than I wished, as his eyes rolled over my pinafore dress from the hem to the neck. Unconsciously, my free hand moved to my throat as he did so and I was glad the loose fabric hid my body, which in recent months had started to curve and expand in ways that unsettled me.

When he let go, I wiped my hand down my side to remove the imagined contagion.

Joy’s mother noticed.

‘Better get going, Jed,’ she said. ‘Take care of Rina, you two.’

Jed leered at me. ‘She looks like she needs taking care of,’ he said.

He left the room and I waited for the car engine to start outside.

‘Who was that?’ I asked Joy.

‘Jed? He owns the Barrowcroft farm. He’s our cousin. Second or third – not sure to be honest.’

I ran my hand down my dress once more to make sure all traces of him were gone.

Joy seemed uninterested in talking about him. But Hope looked at me quizzically. I wondered if she knew of his midnight visits to my aunt. No – Jed and Aunt Agatha’s conversation made it clear their meeting was to be kept secret. St Faran’s Spring now lay on Barrowcroft land. And for that, Aunt Agatha had promised something in exchange. Something to be kept secret from the rest of the village.

Joy insisted we watched the end of Tiswas before leaving for Mrs Reed’s. As the credits rolled, she stretched her arms above her head and winked at Hope.

‘Let’s go,’ she said.

Mrs Reed

Sorrow Spring had a simple geography. The main village was small and enclosed by a triangle of streets, with a criss-cross of smaller ones running between them. Joy led us to the end of her road and through the gully, as locals called the alleyways between houses. We came to a larger road, then cut through another gully and up a lane. Both Joy and Hope were carrying multiple bags.

‘What are all those for?’ I asked.

‘You’ll see,’ Hope said.

‘Will Mrs Reed be in?’

‘Of course she’ll be in. She never goes out except on Sundays.’

I came to a halt.

‘Look, I can’t go there,’ I said.

Joy and Hope stopped too.

‘Why not?’ Hope asked.

‘She was at the Moot Hall when I went there, and her cat—’

But Mrs Reed’s cat was of no interest to Joy.

‘You went to the Hall?’ she asked.

‘Aunt Agatha wanted me to meet the Church Ladies. The Sistren, or whatever they’re called.’

A scowl obliterated Joy’s handsome features.

‘I suppose they had to,’ Hope said, trying to placate her sister.

‘Makes no difference to me,’ Joy said.

She hunched her shoulders and strode quickly up the next street, leaving me and Hope trailing in her wake.

‘What have I done?’ I asked.

‘Don’t worry about it. Joy’s just jealous. It’s not your fault.’

Jealous. The word Aunt Agatha had used to describe the Vanes. But jealous of what – having to spend most of the day with lots of fussy old women?

‘What were you saying about Mrs Reed’s cat?’ Hope asked.

No one in Sorrow Spring knew about my role in Mr Proudfoot’s accident. I decided it was best to keep it that way.

‘Aunt Agatha said Mrs Reed’s not in her right mind and losing her cat made it worse.’

‘Lucky for us, right?’ Hope said.

‘Why?’

‘Granny’s told Mr Murray, in the shop, he’s not to serve either of us with booze and ciggies any more. Mrs Reed’s son smuggles the stuff in from the Continent. Jed always knows if she’s had a delivery.’

‘You just take it?’

‘No one’s gonna find out. Last time we went round, she thought Joy was Granny. And the house will be cleared by the time her son gets back. They’re sending her away to a home, y’know? Granny says she’s a liability. She talks too much.’

By now we had reached the gate to Mrs Reed’s house, Joy was already at the front door, reaching under the mat for a key.

Inside was more ordered than I’d expected, given Joy’s description. The coats were hung up on hooks behind the door, the tiled floor was clean and the skirting board had been dusted. Only a tartan jacket, slung over the end of the banister, looked out of place. The expected stench was nothing more than the faint scent of lemon disinfectant.

Joy sniffed the air.

‘She can’t have been cleaning, can she?’

‘Blanche must have come in,’ Hope said.

Music was playing in the lounge and someone was rustling about.

‘Me and Hope can check out in there,’ Joy said. ‘Take the stew to the kitchen, Rina, if you want to stay out of her way.’

She disappeared into the lounge with her sister. I followed the hall along to the kitchen. Every surface was clean and every cup washed and placed in the dresser. The unused cat flap in the back door gaped at me accusingly.

From the window I could see the garden was overgrown, although a heap of rosebay willowherb on the crumbling patio showed that someone was attempting to weed. It was then I heard a creak from above. I froze and listened. It came again, the squeak of floorboards. Someone was upstairs. Joy and Hope’s raid depended on Mrs Reed being alone. I crept back into the hall and took the first two stairs up. Was her son back? Music from the lounge drowned me out as I called, ‘Hello, is anyone there?’

No response.

I looked again at the tartan jacket hanging over the end of the banister. It was not the style a woman Mrs Reed’s age would have chosen, and although it would have been a good fit for me, it was certainly too large for her.

‘Hello,’ I said again.

Nothing.

‘You won’t find anything upstairs,’ Joy said, coming out of the lounge ‘Her son keeps everything in the garden shed.’

I took a step down. My hand brushed the jacket. It smelt of peppermints and tobacco. Neither Joy nor Hope noticed. The floorboards creaked once more. A woman’s shadow flitted across the triangle of light cast by the landing window. I stayed on the stairs, sensing someone like myself, breathing as silently as possible.

I waited several moments before descending and brushing past the jacket again. What did that smell remind me of? Then I remembered – Jimmy’s mother.

Where better in the village to stay whilst hunting for her child than the house of a senile old woman? Was she out that first night because she was trying to bring Mr Proudfoot home? I tried and failed to remember the name Aunt Agatha had given her.

‘Are you Jimmy’s mother?’ I called.

She didn’t reply.

Through the lounge door, I could see Mrs Reed was now gaping at the television, which showed a still picture of a girl and a clown playing noughts and crosses.

‘What are you doing, Rina?’ Hope called.

I followed her voice into the kitchen.

They showed no curiosity as to what had delayed me and were busy rifling through the drawers where Joy found about five loose packets of cigarettes. I didn’t know who to tell about Mrs Reed’s suspicious visitor. Luke? If nothing else it would give me a reason to find him and talk to him. My pulse quickened.

‘Here’s the back door key.’ Hope pulled it out of the drawer, wrapped onto a home-made pom-pom.

Joy took it and went outside. A coal shed stood to the side of the garden. She grinned before opening it. Inside boxes of cigarettes and alcohol were packed from floor to ceiling.

‘Bingo.’

She and Hope filled their bags. Then Joy brought back a couple of bottles of clear liquid, and a box of two hundred cigarettes, all labelled in a foreign language.

‘May as well test the goods,’ she said.

She opened one of the bottles and poured a good slug into a teacup that Hope passed to her from the dresser.

‘D’you want some, Rina?’ she asked.

I sniffed: petrol infused with rotting vegetables.

‘No, thanks.’

Joy wasn’t put off. She threw the lot down her throat and poured another.

Hope joined her.

‘Mrs Reed’s watching the test card,’ she said. ‘She’ll not disturb us. Are you sure you won’t have any, Rina? Or do you prefer the old wacky baccy?

‘Huh?’ I said.

‘Marijuana, cannabis, weed – you must have had some. You used to live in a commune, right?’

‘Only the adults smoked,’ I said.

A sudden pang of longing for my home and friends hit me. The memory of the adults taking Rizlas to the barn and the children outside jumping up to catch sweet-smelling fumes, brought home to me what poor replacements Joy and Hope made for my real friends.

‘What else did they do – was it all sex and drugs?’ Hope asked.

‘For God’s sake, no one’s interested,’ Joy said.

‘Don’t pretend you don’t want to know,’ Hope replied. ‘You were saying to Luke—’

‘You talked to Luke about me?’ I said all too quickly.

Joy looked puzzled.

‘How do you know him?’

‘Er … Aunt Agatha said something.’

My explanation seemed to convince her as she took on a superior air and said, ‘Of course, we’re pretty good friends. I’m meeting him later.’

Bile rose to the back of my throat.

‘Is he … is he your boyfriend?’ I asked.

Hope snorted. ‘She wishes.’

‘Ha! You should see Hope around him. She practically dribbles,’ Joy said, then broke off. ‘Why are you interested?’

I used my sleeve to rub some non-existent dirt from the edge of the sink.

‘I wondered who he was, that’s all.’

‘He’s Granny’s stepbrother’s son,’ Hope said. ‘She delivered him, y’know? His mum couldn’t get to the hospital in time and Granny used to be a midwife.’

‘Mrs Vane was a midwife?’

I pitied the poor infants whose first glimpse of the world was that sour face.

‘Before she was married,’ Hope said. ‘She couldn’t save his mum, but Luke lived – they got the spring water to him in time.’

‘He’s an orphan?’

‘He’s still got his dad, but he spends most of his summers here. Usually, at Granny’s. But he can’t this year because he came early and the worm’s still living there. The sooner he’s gone the better.’

‘The worm?’

From her chair Joy wiggled her shoulders and torso from side to side, then burst out laughing.

‘The worm – get it? Or haven’t you met Peter? That’s how he tries to get about when Granny takes his wheelchair. Dragging himself along. And then there was that time in the park when Jed tipped him out of it …’

She couldn’t finish her sentence for laughing.

At first, I was too angry to speak. How could they take their grandmother’s part in something so cruel? When I did find my words, a voice cut me off.

‘He won’t be there for long.’

We all spun round.

Mrs Reed had moved silently into the kitchen. I inched behind Joy and Hope, who didn’t seem bothered by her sliding into the room like that.

‘Hi, Mrs Reed,’ they said.

Whilst the house smelt clean, Mrs Reed did not. A sharp, vinegary odour emanated from her clothing and I fought the urge to cover my nose.

She lifted a hand and pointed in our direction.

‘You know us, Mrs Reed. Verity’s granddaughters,’ Hope said.

‘Not you. You.’ She stepped closer until she pointed at me alone. ‘I know you.’ Her eyes drilled into me. ‘I did tell you about the boy.’

In the Moot Hall, Mrs Reed had appeared to be a confused old lady. Here, in her own home, I was terrified at being marked out by that ancient, shrivelled finger.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said.

Joy made a cycling motion with her forefinger to her temple.

‘Don’t listen to her,’ Hope said.

‘You killed my cat,’ the old woman said.

‘I … I …’

‘Mr Proudfoot ran away,’ Hope said. ‘Remember?’

Mrs Reed leant forward until the tip of her finger was an inch from my nose.

‘You’ll never leave Sorrow Spring. Killers never leave Sorrow Spring. Never.’

The vinegar reek intensified. My eyes started to smart.

‘We should go,’ I said.

‘Good idea,’ Joy said.

She stuffed the last stray cigarette packets into her bag.

‘You’ll not get far,’ Mrs Reed said. ‘Like him. You’ll not get far.’

‘Bye,’ Hope called to her as we ran along the hall and into the small front garden.

Outside, Joy pulled a face and laughed. ‘Daft old bat.’

I was more troubled. ‘Who is “him”? What does she mean, I’ll not get far?’

‘Take no notice,’ Hope said. ‘She’s soft in the head.’

‘They should have sent her away years ago,’ Joy said.

I smiled weakly but could still smell the acrid scent of her clothes. How could she have known about Mr Proudfoot? Only Jimmy’s mother could have told her.

*

Joy and Hope clinked down the street. Their swag-laden bags and tipsiness slowing their progress. A few net curtains twitched and one man watering his roses looked up and gave a hard stare at the bottles they carried.

‘Something wrong, Mr Brooks?’ Joy asked.

He returned to his plants. When he looked up again, his disapproval passed to me, screwing up his face and shaking his head.

We passed back through the first gully and were on our way to the second when a figure emerged from its mouth. The world turned fuzzy for a moment and I stopped in my tracks.

Joy and Hope didn’t notice and carried on until he was a couple of feet away. Then a smile spread across Hope’s face.

‘We wanted to run into you,’ she said.

‘And I wanted to run into you,’ Luke said.

‘Really?’

Hope’s obvious enthusiasm was in contrast to Joy’s attempt at nonchalance.

‘What have you got there?’ he asked.

‘Booze. Fancy some?’ Hope asked.

‘Sure.’ He looked over to me. ‘What about you?’

I was suddenly aware how much younger I was than Luke and the two girls, like someone’s annoying younger sister tagging along.

‘Oh, this is Rina. Agatha’s niece. She’s too young – just a kid,’ Joy said. ‘You can get yourself home, can’t you, Rina?’

I stared at Luke hoping for some form of acknowledgement, but he was looking at his watch.

Not trusting myself to speak, I just nodded.

Luke relieved Joy of one of the bags. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and strolled into the gully without thanking him.

‘We’ll come and see you soon,’ Hope called back to me.

I knew they wouldn’t.

Luke didn’t turn round. None of them did and they disappeared into the dark of the gully.

I felt as if I’d swallowed cold, rank water. I had been planning to find out where he lived and when I did, he would sit and listen while I told him all about my trip to Mrs Reed’s. He would be impressed at my intelligence in making the connection between the peppermint-tobacco smell, the cat and Jimmy’s mother. We could have investigated together. But he had no interest now he had two older girls to hang out with. Girls who wore fashionable clothes, drank alcohol and smoked. I was just some silly, irritating kid, too young to be part of their world.

It wasn’t going to be like Jackie magazine.

I tore up my stolen pages and threw them to the ground.

Temperance

I had several long evenings to brood on Luke’s treachery. Aunt Agatha had no television, ‘the wireless’, as she called the radio, was only ever listened to for The Archers and the news, and her small collection of books had titles like The Woman’s Medicinal Handbook and Robinson’s New Family Herbal.

Whilst my aunt was perfectly content spending the entire evening crocheting, I fidgeted and sighed.

‘If I could just have something to read,’ I said.

‘Scripture should satisfy your mind,’ she said. ‘Not silly adventure stories.’

I fidgeted and sighed some more.

After a week, my restlessness was driving Aunt Agatha to distraction. One evening she told me she would be visiting the nearby town of Rowlstone on the following day.

‘And if I have time, I’ll go to the library and get you some books as you like reading so much. It might keep you sitting still for five minutes. I’ll choose them. We don’t want your head filled with a lot of ridiculous, romantic trash like your mother.’

‘Thank you, Aunt,’ I said.

‘It’s on condition you finish your set number of biblical chapters each day.’

‘I promise.’

New books would be welcome, but more exciting was the idea that I may never need them at all. With Aunt Agatha busy in Rowlstone, I could visit Peter, go to the phone box in the village and call both Wroxwood and his nana.

This idea was quashed when morning came and Aunt Agatha informed me that Blanche Merryweather would be coming to babysit.

‘I’m too old for a babysitter,’ I told her.

‘I’ll be the judge of that. If you behave yourself, I may consider leaving you alone next time. But only if you behave.’

‘Ah, my young American friend,’ Blanche said as soon as she came into the sitting room and surprised me by giving me a hug.

She was in high spirits, quite literally. The signs were not unknown to me: the overuse of mouthwash, that bulbous nose and the pink- tinged eyes. Forest’s mother had the same look. On most evenings she had to be carried to bed, having drunk too much of her own home-made blackberry wine. Many discussions were had about how we, as a community, could help her. Fletcher ruled out sloshing all her wine down the drain. She needed to heal from the inside; we must be kind to her. We were. To little effect.

I doubted anyone was kind to Blanche. She seemed to be the Sistren’s drudge, always babysitting, cleaning the Hall or fetching items from the village shop, when other members were ill or simply too busy.

The sour notes of gin infusing the mouthwash did not go unnoticed by Aunt Agatha either.

‘Couldn’t you have held off at least until after dinner? Temperance, Blanche, temperance.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll only be a few hours. As for you, Rina, be a good girl for Mrs Merryweather. And before I get back, kindly get dressed into the clean clothes I’ve laid out for you. And comb your hair. You’ll need to look smart.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

I looked to Blanche for answers. She shrugged.

Aunt Agatha went to wait outside the front door. A white car pulled up. Verity Vane sat in the back seat and Jed Barrowcroft was driving. He got out and opened the passenger side door. I hoped he wasn’t the reason I’d been asked to look nice. The unaccountable revulsion he provoked in me returned.

Blanche must have felt the same.

‘Not the most pleasant young man,’ she said, noticing the direction of my gaze. ‘Have you met him?’

‘At Joy and Hope’s. I saw him in the graveyard on Sunday, too,’ I said.

‘He’s become a regular since Maude died. That’s his grandmother. She only passed away last month. I can’t see him keeping it up. Piety is not a Barrowcroft trait.’

‘What does my aunt want with him?’ I asked.

‘It’s this business with St Faran’s Spring. The Barrowcrofts are buying the land. That stand-in vicar, Mr Wilson, isn’t the first to misunderstand the way we honour the spring. There’s been rumblings since we got the new bishop. He’ll tolerate St Faran’s Day. What village doesn’t have these funny traditions? But he thinks the spring has turned into a shrine. The sort of thing that should have been stamped out by Henry VIII, along with pilgrimages, monks and abbeys. Fortunately, the diocese has more pressing issues than Sorrow Spring. It’s easier to sell the land next to the church rather than become embroiled in a fight with the village. So Jed Barrowcroft buying the land and keeping the access open should be a good thing.’

Blanche frowned.

‘But you don’t really think it is?’ I asked.

‘The Barrowcrofts are a bad lot. Maude was the only decent one and she’s no longer with us. Jed will give us access for only as long as it suits him. Still, I don’t see what else Agatha could have done. No one else had the money to buy it. She’s done all she could under the circumstances. We must protect the spring and its health benefits.’

The muddy pool I had seen appeared more likely to carry infection than offer healing. I thought of the Devil’s Oak in Gossdale. If at twelve years old I knew such stories were nonsense, why did adults believe them?

Blanche walked away from the window to the radio on top of the mantelpiece and turned the dial to a pop station. The song playing had a syncopated guitar strumming over a heavy bass and a man asking ‘Is this Love’? Blanche started nodding her head along to the beat.

‘Make me a cup of tea, would you, dear?’ she asked.

I went to the kitchen and put on the kettle. From down the hall I heard the side cabinet open and the clink of glass on glass.

I returned to find the drinks cabinet open and a bottle of sherry out. Blanche held a full tumbler in one hand and was swaying in time to the music, her soft hips jiggling against the thin fabric of her dress.

‘Put the tea over there, will you? This is for my nerves.’ She tipped the glass towards me. ‘You won’t tell Agatha about the music, will you? She doesn’t approve. I expect you listened to Radio 1 all the time in your commune.’

‘We made our own music. Only Fletcher listened to the radio. He had one in his office.’

‘Fletcher – was he your leader – your guru?’ Her eyes widened with anticipation.

‘In a way,’ I said.

‘What did he make you do? Was there nudity and dancing?’

‘Er … no.’

Blanche looked puzzled. ‘What did you do?’

‘A couple of hours of lessons a day. Sometimes we had to help the grown-ups with the farm work or in the kitchen.’

‘Perhaps you were a little young for the rest.’

‘Do you mean sex?’ I asked.

Blanche shuddered, looked over her shoulder and gave a nervous giggle.

‘Dear me, Rina. Surely you don’t use words like that around your aunt.’

She was right. Although the commune attached no sinful connotations to sex, instinctively I knew Aunt Agatha would disapprove.

‘I don’t say that word here. Things are different,’ I said. ‘Like all this fuss being made over a spring.’

Blanche swigged on her drink.

‘Of course, every village has its own special ways. Sorrow Spring’s no different, only our traditions have survived a little longer.’

‘But it’s not real, is it, all that stuff about St Faran? It’s just a tale.’

‘Outsiders think that. But it’s no coincidence that this village was spared from the Black Death, when many around here simply died out. That great mound a mile beyond St Faran’s used to be the village of Orminglee – much larger and more prosperous than Sorrow Spring. Every single one of its inhabitants died. And it wasn’t just the bubonic plague we’ve been spared. Diphtheria, typhoid, cholera – everywhere was affected but here. Even in the fifties, Rowlstone and Hatherbridge had cases of polio. Children died. It was tragic. And yet, Sorrow Spring was spared. And the only time we let go of tradition …’

She stopped and took another couple of swigs.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘We don’t talk about it. Some things are best forgotten. We made a mistake. We won’t repeat it.’

‘Isn’t it just luck, though?’ I said.

‘Luck? Over so many centuries. No, Rina, you must understand. Mrs Anthony, you know, was in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force early in the war. She fell sick with tuberculosis. The Forces’ doctor wanted her to go to a sanatorium. She refused and came home. Fit as a fiddle after three months. Was that luck?’

‘I guess not,’ I said.

‘The longer you’re in Sorrow Spring, the more you’ll understand.’ She reached past me to top up her glass, the movement overbalanced her and she had to place a hand on the mantelpiece to steady herself. ‘Although with modern medicine, I do wonder sometimes if we should leave these things in the past. But Agatha won’t hear of it. And Verity Vane’s even more of a stickler. But I’m not sure how long we can continue. There’s only five of us left.’

‘Five of what?’ I asked.

‘Members of the Distaff. Me – I’m by far the eldest, you know – then there’s Agatha, Verity, your mother and you.’

‘People keep saying the Distaff. What does it mean?’

Blanche didn’t appear to hear my question and concentrated instead on the rim of her tumbler.

‘It’s such a shame Agatha had no children. But not surprising – she could never tolerate men. Not in the way of Ms Lowther and Ms Fisk, more a sort of general distaste for all things carnal – sex, as you call it. And Verity only had sons herself. I suppose your mother can still have more children, though she seems to have no intention of doing so. You’re our youngest and best hope.’ She paused. ‘How old are you, dear?’

‘Nearly thirteen.’

‘Not so long now, then.’

She leant forward and tapped my tummy.

Realising her meaning, I recoiled in disgust.

I had witnessed childbirth. A girl called Nellie had come to the commune unmarried and heavily pregnant, eager to leave behind her parents’ fury and society’s disapproval.

By accident I had arrived at the old storeroom where she was giving birth just as the baby’s head emerged. The sight had terrified me.

Once the baby started screaming it didn’t stop for three weeks. Eventually Nellie’s parents came to fetch her home. They arrived in an estate car with leather seats and took her back to a place called Godalming.

The thought that one day I would be Nellie, bloodied and screaming on a storeroom floor, revolted me.

‘I don’t want children,’ I said.

‘Of course, you do. You have to. And don’t leave it too late.’ Blanche slurped more of Aunt Agatha’s sherry. ‘A baby, yes. Maybe two or even three. But girls. Only girls.’

‘Why?’

‘Much safer.’ Blanche had started to slur her words. ‘Verity Vane would love to find out what would happen if the Distaff line failed and there were no more Pines. She thinks her granddaughter Joy would become leader. But that girl has all her grandmother’s vanity and not half of her sense. For the sake of the Sistren, you must have daughters and that’s all there is to it.’

‘If girls are so important, why was Aunt Agatha interested in Emesh?’

‘Your brother?’ Blanche half closed her eyes. ‘Lily was right to take him away from this place. Better to leave altogether. I should have left, you know. I married Kenneth a month before he signed up – the RAF. He was killed on his first mission over the Rhineland. There was no reason for me to stay, and yet here I am.’

This recollection made her deflate quicker than a punctured balloon and she slumped into an armchair and held out her glass.

I refilled it.

She lay back and rested her head.

‘I’m rather tired now. Perhaps you could amuse yourself elsewhere.’

I placed the sherry bottle within easy reach on the side table and left Blanche humming along to another song on the radio.

Here was my chance to go and speak to Peter, ring Wroxwood and escape from Sorrow Spring. I ran outside into the bright and blustery day. Blanche’s unhappiness was forgotten. For all the pain it gave me, she may as well have been mourning her pet budgerigar as the love of her life.

My lack of concern could be written off as the natural selfishness of youth. But Blanche was the first adult in Sorrow Spring to show me kindness and this made my later betrayal of her all the more unforgivable.

Peter

Peter had told me he lived down the lane at Verity Vane’s. Taking the direct route would have meant going along the drive at the front of Laburnum Lodge, and Blanche would see me if she roused from her alcoholic stupor. Instead, I ran out into the garden, past the herbs, the lawn, the vegetable patch, the chicken coop and over the back wall onto the open hillside. Below, through a clump of firs and brambles, I spotted the low, white walls of a bungalow.

The sun shone high in the sky and a light breeze cooled my face as I sprinted through the long grass, before pushing my way through the branches to the bungalow’s fence, barely noticing the thorns tearing at my arms.

On such a warm day, I expected to see Peter outside. I found the garden empty.

I was about to try round the front when a voice called to me.

‘Hey! Over here.’

The nearest window was open. I scrabbled over the fence and ran towards it. Peter was sitting on his bed, which came to the same height as the windowsill.

‘I thought you’d never come,’ he said.

‘I couldn’t get away,’ I said, still breathless from my run. ‘Here, I brought you this.’

I thrust the battered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo into his hands.

‘Wow,’ he said as he examined the cover. ‘This is so much better than Aunt Verity’s soppy romances.’

‘Can you come outside?’ I asked, seeing his wheelchair next to the bed.

His face dropped. ‘I’m not allowed.’

‘Verity’s not here. You can do what you want.’

‘She’ll see the marks on the ground.’

‘So what?’

He raised his forearms. Ugly purple marks ringed his wrists.

‘Last time they dragged me from my chair all the way along the hall and locked me in the cupboard overnight.’ Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He blinked them away. ‘They said they’d keep me in there for a whole week if I did it again.’

If it hadn’t been for the physical evidence, I wouldn’t have believed him. No child in the commune received physical punishment – we saw it as barbaric. I had only heard of such cruelty in books.

‘Verity really did that?’ I asked.

‘No, he did it – Jed.’

I pictured Jed’s leering face and felt his clammy limp hand in mine. Knowing that the same hand could flex and bruise made me shudder.

‘I met him at Joy and Hope’s. He made me feel …’ I wanted to say ‘unclean’ but for some reason didn’t want to speak the word. Instead I said, ‘I didn’t like him.’

‘No one likes him except Joy. Peas in a pod, those two. Jed was the one who pushed me out of my chair when I was in the park and I had to crawl back to it. Joy was egging him on and laughing. That’s when they started calling me the worm. I hate them. I hate them. I hate them. I hate them.’ His eyes, bright with anger, suddenly turned sly. ‘Joy didn’t laugh yesterday when I told her I met you at the Moot Hall. You’d have thought I’d thrown a bucket of dirty water over her – kept asking me questions and then pretended like she didn’t want to know the answer.’

Joy had also been sulky when I mentioned my trip to the Hall. I wondered if this was linked to Blanche’s nonsense about the Distaff.

‘What did she want to know?’ I asked.

‘Who your father is, how long you’re staying – stuff like that. Don’t worry. If I knew I wouldn’t tell them. I didn’t even tell Luke.’

‘Luke was asking after me?’ My voice became suddenly squeaky. ‘Yeah,’ Peter said, not noticing my intense interest. ‘He was there last time I went to the Vicarage. He’s staying there. Reverend Rivers overheard and told him to stop asking questions. He was really angry. Weird, huh?’

‘Everything around here’s weird,’ I said. ‘What’s Luke like?’

‘I’ve only met him a few times. Joy and Hope go on and on about him, which makes Jed hate him. It’s pretty funny, actually. I think he’s better than the other three – doesn’t call me names and he’s lent me a couple of books.’

‘Which books?’

I was eager to learn everything I could.

Peter reached behind him and showed me a paperback that pictured strange children with staring eyes on the cover: The Midwich Cuckoos by John Wyndham.

‘Luke says it reminds him of Sorrow Spring. I can’t see it myself.’

‘Can I read it?’ I asked.

‘He wants it back soon,’ he said. ‘Besides, I thought you were leaving.’

All the talk of Luke had made me forget my purpose. And to be honest, weakened it a little.

‘I came to get your nana’s number. Aunt Agatha’s out. I don’t know when I’ll get another chance. And I need to be quick because she got Blanche to look after me. She’s asleep at the moment. But she could wake up at any time.’

‘Drunk again? Aunt Verity hides the gin when she comes to sit with me. It doesn’t work. Blanche brings her own.’ He laughed, then looked serious. ‘I have to get out soon, Rina. The last boy who stayed here was Jimmy. Jed told me. I know it sounds like nothing, but it’s the way he says it. Like he’s laughing at me.’

‘What does it matter if Jimmy stayed here?’

‘I dunno. It’s just – where is he? You said even his mother doesn’t know.’ Peter glanced at the bedroom door, then pulled himself up onto the windowsill and lowered his voice. ‘Aunt Verity thinks because my legs don’t work my ears don’t either, but I hear her talking on the phone to the reverend and others. It’s like Jed said, I’m not the first boy who’s come to stay here. Rina, I’m frightened. I know something’s wrong with this place.’

Though I’d not articulated the thought before, I knew he was right. It wasn’t just that I was far from home, staying with an eccentric aunt. It was the Sorrow Spring Sistren with their healing water and rook pie, that insinuation from Blanche that I would be having a child soon and caterpillars being eaten alive by maggots.

‘Look, just give me your nana’s phone number,’ I said. ‘If I speak to her today, she could come this afternoon or tomorrow.’

Peter dropped back from the window, scratched around in a drawer and pulled out a pen and paper. He scrawled down the number.

‘There’s enough money to call your folks too. The phone box is opposite the Red Cow Inn in the village. Turn right at the end of our lane, then straight down the main road, past the Moot Hall and you’ll see it on the corner of St Faran’s Road.’

As he handed me a fifty-pence piece, I felt a sudden reluctance. This was the chance I’d been waiting for, to get away from Laburnum Lodge and back to Wroxwood. So why did I hesitate?

‘What should I say to them?’ I asked.

‘Tell Nana where I am and that she has to come and find me.’

I really meant what should I say to the commune. It was possible Lullaby wasn’t even there; she had told me to stay in Sorrow Spring until Christmas. Could I tell her what Peter had told me, that there was something wrong with Sorrow Spring? It occurred to me she already knew. She had been born here and whatever went on, it wasn’t news to her.

‘Who are you talking to?’ a sharp voice called from outside Peter’s room.

I ducked beneath the window just as the bedroom door creaked open.

‘I was reading out loud,’ Peter said.

I hopped back over the fence. Through gaps in the brambles I saw Verity Vane stick her head out of the window and look around before closing it, her admonishing tones still audible through the glass.

‘Only idiots need to read to themselves out loud,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t told your brain was as useless as your legs.’

Stupid, old cow.

Well, soon we would both be gone far beyond her reach.

Phoning Home

I took the route Peter had described, down the main road. Every passing car I imagined to be Jed Barrowcroft and Aunt Agatha, and fear sped my feet along the hot pavement until I arrived breathless at the crooked roof and bulging walls of the ancient Red Cow Inn. A few men sat on tables out at the front, too busy nursing their dimpled glass tankards to notice me.

The Red Cow stood on the corner of what in Sorrow Spring counted as the high street. Turning left, I found the telephone box and village store. I needed to break up the fifty-pence piece Peter had given me for the calls, so went inside.

‘… if you ask me, Mr Murray, involving him is playing with fire …’ a woman was saying to the man behind the counter.

A baby’s soft snuffles rose from the pram next to her.

She stepped back when she saw me.

‘I’d like some change, please,’ I said, and held out the fifty pence.

He looked me up and down.

‘Not buying anything?’ he said. ‘Because this is a shop. And shouldn’t you be at school?’

‘I don’t start until next term,’ I said.

I looked down at the coin in my hand, wondering if I should buy a packet of Spangles or Opal Fruits.

The woman let go of the pram, leant over the counter and whispered something to the shopkeeper. Whatever it was alarmed him. He swept a lock of thinning hair from his forehead.

‘I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to be rude, only we get all sorts in here. A rough lot from Rowlstone came in last week after they’d been to the Red Cow. Not at all the sort of custom we encourage. I made sure they thought twice about coming back.’ He opened the till. ‘Let’s see what we can do. For the phone box, is it? Here we go.’

His brow beaded with sweat and his hand trembled as he passed me the mixture of five- and two-pence pieces.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘Always a pleasure. Say hello to Miss Pine for me.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Here, have this, as a treat.’

He handed me a lollipop, the cherry-red type Joy sucked. I was about to say ‘thank you’ again when, sensing the shift in situation, I gave him the curt nod I had seen Aunt Agatha use on Mr Wilson at church. I shoved the lolly in my pocket and left.

The moment I was outside, the shopkeeper and the woman reconvened at the counter and began a discussion in low, rapid tones.

*

Red paint flaked off the outside of the phone box and inside it stank of stale urine, nearly making me gag. The side window was broken and graffiti covered the information board: ‘The Sex Pistols’, ‘NF’, ‘Daz woz ere’.

I was worried the phone itself had been vandalised and almost cried with relief when I heard the dialling tone. I started to ring the Wroxwood number, then stopped and replaced the receiver.

The hesitation I’d felt when talking to Peter returned. What was I to say? What if no one wanted me back? Cowardice made me dial Peter’s number first.

It took ten rings for someone to pick up.

‘Who’s this?’ a woman asked.

‘My name’s …’ I thought about it. ‘My name’s Joy.’

‘Do I know you?’

‘I’m a friend of Peter’s.’

Silence.

‘Are you his grandmother?’ I asked.

‘What do you want her for?’

‘Peter wants me to ask her something.’

‘Listen, Jay, or whatever your name is, if you’ve got something from Peter, you need to tell me.’

‘Are you a friend?’

‘I’m his mother.’

Peter hadn’t told me what to say to her.

‘I don’t know if you know, but Peter’s very unhappy,’ I stuttered. ‘He wants to come home.’

‘Who the hell are you? Peter’s my child. And for your information, he’s always unhappy – a right whinging pain in the arse. Why do you think I sent him away? I don’t know what sob story he’s spun you, but Mrs Vane’s a very kind lady who’s taking good care of him. The last thing he needs is some do-gooder sticking her nose in.’

‘But he’s afraid. Mrs Vane’s had other boys come to stay and …’

‘And what?’

What had happened to those boys? Or boy. I only knew about Jimmy. The truth was, I had no idea.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘But you thought you’d make trouble anyway? I know your type. Keep your nose out of it, understand?’

‘It’s just—’

The line went dead.

No wonder Peter preferred to stay at his nana’s. But then would Lullaby be any more welcoming? Did she think I was a right whinging pain in the arse? My fingers hovered over the dial, unsure what I should say to her and scared of what she would say to me.

Just then I saw Joy and Hope playing truant. They were walking their bicycles along the street. A couple of boys I didn’t recognise trotted beside them. They kept knocking into the girls’ bikes in a playful manner. Hope tried to look stern but couldn’t help laughing. Joy had another lollipop hanging from her mouth and kept rolling her eyes. They had promised to call on me as soon as they could. I knew they wouldn’t.

Friends – I needed my friends.

I dialled the Wroxwood number.

‘Hello.’ A man’s voice I didn’t recognise.

‘It’s Prosperina Fuchsia. Can I speak to Lullaby?’

‘Who?’

‘Or Emesh?’

‘That lot – you won’t be seeing ’em around here no more. We ran ’em off last week. Useless bunch of hippies.’

‘Ran them off? What about Fletcher?’

The man covered the receiver, though I could still hear a muffled exchange at the other end.

‘A girl on here’s asking for Fletcher.’

Someone gave an abrupt reply.

‘There’s no Fletcher here,’ the man said.

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘I know he’s—’

Click.

For the second time in as many minutes, I was left staring into a dead receiver.

My friends had gone.

Home no longer existed.

I walked away from the phone box, sat on a low wall next to the shop, put my head in my hands and wept, too immersed in my own misery to notice the car pulling up next to the kerb and its driver getting out and walking towards me.

‘What are you doing out all alone, young lady?’

I looked up to see a man wearing a dog collar – a priest.

‘You’re Agatha Pine’s niece, Rina.’

‘Yes.’

I knew who he was before he spoke.

‘I’m Reverend Rivers, the vicar of Sorrow Spring.’

Flattery

Reverend Rivers strolled over and hitched up the legs of his trousers before sitting on the wall next to me. I noticed his shoes had been polished to a slick, black mirror.

‘What are you doing crying outside a shop?’ he asked. ‘You’re far too young to be so despairing.’

His voice was rich, mellow and calming. I wiped the tears from my cheeks. I didn’t answer, but did take the opportunity of observing him more closely. He had gentle, dark eyes with long lashes that softened his strong jaw and cheekbones. The summer sun had emphasised the crow’s feet around his eyes and the deep trenches running from his nose to his mouth; the lips curving upwards in a kindly expression. Something about him felt familiar. I scanned my memory. And, although nothing came to mind, I couldn’t shake the feeling we’d met before.

He smiled.

‘You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, Prosperina Fuchsia,’ he said. ‘But I’m going to make three guesses and you let me know if I’m right. Is that a deal?’

I stared at the cracks zigzagging across the concrete paving slabs.

‘I’m guessing you’re missing your mother and brother,’ he said.

I nodded.

‘And your friends.’

I nodded again.

‘I’m guessing you used that phone box because you want someone to come and fetch you home.’

This time I let my eyes rest on the ground.

He placed his arms in a loop over his knees and leant back, contemplating a moment before saying, ‘It’s difficult sometimes for young people to understand the decisions of grown-ups. It seems cruel when they make you do things you’d rather not. But let me tell you this. I know your mother loves you very much and she wouldn’t have sent you here if it wasn’t for the best.’

I could no longer contain my bitterness and anger.

‘If she loved me she wouldn’t have taken Emesh and left me here. Why him, why not me?’

‘Why not indeed?’ He stared, eyes unfocused, into the middle distance. Then continued as before. ‘She thinks your brother is safer with her.’

‘Safe from what?’

‘There are many dangers in this world. A prudent man foreseeth the evil, and hideth himself: but the simple pass on, and are punished.’ His expression softened. ‘Tell me, Prosperina Fuchsia, did you telephone the commune?’

At the thought of Wroxwood being no more, I began to cry again.

‘Am I right in thinking the home you knew has gone?’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I was a good friend of your mother’s once. She has walked away from the faith. We still talk occasionally, however.’

‘You talk to Lullaby? Is she still in France? Is she coming to get me?’

‘We haven’t spoken in several months, but I knew her plans. The commune could no longer pay its debts. Fletcher wouldn’t accept the situation and wanted to hold out. Your mother took action so that you wouldn’t become homeless. You came to live in a lovely house with your aunt. Some children end up in government-run homes, with no one to love them. Would you like that?’

I shook my head.

‘How old are you, Prosperina?’

‘Thirteen next week.’

‘Not a child for much longer. At Wroxwood you were surrounded by kind, well-meaning, if misguided people. That is not the real world. A plant grown in a hothouse will perish come the frost. And so it is with children. You have come to Sorrow Spring not a moment too soon. Things are not always easy and nor should they be. Much of life is to be endured rather than enjoyed.’

‘Fletcher says we should fill our lives with joy.’

‘Fletcher is a fool,’ the reverend said. ‘Those who seek short- term pleasure find long-term misery. He has enjoyed a few years singing songs, eating stews around the campfire and making himself important. Now he is most likely unemployed and homeless, and shall probably remain so unless someone takes pity on him. If he had worked hard all his life, he would now have a job and a comfortable home, a wife and family. Do you see what I’m trying to say?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m scared I’ll never see any of them again. Mrs Reed said I’ll never leave.’

He unhooked his knees from his arms and turned to me.

‘You’ve been speaking to Mrs Reed?’

‘I met her at the Moot Hall,’ I said quickly.

No one needed to know about my visit to her house.

‘I wouldn’t pay too much attention to Mrs Reed,’ he said. ‘And as for the rest, this separation from your friends has caused you heartache. To you it seems unkind and unnecessary. The opposite is true. The heartache will fade.’

He paused. His face clouded.

‘The heartache will fade,’ he repeated. ‘You will soon make new friends and wonder how you ever got by sleeping in a barn, eating nothing but lentils and never going to school. You will learn that pleasure must be earned and that those that are simply taken carry a high price. It isn’t easy. Even I struggle. I struggle every day.’

I only half grasped his meaning, so alien was it to all I had been taught. It was as if he spoke in some strange and unknown dialect. His tone, however, was soothing. I felt comforted and understood why Aunt Agatha held him in such high esteem.

‘Now, dry your eyes and let me take you home.’

‘I’m not allowed to get in strange men’s cars.’

‘If you’d like someone to vouch for me, we can go into that shop behind us and ask.’

‘And I can’t go back. Aunt Agatha will be home by now. She’ll be angry that I ran off. I was meant to stay with Blanche.’

He looked at his watch and smiled.

‘If I know Blanche, she’ll be having a little snooze around this time. How about we say I popped round when she was asleep and asked you to help at the church, clearing weeds from the older graves. That’s plausible, don’t you think?’

‘I guess so.’

‘And in return, you must promise to come and tell me the next time you’re thinking of running away. The Vicarage is at the edge of the village, on the road to the church, hidden behind the row of fir trees.’

So this was where I would find Luke.

*

I sat in the smooth leather seat of his dark blue Austin Maxi and saw how small Sorrow Spring was. It didn’t take long to drive back through the village and up the hill to Laburnum Lodge.

I longed to ask about Luke. But he had said no one was to know we had met. And the reverend was sharp. He would quickly see through an alternative explanation for my interest.

‘Do you know everyone in Sorrow Spring?’ I asked instead.

‘As a vicar in a village this size, I’d be negligent not to.’

‘Can you tell me why everyone knows me here, even if I’ve never met them. It’s weird.’

‘There’s not much going on, so any event, even the arrival of someone’s niece, creates a bit of excitement and gossip. I found it weird too when I first got here.’

‘You’re not a villager?’

‘I think they’ve accepted me now, after twenty years, but they don’t take kindly to strangers. Even people from Rowlstone are considered foreign. And often incomers don’t understand the village ways. I guess we’re a little piece of old England that’s sneaked its way into the twentieth century.’

‘Why would you want to live in olden times. Weren’t they all dirty, with no food?’

This made him smile.

‘Some people find the modern world moves too fast,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that why your Fletcher built the commune?’

‘It was to create a haven of peace.’

‘The same sentiment expressed in a different manner then.’

For a moment, his attention shifted from the road ahead to me and he saw the coins still sitting in my hand.

‘Tell me, did you phone anywhere else today other than Wroxwood?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Are you sure?’

I felt he could peel back my skin and see inside me.

‘I’ve no one else to call.’

‘I see.’

We turned onto the driveway.

‘I’ll go in and speak to your aunt. Why don’t you run upstairs and get cleaned up? You don’t want her asking questions about those cuts on your arm.’

I looked down at the scratches I’d got from pushing through the brambles at Peter’s. A couple had started to bleed.

‘Are you going to ask what happened?’

‘You would only lie to me, would you not?’ the reverend said.

I couldn’t hold his gaze.

‘It’s good to have friends and be loyal,’ he said. ‘I admire that. But some friends aren’t meant to be for ever. They pass in and out of our lives.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ I asked.

‘I think you know. You have a kind heart, Prosperina Fuchsia. But as you’ve seen, such attachments make you weak, usually at the moment when you need to be strong. Your friend will be returning to his mother soon.’

‘That’s not what she said.’

His flattery in speaking to me as an adult made the words escape my mouth before I could stop them.

The Reverend Rivers merely inclined his head to one side.

‘I ask no more questions,’ he said. ‘Only listen to what I’ve told you.’

He got out of the car and walked towards the front door. I skipped to the side of the house, whilst he rang the doorbell. Then I stopped and turned.

‘Can you tell me something else?’ I asked.

‘If I can,’ he said.

‘Have we met before?’

‘Never.’

‘You look familiar.’

A smile flickered at his lips. ‘Do I now?’

‘Why are you laughing?’

‘Prosperina Fuchsia Pine, you are a smart girl. You’ll work it out soon enough. Now run along.’

Charity

The Reverend Rivers’ enigmatic words were still ringing in my ears as I scampered up the stairs to my room and he explained my absence to Aunt Agatha. On the bed another oversized smock with a bow had been laid out for me – more cast-off clothes from the chest – but at least it covered the scratches on my arms. After washing my face and hands I put it on and went downstairs to the sitting room.

Aunt Agatha beamed with pleasure.

‘Excellent, you’ve changed. I do like a girl to look like a girl. The reverend tells me you’ve been helping at the church. I’m so pleased you’ve already bumped into one another. He was coming today on purpose to meet you. Did you know that?’

So Reverend Rivers was the reason I had to look smart; better for him than Jed Barrowcroft.

‘Rina’s been most helpful,’ Reverend Rivers said.

His conspiratorial smile went unnoticed by my aunt.

‘Well if you ever need her help again, just ask. I’m sure Rina will be only too pleased. There’s so much to do for Saint Faran’s Feast. The church must look at its very best.’ Aunt Agatha turned to Reverend Rivers. ‘The ladies are particularly excited this year with Rina here. We’re all determined to make it extra special.’

‘Why are they excited about me?’ I asked.

‘A member of the Pine family returning to the village is always cause for celebration.’

A belch from behind her interrupted any elaboration. Blanche was propped, semi-upright against the fireplace. She raised her glass in my direction.

‘Pardon me,’ she said. ‘Too many onions at lunch. They always repeat.’

I giggled.

Aunt Agatha looked disgusted.

‘Perhaps I should drive Mrs Merryweather home,’ Reverend Rivers said. ‘She appears a little … er … unwell.’

He held out his arm and Blanche lurched forwards and grabbed it with both hands.

‘Thank you, Reverend.’ She belched again. ‘Glad to have been of help, Agatha.’

Aunt Agatha scowled in reply.

‘Until tomorrow then,’ the reverend said. ‘And we’ll talk over that little matter with Mrs Reed.’

When the reverend’s car had disappeared down the drive, Aunt Agatha tutted and shook her head.

‘Blanche would do better to pray more and drink less. What with her and Mrs Reed, I don’t know what we’re going to do.’

‘Isn’t Mrs Reed going away?’ I asked.

‘Who told you that?’ She threw me a sharp look.

Should Joy not have said anything about the house being cleared?

‘I just thought that’s what happened when someone can’t look after themself,’ I said.

Aunt Agatha hesitated. ‘That’s a good idea of yours,’ she said. ‘Better if Mrs Reed goes to a place where she can be taken care of and doesn’t frighten people with all her nonsense.’

She sat down and slipped off her shoes.

‘Now run and put the kettle on, will you? My throat’s as dry as a bone and my feet could do with a rest. You can make lunch today. There’s fresh tomatoes and lettuce. And we can have a bit of cheese. Yesterday’s loaf is in the pantry, though it may need toasting. There’s something we need to discuss.’ I must have looked concerned, because she added, ‘Nothing to worry about. Just a little talk. Afterwards we can look at the library books.’

I did as I was told, whilst longing to see the books. I checked the lettuce was caterpillar free before washing it and chopping it up with some cucumber. I then made a cheese and tomato toastie, which even Aunt Agatha admitted was a welcome change from soup.

As we ate, she told me about the new clothes shop in Rowlstone, ‘full of showy trash,’ and how she’d caught Mrs Cox’s husband ogling the florist’s overflowing cleavage – ‘Can’t say I’m surprised.’

‘Every time I go to that place, I thank the Lord I was born in Sorrow Spring.’

When we’d finished the toasties, Aunt Agatha set the library books on the table.

‘What do you think?’

I had expected some worthy tomes on morality and etiquette. Instead I found a stack of paperbacks by her namesake, or so I thought, Agatha Christie, as well as Dorothy L. Sayers and Arthur Conan Doyle.

‘This is what I read when I was younger. Entertaining yet wholesome,’ she said.

I was unfamiliar with the authors and only later learnt that poisoning, strangulation and shootings were considered more wholesome than the romance novels that Aunt Agatha feared would set me on the same road to ruin as my mother.

‘I do try to make this place pleasant for you, Rina.’ Aunt Agatha smiled but looked solemn. ‘Do you mind it so much, being here?’

The ungrateful truth was I would give a dozen bright summer days at Laburnum Lodge for one dark winter’s night in Wroxwood.

‘You’re very kind to me, Aunt,’ I said.

‘And I’m so pleased that everything went well with Joy and Hope the other day. As I said, it’s important for you to make friends here. By the way, did anything of interest happen?’

I couldn’t tell her about raiding Mrs Reed’s house for cigarettes and alcohol, not to mention spotting Jimmy’s mother upstairs and meeting Luke.

‘Nothing important. But I will keep an eye on them.’

‘Good. I’m pleased you’re starting to understand your role here in Sorrow Spring. And there’s no reason why Joy and Hope can’t also provide amusing company for you.’ She poured the tea and continued. ‘What I wanted to say to you, Rina, is that soon you’ll have someone else to talk to. Her name’s Charlotte. She’s arriving tomorrow and will be staying with us for a few weeks. She’s a little older but I’m sure you’ll be friends.’

‘How much older?’

‘Nineteen. We’ll put her in the room at the end of the landing. I’d like you to clean it for her tomorrow. Today, as you have your dress on like I asked, you can take one of the books and go and read it outside.’

As I was stepping out of the back door, Aunt Agatha said, almost as an aside, ‘And, dear, you’ll not mention Charlotte’s presence here to anyone, will you?’

I stopped.

‘Why not?’

Aunt Agatha took a moment.

‘Charlotte’s in trouble,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t want to be bothered by her family. So this stays between you, me and the reverend. Charity should always be discreet. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, Aunt.’

As far as I was concerned, at nineteen, Charlotte was just the right age to teach me how to dress and what music to listen to so that one day I would fit in to life outside the commune. She might even understand about Luke.

And I was pleased the reverend was involved in her secret arrival. He seemed to understand me better than my aunt or Blanche.

*

The day was hot and a haze obscured the far-off hills. I found a shady spot in the garden, let the material of the enormous smock fan around me and read my book, not caring about wasps buzzing around the cabbages, or that Peter was a few hundred yards away, expecting his nana to come for him.

Peter had it wrong.

Sorrow Spring wasn’t so bad.

Appetites

On her arrival I immediately understood the nature of Charlotte’s trouble. Between skinny arms and legs sat a belly the size of a beachball. Like Nellie from the commune, Charlotte was ringless and pregnant. She looked younger than nineteen and her small, pretty features were marred by dark rings beneath her eyes.

Mr Rivers accompanied her and was extremely attentive, running round the car to open the door. He ushered her into the house and sitting room. She looked around nervously.

I smiled and said hello.

She didn’t smile back.

‘Come and sit in the comfy chair,’ Aunt Agatha said, indicating the leather one nearest the empty fireplace. ‘Charlotte will be with us until the baby comes, Rina.’

Charlotte looked down at her bump.

‘I’m sure you’ll be happy to read to Charlotte or fetch her things if I’m busy, won’t you, dear?’

‘Yes, Aunt,’ I said.

I changed my mind about Charlotte. The last thing I wanted to do at that moment was to be stuck indoors. And I still had the memories of Nellie, writhing on the floor screaming. Although I did soften towards Charlotte when, sensing my reluctance, she leant forwards and said, ‘I’m sure we’re going to be friends.’

Friends – what I so dearly lacked.

The Reverend Rivers came back in, carrying a bunch of flowers. ‘Ah, there you are, Rina,’ he said. ‘Will you put these in water and take them up to Charlotte’s room?’

‘You can make the tea when you’ve finished,’ Aunt Agatha called after me.

*

The room at the end of the landing had been thick with dust and cobwebs until I’d cleaned it that morning. It was also empty of furniture apart from a small chest of drawers. Now it had a chair, a side table and two men were in the process of putting together a bed frame. They must have let themselves in through the back door as I’d not heard them arrive. As I entered, one of them turned round and I saw it was Jed Barrowcroft. He straightened up and grinned.

‘Hi, there.’ He nudged his companion as if to say, this is the one I told you about.

I didn’t answer and tried not to look at him as I placed the vase on a small side table.

‘Shy, are you?’ he said. ‘Shame. I wanted to introduce you to my younger cousin, Art. He’s been dying to meet you.’

I stopped what I was doing to look at Art. He too was grinning.

‘Hi,’ I said, and went back to fanning out the flowers.

‘Where do you want this bed?’ Jed asked.

‘By the window, I suppose,’ I said without looking up.

He and Art picked up the bedframe and moved it to the opposite wall.

‘Sideways, so the head is next to the window,’ I said.

‘Fussy about things like that, are you? I’ll have to remember.’

His manner made me uncomfortable. I twisted the vase around, so the pattern faced away from the wall. When I stood up, Jed was directly behind me.

‘You’ll be in Sorrow Spring for a while,’ he said. ‘Reckon we could get to know each other a bit.’

He stared at my chest. I was suddenly aware of how small my T-shirt was now as it creased and stretched over my breasts. I crossed my arms.

Jed leant forwards. I could smell cigarettes on his breath.

‘Maybe I could take you to the Red Cow. How old are you?’

‘Thirteen next week.’

‘Thirteen? That’s lucky.’ He winked at Art. ‘No girl ever got turned away from the Red Cow for being only thirteen.’

‘My aunt’s expecting me back downstairs,’ I said.

He was standing between me and the door, so that I couldn’t pass without touching him.

‘My cousin Joy could come too, if that’d make you more comfortable.’

‘Really, I need to go,’ I said.

‘Not so fast. We’ve only just started to get to know each other.’

He leant so close I could see the yellow pus of his pimples, which repulsed me as much as his stale tobacco breath.

Art went and closed the door.

‘We’re a very friendly bunch here in Sorrow Spring,’ he said. ‘No need to be so cold.’

I took two steps back.

‘I just want to go.’

‘And you can.’ He ran the tip of his tongue across his lower lip. ‘In a minute.’

The men at the commune had all been kindly avuncular figures. The boys my own age teasing. I only half understood what was happening, enough, however, to make me uneasy.

‘Come now,’ Jed said, and reached his arm towards me.

I wanted to cry out but my throat constricted. I took another step back and found myself against the wall. Art was rocking on his heels, an amused sneer across his face. Jed tipped himself forwards so that his hands pressed against the wall either side of me.

‘Are they all so unfriendly up your way?’

I turned my head to escape his breath, which came hot and damp against my cheek.

‘Please, I have to go,’ I said.

‘No hurry,’ Jed said.

Just then the door banged open and Mr Rivers entered.

‘You’re wanted downstairs, Rina.’

While his voice was calm, his jaw was tense and the veins on his temples raised.

Jed’s smile disappeared. ‘Didn’t know you were here, Reverend,’ he said, keeping his eyes on me.

‘Evidently,’ the reverend said.

Art moved back towards the bed. Jed pushed himself away from the wall but remained in front of me, blocking my path to the door.

‘Stepping on your toes, Reverend?’ he said.

‘She’s a child.’

‘Thirteen. She told me herself. You know what they say, if there’s grass on the wicket there’s a game to be played.’

The reverend clenched his fists and for a moment I thought he was going to punch Jed.

‘This isn’t a game,’ he said.

Jed sneered. ‘Just as well, Reverend. Because if it was, you’d be losing.’

Reverend Rivers swallowed.

‘Nothing to say?’ Jed asked.

‘Your ambition will be your undoing, Barrowcroft. You’d do better to stay a farmer, like your father and his before him.’ Reverend Rivers then addressed me. ‘Run along now, Rina. Your aunt’s asking for you.’

I didn’t need telling twice. I slid around Jed, ran downstairs and sat on the bottom step, feeling sick and shaky. Aunt Agatha had said she had to deal with people who made her flesh crawl. I had never understood the expression before. Had she meant Jed?

Aunt Agatha came out into the hall.

‘What on earth’s been keeping you?’ she asked. And then seeing me upset: ‘Has something happened?’

I thought about saying something, but Jed hadn’t touched me. He had only made me uncomfortable. Said out loud, it sounded harmless. How could I articulate the danger that prickled across my skin when he even looked at me?

‘I don’t like Jed,’ was the only expression I could find.

‘You don’t have to like him, Rina. We have to deal with men occasionally,’ she said. ‘And as you’re on the cusp of womanhood, I think it’s a good time to tell you to be on your guard. With very few exceptions, they are all appetites and demands, and you don’t want to end up like Charlotte. Even a woman my age isn’t safe.’ Like Jed, she stared at my chest. ‘Your mother should have fitted you for a brassiere before she left. I suppose I’ll have to add that to the list of things that are now my responsibility.’

‘Lullaby never wore a bra,’ I said.

‘I, along with the entire male population of Sorrow Spring, am aware of that.’ Then mellowing her tone. ‘I’m sorry, Rina. Jed is like the Vanes; they’re actually related on the father’s side. We have to tolerate him. As you must have gathered from what I told Verity at the spring, he owns the land now. We need his cooperation.’

‘What does he want in return?’ I asked.

To my surprise she smiled. ‘So, you’re not all Lily, are you? A little Pine has seeped into your bones. Yes, he demands a price. A high one. But one that must be paid. It’s a daily struggle.’

‘That’s just what Reverend Rivers said.’

‘Did he?’ She nodded slowly.

‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘What is the price?’

Aunt Agatha regarded me for a moment, my messy hair and ancient T-shirt. She looked a little sad.

‘He wants what all men want – power. But it’s nothing for you to worry about yet,’ she said. ‘Now hurry along and make that tea.’

Thirteen

Jed left his taint behind at Laburnum Lodge. The following days were unhappy ones. Charlotte spent most of her time crying in her room and Aunt Agatha became increasingly querulous. The way I ate displeased her; as if you’d not seen food for a year. The way I read displeased her; stop swishing the pages, turn them gently. It’s just as well she didn’t know I’d slipped Agatha Christie’s Pale Horse inside the enormous Bible I had been made to study. She had stopped me reading Scripture out loud because she found my voice grating and my mispronunciations galling.

The following Wednesday marked my thirteenth birthday and for some reason, Aunt Agatha cheered up. I was to have a party in the evening, and for lunch she baked a special rook pie. It was smaller than the one she had taken to the Hall but more highly decorated. Raised pastry wings ringed the crust and three ceramic yellow beaks burst from its centre.

Aunt Agatha cut me a slice and placed it on the table next to a glass of water.

Brushed with egg and butter, glossy brown and crisp from the oven, it would have looked appetising if I hadn’t known the filling, which was oozing across the plate – dark lumps of meat encased in thick, brown gravy. Mr Proudfoot’s mangled carcass still lurked at the back of my mind and acid fizzled in my stomach.

‘This is special, Rina,’ she said. ‘A traditional meal for a thirteenth birthday.’

‘No one ate rooks at Wroxwood,’ I said.

‘I mean a Sorrow Spring tradition. In other places they take the branchers, the young rooks, for the pie. We know their potency lies in age.’

I looked down at my glass.

‘And the water …?’

‘From St Faran’s Spring. Yes. You’re becoming a woman. The rook pie and the water will make you grow strong.’

Her eyes glistened and she sounded a little breathless. Was she as dotty as Mrs Reed? Did all the old ladies believe this nonsense? Perhaps you became a full member of the Sistren once your reason started to fail.

I glanced at the birthday card Reverend Rivers had sent me, a picture of a ladybird. A child’s card.

Aunt Agatha was still watching me.

I closed my eyes and took a forkful.

The flesh was chewy and had an unpleasant earthy flavour. I opened my eyes, focused on the ladybird, swilled my mouth out with water and somehow managed not to retch.

Aunt Agatha smiled.

‘It’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Aunt Agatha,’ I said.

*

My party started at six o’clock. I persuaded Aunt Agatha to let me tune the radio to a pop station. Blanche brought along her gramophone and had baked and iced a cake for me. Aunt Agatha provided sandwiches and cherryade for our guests. I wore my denim shorts and Charlotte lent me one of her T-shirts, white with ‘Paris’ emblazoned across the front. I hoped wearing it imparted a little of that city’s chic. She also drew black kohl on my eyelids, which Aunt Agatha insisted I remove. But Charlotte said it was normal for girls my age and, for once, my aunt relented.

I felt very sophisticated when I answered the door to Joy and Hope.

Joy had her habitual lollipop in her mouth.

‘No frock today?’ she said.

Hope gave her an imploring look.

‘Cool T-shirt, Rina,’ she said.

‘Where’s everyone else?’ Joy asked when we reached the living room.

‘It’s just us,’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘Small parties are the best, don’t you think?’ Blanche said.

Hope had told me that on Joy’s sixteenth birthday their parents had gone out for the evening, more boys than girls had turned up at the party and a raid on Mrs Reed’s meant cherryade had only been needed as a mixer. And although Joy daren’t say anything in front of Aunt Agatha, her face expressed horror at being invited to a party with only her sister, me and two old ladies.

Hope saw it too.

‘We brought you a present,’ she said brightly, and handed me a plastic bag. ‘We didn’t have time to wrap it.’

Inside was a scarf woven in red and yellow flowers.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘It’s … er, colourful.’

‘Brocade is always so beautiful,’ Blanche said. ‘And those shades are just the thing for you, Rina. You don’t see many scarves like that these days. I remember Mrs Reed had something similar.’

Hope winced.

Joy smirked.

‘Drinks, girls?’ Aunt Agatha asked.

‘Please.’

‘We’ve lots of fizzy drinks, isn’t that what you young people like?’

Joy looked at the bottles of pop lined up on the sideboard.

‘Mmm, dandelion and burdock, my favourite,’ Joy said.

Aunt Agatha was oblivious to her sarcasm and Blanche chose not to understand, being unwilling to share the contents her not-so- clandestine hip flask, which was poking out from her handbag.

The radio came on. A catchy electronic tune was playing,‘Airport’ by The Motors, Joy informed me. This couldn’t mask the childish nature of the party, nor lessen Joy’s disdain at Aunt Agatha trying to entertain us by playing gin rummy.

‘Will we be playing pin the tail on the donkey too?’ she asked.

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘Perhaps next year.’

Aunt Agatha won every hand of gin rummy, and after the fifth one Joy looked at her watch.

‘I’m afraid we have to go,’ she said.

‘So soon?’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘We’re babysitting for Mrs Greening’s twins.’

Hope looked embarrassed, but she too stood up.

‘Happy Birthday, Rina,’ she said.

They’d been in the house precisely an hour.

*

The rest of the evening was spent with Aunt Agatha and Blanche, who looked disappointed when I told her I didn’t know if it was my father playing saxophone on the records she’d put on for us.

Charlotte joined us for slices of birthday cake and rectangles of Lyons Maid ice cream. Then disappeared upstairs the moment she’d finished. Aunt Agatha made me a present of a pink dress with white trim – something ‘that fits and makes you look ladylike’. And Blanche had bought me a forty-five by some obscure 1950s artist, forgetting we had no record player of our own. She was mortified when Aunt Agatha reminded her.

‘You must come to my house and play it,’ she whispered to me. ‘I’m at Fox Cottage, further along from the shops, just beyond the park.’

I said I would visit and she looked pleased. Aunt Agatha also felt sure she had done well that day.

I thanked them for the hideous dress and useless forty-five.

I said nothing of how I had waited at the foot of the stairs for cards from Lullaby, Emesh and Forest to drop through the letter box. Cards that never came.

I didn’t cry.

I was thirteen now – nearly a woman.

*

Aunt Agatha took the key kept around her neck and used it to open the study, where she kept the telephone. Her call was to Reverend Rivers. Despite her watchful eye, Blanche had managed to get tipsy and she needed him to come and drive her drunken friend home. While Aunt Agatha was gone, Blanche called me over.

‘What no one tells you at thirteen is your best years are behind you,’ she slurred. ‘After that, it’s all menstruation and heartache. Ssspecially for girls like you.’

Though unsure of her exact meaning, her words unsettled me and I was glad when Reverend Rivers arrived and I was able to slip out of the back with The Pale Horse.

*

It was not long after midsummer, and the evening was still warm, with enough light for a walk. The low sun and feathery clouds dappled the sky mauve. The city of Birmingham lay as an indistinct blotch on the horizon. The hills to the south were similarly fuzzy. I felt fuzzy myself, restless and unsatisfied in a way that neither the fresh air nor my book could cure.

On a bench at the end of the garden, I lay down and looked up at the sky; to the west, mauve was giving way to crimson. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself back at Wroxwood. My birthday there would be celebrated around a campfire, eating baked potatoes dripping with butter and drinking warm spiced apple juice. Emesh and Forest would tease me because I was still the youngest. And yet I knew even a return to my beloved home would not stop the discontent swelling within me.

Tsssk. A sound from the other side of the wall made me sit up.

Tsssk. It came again.

A horrible idea came to me. This was Jed sneaking around trying to see Aunt Agatha on the sly.

I jumped up, ready to run back to the house.

‘Don’t go.’ A voice I recognised.

‘Luke?’ I said.

His grinning face popped up from the other side of the wall before he jumped over, keeping behind the rhododendron bush and out of view of the house. I rushed towards him. He raised a finger to his lips. I halted.

‘Is anyone else about?’ he asked.

‘Aunt Agatha’s with Blanche and the reverend out front,’ I said.

‘Good.’ He squinted at me. ‘You look different.’

I felt a glow within. Perhaps Charlotte’s make-up and fashionable T-shirt made me look a little older, a little more sophisticated.

‘It’s my birthday. I had a party,’ I said.

‘I know. I bumped into Joy.’

Joy would have complained about having to go to some kid’s birthday party with cake and cherryade instead of boys and vodka. Had Luke come to make fun of me? The last time we met, he’d pretended not to know me. My face must have shown my conflicted feelings.

‘Joy and Hope can’t know we’re friends,’ he said. ‘No one can. I told you that the first time we met.’

‘Are we friends?’

I was still unsure if he was laughing at me or not.

‘Why do you think I’m here?’

He held out a present, wrapped in gold with a silver bow. I’d never received anything so elegant before.

‘Happy birthday,’ he said.

I sat back down on the bench, placing the present on my lap, marvelling at its beauty, hardly daring to touch it. Luke sat next to me.

‘Go on,’ he said.

My fingers pulled gently at the folds of paper, careful not to tear it. I teased out the contents. Two green eyes stared out at me from a black background. It was a copy of The Midwich Cuckoos a different cover from the one he’d given to Peter, far more mystical and intriguing.

‘I love it.’ I hugged the book to my chest, then realised how foolish this looked, returned it to my lap and opened it to read the inscription.

‘To Rina, from Luke x’

‘Peter said you wanted to read it,’ Luke said.

‘You’ve seen him?’

‘Before I went to London. I had to spend a few days with the old man.’

‘You mean your father? How come you don’t live with him?’ ‘His new wife hates me. Actually, he hates me. The new wife is just an excuse. I don’t care. Living with the reverend’s not bad.’

I remembered Joy telling me, Luke’s mother had died in childbirth. I felt a sort of kinship; we were both abandoned by one parent and missing the other.

‘I don’t know my dad, and my mum’s gone off with some guy called Maurice,’ I said.

‘My mum died giving birth to me. I guess that makes us both orphans in a way. Unless your mum’s coming back for you.’

‘I thought she was. Now I’m not sure. I’m not staying, though,’ I said.

‘Aren’t you happy here?’

‘How can I be?’

‘You’ll get used to it. You’ve been hanging around with Joy and Hope, becoming one of them.’

‘I’ll never be one of them. Aunt Agatha told me I had to be friends with those two,’ I said.

‘Why?’

I didn’t want to tell him about being sent as a spy. It made me sound even more as if I was one of them and it was just so … so … Sorrow Spring.

‘Dunno.’ I shrugged.

‘Did you at least find out who your aunt really is?’

‘That’s no secret. She’s the head of the Sorrow Spring Sistren. Everyone in the village knows that.’

‘And what do they do?’

‘Look after the spring and stick their noses in where they’re not wanted.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘I thought Peter was Jimmy when I first saw him.’

‘Yeah, he told me.’

‘You know Verity puts him in Jimmy’s old clothes?’

‘It doesn’t surprise me. But you didn’t find out anything new?’

Should I tell him about Mrs Reed? After all, I hardly knew him.

What else was there? Drinking the water and eating rook pie were hardly earth-shattering. I considered Jed’s night-time visits but thinking about him made me anxious.

‘There’s not much to know. They’re just weird,’ I said. ‘I don’t care, anyway. I’m leaving.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘I don’t know yet. There are new people living at the commune. I’m not sure who’s there any more. What’s London like?’

‘Fun when my dad’s not around. Aunt Lynn, my mum’s sister, said I can stay with her for A levels. I’ll be gone after next summer.’

Some of our scattered commune must have ended up in London. Surely, one of them would take me in if I could find them. I imagined being far away from Sorrow Spring, with my friends and with Luke. Then I thought of Mrs Reed’s words: you’ll never leave.

I shuddered.

‘Are you definitely getting out of here?’ I asked.

‘The reverend wants me to follow him into the Church. I mean,’ he spread his hands, ‘the last time I was in church was for my christening. I refuse to go when I’m here. Why does he think I want to become a priest? I’m going to be an actor.’

I’d barely seen any film or television; still I could picture Luke as an actor, handsome and dashing. Only it would take him away from me.

I had to get to London.

Luke looked to the sky, which was now nearly dark.

‘I’d better go, or I’ll be missed.’ He stood up.

I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted him to stay and made a quick change of decision.

‘I know where Jimmy’s mother is,’ I blurted out.

He stopped and slowly sat back down.

‘You asked me to find out where Jimmy was,’ I said. ‘Well, I haven’t, but his mother’s hiding upstairs at Mrs Reed’s.’

‘You saw her when you went there with Joy and Hope? Why didn’t you come and tell me?’

‘You were ignoring me.’

‘I explained that.’

‘I didn’t know back then.’

‘Fair point. I’m listening now.’

I told him about Mr Proudfoot, Mrs Reed’s pristine house, the peppermint and tobacco smell of the tartan jacket and the fleeting shadow on the upstairs landing. I hoped he’d be impressed by my deductions. If he was, he didn’t show it and only sat in silence for a couple of minutes.

‘So much of this doesn’t make sense,’ he said. ‘Have you seen anything else?’

Nothing I wanted to tell him.

‘Why are you so interested in Jimmy and the Sistren?’

‘I got to know Jimmy a little last year. He stayed with Aunt Verity for a bit. When he left, the reverend was really upset. This all happened around the same time as Saint Faran’s Feast and that’s the exact day the reverend says I have to visit one of my uncles in Gloucester.’

‘You think he deliberately chose the Saint’s Day?’

‘He definitely wants me out of the way. The more he keeps me in the dark, the more I have to know.’

‘Why?’

‘Dad told me Mum came to Sorrow Spring when she was seven months pregnant, and I arrived early,’ he said. ‘Aunt Lynn says different. Dad forced Mum to come up here the week before she was due. If she’d been in London and taken to a hospital, she would have lived. And now he’s made me come here too. I need to know what’s going on.’

‘I’ll be here for St Faran’s Feast,’ I said. ‘I can watch what they’re up to.’

‘You’d do that for me?’

‘Of course.’

He leant over and kissed me on the cheek.

‘See you, Rina.’

I was too stunned to speak as he leapt back over the wall.

Aunt Agatha began calling to me from the kitchen and I walked back to the house, my hand still glued to my face, where his lips had brushed my skin.

*

That night, still in my Paris T-shirt and now smudged kohl, I remembered the lollipop the shopkeeper had given me. I took it from the drawer in the side table where I’d stashed it, stuck it in my mouth and went to the mirror. My reflection did not match the cool sophistication of Joy, but it was closer to who I wanted to be. I rolled the lolly around and turned my head, trying to look alluring and dismissive at the same time. Joy had perfected the attitude. I needed to practise, tilting my chin and raising my eyes upwards.

Then I spat the lolly into the sink and examined my mouth, the corners stained red as if bleeding. I was no Joy Vane.

Luke had been interested in me before my arrival. It was my proximity to Aunt Agatha that brought him to Laburnum Lodge, not my company.

I went over to my mattress and removed The Midwich Cuckoos from where I had hidden it underneath. Ignoring Luke’s inscription this time, I saw that ‘5p’ had been pencilled into the corner, and on the first page was printed the year 1957. A five-pence second-hand book was all I was worth.

I took the back and front half in each hand and was about to rip it apart when I felt the touch of Luke’s lips on my cheek once more and, instead, hugged the book to me before replacing it under the mattress.

Sinners

In the days following my birthday the house filled with the clack and clamour of people rushing in with armfuls of cloth and foodstuffs before dashing out again minutes later on a new errand. Aunt Agatha hurried from room to room with samples of material, and sheets of paper dense with planning notes. Ladies of the Sistren worked in the sitting room sewing yards of fabric by hand and by machine. And in the summer heat, the kitchen temperature rose to Saharan levels with the constant use of the oven, as pastries, bread and pies were shaped, set and kneaded.

All this I learnt was in preparation for St Faran’s Feast. The celebration comprised a church service, a procession and a huge dinner in the village hall. Larger than the Moot Hall, this lay on the same road, a couple of hundred yards further down the hill.

Amongst all the hubbub Verity Vane, who had revived her midwifery skills, came daily to see Charlotte. I made it my business to avoid her. If I mistimed entering or leaving the house and happened to run into her, she never missed the opportunity to make a snarky comment about my appearance or behaviour.

Verity’s forked tongue aside, I enjoyed the general bustle. It gave me greater freedom. Aunt Agatha was too busy to pay me any attention and after reading my prescribed passages from the Bible, I was free to mope in the garden and wait for Luke’s return. Every bird rustling in the branches, every hedgehog rooting around in a bush, made me jump to attention, only to be disappointed.

Sometimes I left the garden and wandered out onto the hill where the flowers hummed with bees and butterflies and from where I could see Verity Vane’s white bungalow.

My conscience told me I should go to see Peter.

My courage let me down.

How could I tell him that his mother didn’t want him back, and repeat her cruel words?

He’s a whinging pain in the arse.

*

Once I did venture closer to the bungalow, though I was careful to stay out of sight. Through the bushes I spotted Peter at his window. He was watching the hill. Light glinted off the thick lenses of his glasses and I wondered if he was watching for me, waiting as I waited for Luke – in vain.

I skulked back to Laburnum Lodge.

On my return, I found the Reverend Rivers smoking and reading a newspaper on the patio bench. I hadn’t seen him since the incident with Jed Barrowcroft. I wasn’t sure what to say to him and was about to retreat when he looked up.

‘Prosperina, I was wondering where you had got to. Come and talk to me.’

He patted the bench next to him, folded his paper and crushed the cigarette beneath his heel. I sat down in the cloud of nicotine left behind. The reverend smiled.

‘You enjoy the hillside I see, being in the heart of nature.’

‘At Wroxwood we were always outside,’ I said.

‘This landscape is glorious. I’m from down there.’ He pointed to the factory chimneys in the distance. ‘It’s changed since I was a child. Then it was thick with coal dust: the buildings, the windows, the air. I never noticed when I lived there, but when I returned my eyes and lungs burnt with sulphur. Hell is described as a pit of fire and brimstone – that’s the old word for sulphur. It’s a pretty good picture of the street where I grew up. You, Prosperina, have been fortunate always to have lived in nature.’

‘I’d like to visit a city. Especially London.’

‘Visit, yes. Live, no. I can tell you’re not made for city living – cramped flats, offices – you couldn’t bear the confinement. Your spirit loves to roam, like your mother’s.’

‘Lullaby did work in an office.’

‘Did she? How unlike her.’

He pondered a moment. ‘Have you heard from her?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘And your friend Peter, have you been to see him? I thought perhaps that’s where you were just now.’

I was too ashamed to answer.

His eyes rested on me and once again I had the feeling he could peel back my skin.

‘You’re afraid of giving him bad news?’ he said.

‘How did you …?’

‘Very little goes on in this village without my knowledge. Mrs Vane has been kind, taking Peter in. But if he’s not happy and doesn’t appreciate what she does for him, it’s best he returns to his family.’

‘She takes away his wheelchair so he can’t get around. He’s not even allowed to go into the garden. Jed hurt him – they locked him in a cupboard one night.’

‘I didn’t realise things had gone that far,’ the reverend said. ‘Though Jed Barrowcroft’s involvement in anything is always troubling. But I’ve already had a word with Mrs Vane about her treatment of Peter. I think her methods of discipline are excessive and she’s agreed. Peter will not be with her for much longer.’

‘His mum doesn’t sound any better,’ I said.

‘In my profession, I’ve learnt to make allowances for moods and circumstances. Peter’s mother is poor. Her husband has left and provides no support. She loves Peter, but he’s also a burden. I’ve made enquiries and he can live with his grandmother. His mother will be close by to help. I’m sorry you’re losing your friend but I think it’s for the best.’

‘Does Peter know?’

‘Mrs Vane will tell him today.’

An idea came to me.

‘Do you think you could speak to Lullaby and I could go home, like Peter?’

The reverend grimaced. ‘I don’t think your aunt’s ready to part with you just yet. Your mother will come for you when she’s ready. And if you’re worried about Jed Barrowcroft, there’s no need. Both your aunt and I have spoken to him. Don’t think we tolerate that sort of behaviour in Sorrow Spring.’

I thought of Aunt Agatha’s cautions about men and how Charlotte should act as a warning to me. Was her arrival at the same time as Jed a coincidence?

‘Is Jed Barrowcroft the father of Charlotte’s baby?’

It was the first time I’d managed to shock him.

‘What on earth gave you that idea?’

‘Just something Aunt Agatha said. And Blanche. She said she expected me to have children soon – like Charlotte – well, I’m not. I don’t like babies. I saw one being born once. It was horrible. Why would Blanche want me to do that?’

The reverend’s face relaxed into a smile.

‘Prosperina, please. There’s no nice way of putting this, but Blanche is a drunk. One day of course you will marry and have children. But that’s far in the future. Poor Charlotte forgot to do it in the right order and has got herself into rather a mess. The Church does not approve. Nor do we condemn. I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.’

‘All she does is cry. I just wish I had someone to talk to.’

‘Come and talk to me, if you like. Agatha tells me you love books. What is it you have there?’

I showed him the library copy of The Pale Horse. I had hidden The Midwich Cuckoos and retrieved it from under my mattress only when I was sure Aunt Agatha was in bed.

‘Time flies by with a book,’ he said. ‘I’ve a huge collection at the Vicarage. I know what you’re thinking – he’s a priest – it will be all sermons and prayer. Well, I love a good murder mystery as much as the next man. And if that’s a sin, I’ll repent on Judgment Day. And you’re welcome to borrow any of them.’

‘Can I?’

‘Of course. I have a visitor at the moment but he’ll be gone soon and then you can choose as many as you like. Or I’ll bring some over next time I’m here. Until then, do as your aunt tells you and stay out of trouble. Do we have a deal?’

It was odd to hear him referring to Luke, his godson, as a visitor, but as I wasn’t supposed to know him, I said, ‘Yes.’

He picked up his cigarette butt from the patio.

‘I’d better go,’ he said, standing up. I stood with him. ‘I need to have a private word with your aunt.’

He reached down for his newspaper. A breeze brushed the pages and it fluttered open. He caught it quickly and folded it once more.

‘Don’t forget what I said. And I’ll see you soon, Prosperina Fuchsia.’

‘Goodbye, Reverend,’ I said.

He turned away and didn’t see me lean on the arm of the bench for support then wobble back to a seated position.

The newspaper had opened at the headline: ‘Lapmore Wood Body Identified’.

Below was the black-and-white image of a young, slender woman, with shoulder-length hair and a tartan jacket.

The woman from the roadside.

Jimmy’s mother.

Humility

Blanche and Mrs Cox were with Aunt Agatha in the kitchen when Reverend Rivers entered. He threw her a glance and she followed him into the hall. I stood by the back door watching them. Aunt Agatha took the paper from him, scanned it and folded it again. She was nodding along to whatever he was saying. Then she unlocked the study and placed the paper inside, before accompanying the reverend out of the house without relocking the door.

I seized my chance, slipped through the kitchen and into the study.

The room was dark; its shutters closed to stop prying eyes. In the chimney breast the pewter ewer Aunt Agatha took to the spring stood where the fire should have been. Metal rails fixed in the alcoves either side were hung with long, grey, velvet cloaks.

The newspaper lay on an otherwise empty desk. I didn’t have a chance to read it as I heard Aunt Agatha coming back down the hall and someone was with her.

I dived behind the cloaks. They carried the faint scent of wood smoke and their soft fabric brushed against my skin. Peeping out, I saw Verity Vane entering the study carrying a square, tartan tin.

‘This isn’t the best time for a private chat,’ Aunt Agatha was saying.

‘Blanche and Mrs Cox won’t hear us in here. And I thought I ought to pop round as Ms Lowther said you weren’t quite yourself.’

It was true, with Charlotte’s arrival and the approach of St Faran’s Feast, Aunt Agatha had been looking more and more tired, and her already meagre appetite had shrunk to nothing. At breakfast she had managed only a single bite of toast.

‘I’ve brought you some freshly baked shortbread,’ Verity said. She placed her tin on the desk. ‘You look as if you could do with something to eat and a sit-down.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ Aunt Agatha said.‘But quite unnecessary. I’ve never felt fitter.’

‘Ms Lowther isn’t the only person to comment on your health,’ Verity said. ‘Do you think maybe it’s all getting a bit much for you? This business with Emily Frain has to be upsetting. That poor woman. Did you know she was in the area? I thought you’d arranged for her to go to Canada.’

‘Evidently she came back.’

Verity removed the tin lid and offered the shortbread to Aunt Agatha, who waved it away in irritation.

‘I thought it was your favourite. Have you lost your appetite?’

‘I’ll be having lunch soon,’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘Well, if you’re sure.’ Verity closed the tin, tilted her head and pressed her lips together with insincere concern. ‘You talk as if you are alone, Agatha, when all the Sistren stand with you. Any of us would gladly help. We’re all so worried.’

‘About what, exactly?’

‘It’s been a bit overshadowed by this Frain business, but I had come round to talk about Peter and Mrs Reed.’

‘If it were up to me—’ Aunt Agatha began.

Verity coughed. ‘Excuse me, Agatha, it is up to you. We could overlook this business with the Frain girl, however badly handled. But now there are more pressing matters making us concerned. Not least because you seem to be in thrall to the reverend. It’s not for him to tell us how to conduct our business. Nature makes no allowances for sentiment or distress. Evil only sleeps. It never dies. Your own words. After what happened in ’seventy-four, as well. I thought you’d be more careful. Now, if Luke were to come …’

Luke? I caught my breath.

‘Ramsay won’t hear of it,’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘Ramsay is it now?’ Verity arched an eyebrow. ‘I thought you were the last person to have a handsome face turn your head. Remember what happened the last time men took the helm?’

‘Given my own mother was a victim, that’s something I’m hardly likely to forget.’

‘And yet you let this man dictate. The Reverend Rivers is here to do our bidding, not the other way around.’

‘You feel that’s your role, Verity – to dictate to me?’

‘Not at all.’

‘But here you are, laying down the law.’

‘I’m simply trying to help.’

Aunt Agatha straightened her back. ‘I don’t need your help. I’ve come to an agreement with the Barrowcrofts, settled matters with Peter’s mother and brought my sister’s child here. Mrs Reed will be going to a home in the North Country and Emily Frain is no longer relevant. I don’t know what more could be done.’

‘You should have insisted your Lily parted with the boy.’

‘I told you, she wouldn’t agree to it.’

‘People think you’ve become weak.’

I could have sworn I made no noise but Verity looked directly towards me and the cloaks and, as at the Moot Hall, I was sure she knew I was within earshot.

‘And what about that little changeling you call your niece.’ Verity gave a derisory snort. ‘The only reason anyone believes it might be true is the way she carries on – just like her mother. Flirting with Peter, and now I’m told she’s got her eye on Jed Barrowcroft.’

I steadied my breathing and waited for Aunt Agatha to defend me.

She said nothing.

‘I suppose she’ll be coming to tomorrow’s ceremony,’ Verity said with one more glance in my direction.

‘What can you mean?’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘She’s far too young.’

‘If she’s not up to it now, she never will be. Or do you think she’s too feeble-minded? Her age isn’t an excuse – how old were you?’

‘Those were different times, Verity. Besides, Rina’s not been brought up in Sorrow Spring. She needs to get used to our ways.’

‘Delay after delay, Agatha – your nephew, this niece of yours, Luke. You must be resolute. Are you our leader or not?’

Aunt Agatha stood and walked away from the table, towards the window, all the time turning the pewter ring on her finger.

‘Neither you nor Ms Lowther nor any of the others has a right to question my authority. Now more than ever we require unity.’

‘As you wish,’ Verity said. ‘We’ll carry on as planned. However, I will raise these issues at our next moot. You’ll find I’m not the only one who feels you’re losing your way and that the reverend has been handed too much power. In short, Agatha, confidence is low and if you won’t take control of the situation others will.’

When Aunt Agatha turned from the window, raw anger erased her fatigue.

In a voice barely above a whisper she said, ‘You’d do well, Verity, to consider whether it’s wise to come here into my house and threaten me. The last person who did that was Maude Barrowcroft.’

Verity took a sharp intake of breath.

‘She came here, telling me what I could and could not do,’ Aunt Agatha continued. ‘Told me she would only buy on condition that I name you and Joy as my successor. I wonder where she got that idea. It was after that she had a most unfortunate accident. Fell down the stairs before Jed had a chance to mend the banister. Good thing you’re in a bungalow, eh?’

Aunt Agatha had attended Maude Barrowcroft’s funeral on the first day I arrived in Sorrow Spring. That night Jed had told her: I could go to prison for this.

Verity’s expression mirrored my own thoughts – shock, disbelief, then a slow-dawning comprehension.

‘You’re not serious,’ Verity said. She drew her claw hand to her chest. ‘Maude’s death was an accident. She was unsteady on her feet.’

‘If that’s the case, you’ve nothing to worry about.’ Aunt Agatha’s cadence was slow and deliberate. ‘But I can’t help thinking she’d have been much less unsteady had she shown even a sliver of humility.’ She picked up the newspaper. ‘Not to mention poor little Emily, who came back to make trouble but never had the chance.’

Uncertain of her ground, Verity stood staring at my aunt.

‘I wasn’t threatening, only expressing concern,’ Verity said.

Rina, I’m frightened, Peter had told me. Was his fear justified?

‘The thing is, Agatha—’

Aunt Agatha cut her off. ‘I think you should leave,’ she said.

‘As you wish.’

Verity didn’t move, however. She stayed next to the desk, obviously disconcerted, until a smile spread across her face and she looked in my direction and said, ‘Until tomorrow night and the ceremony.’

The moment Verity left, Aunt Agatha collapsed into a chair, her head in her hands. I thought she was crying but when she looked up her face was quite dry.

She stayed seated for several minutes before leaving and locking the door behind her. In the kitchen, she told Blanche and Mrs Cox they were no longer needed that day.

I waited until I heard her go upstairs before emerging from between the cloaks.

The paper lay on the desk, the second page open. I stared and stared at the picture. Was the woman Jimmy’s mother? I had only seen her in semi-darkness. And though the tartan jacket looked familiar, it wasn’t unique.

I read the article.

The body found in Lapmore Wood has been identified as that of twenty-nine-year-old Emily Frain. It’s believed Emily took her own life and police are not looking for anyone else in connection with the incident.

Originally from Nuneaton, Emily had once lived in the Rowlstone area, though not for several years.

She has no surviving relatives.

No surviving relatives. Did they not know about Jimmy?

Jed said he had dealt with her. Did that mean murder made to look like suicide, in the same way his grandmother’s death had appeared to be an accident? Or were both as straightforward as they seemed and Aunt Agatha had only wanted to frighten Verity? That must be it. Old women did not go around murdering one another, did they?

I put the paper back in the exact spot I found it, careful not to alert Aunt Agatha to my trespassing.

I looked around the room. No phone. It must have been locked in one of the cupboards. Not that I trusted the police. Jed had said Aunt Agatha had a contact there. No, I needed to get out of the room and find Luke. He was older, had lived in the real world outside a commune and would know what to do.

The first part was easy. The shutters had no lock and I escaped by the window. Next I had to tell Luke about Emily Frain. I knew where the Vicarage was; the reverend had told me. My only problem was not to alert him when finding Luke.

Ducking under the kitchen window, I ran around the side of the house, only to stop.

Verity had accused Aunt Agatha of having her head turned by a handsome face. Was I making the same mistake? Was it really a coincidence that Emily Frain was found dead in Lapmore Woods a few days after I had told Luke where to find her?

I could trust no one.

Not my aunt, not the reverend and not Luke.

Robes

The morning of 17 July was overcast and muggy. Blanche and several ladies of the Sistren came to Laburnum Lodge before breakfast to help with the final feast day preparations. Listless and abstracted, they shuffled in and out of the house, as grey and lifeless as the weather. Jed also dropped by, swaggering up the drive with a smirk on his face. He talked to my aunt for several minutes. I watched from an upstairs window and didn’t come down until he had left.

My night had been restless. The altercation between Aunt Agatha and Verity Vane was playing on my mind. Sometimes I believed Aunt Agatha’s threat to be an empty one; Maude had simply fallen, Emily was in despair and Aunt Agatha had fabricated her involvement to exaggerate her power. At others, Peter’s words forced their way to the front of my thoughts, I’m frightened, and Luke’s, Did you at least find out who your aunt really is?

I watched and tried to understand.

Her behaviour baffled me. Here was the great feast day, the one spoken of with such excitement and yet my sharp and active aunt had turned leaden, dragging herself from room to room, making a chore of every stitch sewn and every bun iced. And these activities only half occupied her. Every few minutes she would go to the window and look out at the sky, shaking her head and pursing her lips.

Something else nagged at me. The church service, procession and feast at the village hall were to take place during the day. Verity had stated the ceremony was at night; meaning it was separate from the general village entertainment.

I was glad Luke would be away. This was something I needed to do on my own; find out what happened on the Saint’s Day after the feast. Then I would know whom I could and couldn’t trust.

*

In church Reverend Rivers appeared subdued as he gave his sermon, which told again the tale of St Faran. How he was slain by his brother-in-law, Alfred, at the behest of his wicked sister, Osana. How his death gave life to the sacred spring. And how, as punishment for their treachery, Alfred and Osana were hanged from an ash tree and the rooks left to feast on their flesh.

I scanned the church for Luke. He hadn’t come. Perhaps he’d already left to visit his uncle in Gloucester.

Joy and Hope were sitting with their grandmother in the pew on the opposite side of the aisle to us. Like all the young women between fourteen and twenty, they wore long, shapeless, white, cotton dresses. Only Joy’s was nipped in at the waist, emphasising her bosom and hips. Like mine, her eyes wandered around the church and I couldn’t help thinking it was for the same purpose.

The younger boys wore brown, hessian robes and the men black. I thought Aunt Agatha and the ladies might wear their grey velvet cloaks. But she and the other members of the Sistren were in their usual church attire.

‘And so on St Faran’s Day, we give special thanks to those who deliver us from evil,’ Reverend Rivers concluded.

‘Amen,’ the congregation affirmed.

As we left, I saw that Verity Vane had stopped at Maude Barrowcroft’s grave. Small tufts of grass now sprinkled the dark earth on top. Did Verity believe Aunt Agatha’s claim regarding Maude’s death? Like me, Aunt Agatha was also watching Verity, before her eyes drifted nervously in the direction of St Faran’s Spring. Then she took my arm and hurried us along the road to the edge of the village.

Procession

The faint smell of garlic drifted through the morning haze. Then came a single drumbeat, echoing against the surrounding hills. The throng, gathered at the edge of the village, quivered at its sound and held a collective breath, anticipating the second. It came, closer this time. Then a third and a fourth, each a little louder. With every beat the garlic smell intensified until its reek filled the air and my eyes and nose began to stream.

A hillock obscured the view across the field, and although the drumbeats were near, we could see nothing of the procession.

Finally, the drummer appeared about forty yards from where we stood. He gave two more slow, pounding thumps, then a dramatic roll, summoning more musicians into view. They wore black pantaloons and white smock shirts. Their faces were painted with red blotches, so that I didn’t immediately recognise Jed. He played an oboe, its dense, menacing drone like a swarm of bees. Next came his cousin, Art, whose violin with a missing string created a discordant wail. Two other men in the same dress followed, one strumming a guitar, the other blowing on a penny whistle.

At the sight of them, the awaiting village broke into applause.

I alone shuddered.

The drum returned to its slow beat, which dictated the pace of the procession, a slow march in pairs, everyone stepping left and right in unison like a swaying centipede.

Next came the girls, their hair now decorated with dog roses and daisies. They carried long-stalked, white blooms, which they shook from side to side. More and more appeared over the hillock and with them came a strong sharp scent.

‘My eyes are stinging,’ I said.

‘That’s the garlic,’ Blanche said. ‘It repels the bad air.’

The fumes were burning my nostrils. Surely this was the bad air.

The boys followed the girls. They carried bags of the same brown hessian as their robes. At intervals they reached inside these and scattered salt along the path beside them.

Once the whole procession – the musicians, girls and boys – had passed into the village, all turned back to face the field from where they had come. Then another drumbeat rolled in from the other side of the hillock. Heavier and slower, it reverberated through to the ground beneath us. Even the trees seemed to shiver.

The village fell silent.

At first, I could only glimpse flashes of their black robes. The men. But not as men. Beneath their hats enormous black eyes peered out over long white beaks. A flock of malevolent birds – fearsome and mesmerising.

I shrank back at their approach.

‘They’re plague doctors,’ Blanche whispered to me. ‘This is how they dressed to ward off the Black Death.’

Their costumes appeared to be more the embodiment of disease than its cure.

‘What have they to do with St Faran?’ I asked.

‘The waters of the well saved us from plague and those who seek to profit from it. Watch,’ Blanche said.

The plague doctors reached the edge of the village and made a line in front of the barrier formed by the musicians, the girls in white and the boys in brown.

One doctor strode forward and rang a bell.

‘Bring out your dead,’ he cried.

The others joined in, ringing their bells and calling, ‘Bring out your dead. Bring out your dead.’

The clanging was so loud and persistent, I put my hands over my ears.

Joy took a step towards the doctors. All in white, her hair twisted high upon her head, she looked like a marble-carved goddess. The perpetual sneer that hung about her lips had been replaced by a cold determination.

‘Begone. We have no dead,’ she said.

The girls shook their bouquets of garlic at the plague doctors, releasing more caustic fumes.

‘Bring out your dead,’ the doctors called again.

A boy this time: ‘Begone. We have no dead.’

The boys flung salt at the masked men.

Jed’s oboe started its drone once more. Art pulled his bow over screeching strings and en masse the girls and boys cried, ‘Begone. Begone.’

All the village joined in.

‘Begone. Begone.’

As one, the plague doctors turned away. Their drum struck up another beat and solemnly they trod back across the field.

‘Bring out your dead. Bring out your dead.’

One by one they disappeared behind the hillock. When the last was gone, cymbals clashed and the whole village cheered.

The musicians’ melancholic tune turned to a merry jig. The boys grabbed the girls and twirled them about. Adults joined in. A man I recognised as Mr Murray, the shopkeeper, seized Blanche and spun her around, his thin arms barely encompassing her waist. Dancing, laughing and skipping along the streets strewn with garlic and salt, everyone made their way to the village hall.

‘To the feast.’

‘Blessed St Faran.’

‘To the feast.’

Blanche returned to us, hot and breathless.

‘Well, that was unexpected. Mr Murray, of all people,’ she said, giving a girlish laugh.

Aunt Agatha remained grim-faced, looking back towards the field and the church tower.

‘Do you have anything to drink, Blanche?’ she asked.

‘There’ll be tea and squash at the village hall.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘But, Agatha, you know I’ve quite given up, just as you told me.’

‘Blanche,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘I’m asking you for a drink.’

‘Ah, I see.’

Blanche rummaged in her bag and withdrew a silver hip flask.

‘Vodka,’ she said. ‘No smell.’

Aunt Agatha took two large swigs and handed it back without saying a word.

Blanche returned the flask to her bag. They both acted as if nothing had happened and continued towards the village hall and the feast.

Feast

To me the word ‘feast’ summoned up Ivanhoe and medieval banquets: great oak tables, boars’ heads, stuffed swans and tankards overflowing with ale. St Faran’s Feast, however, was firmly rooted in the twentieth century and consisted of coronation chicken and salmon-paste sandwiches, plates of cold beef and ham along with undressed salad. Jelly, blancmange and cold rice pudding with jam to follow.

Each table had a seating plan. I was next to Joy and Hope.

To avoid them, I decided to go to the kitchen and offer my help.

Mrs Cox shooed me away before I got there.

‘You’ll just be under everyone’s feet,’ she said, tripping over her Yorkie.

I slunk out to the corridor where Mrs Greening’s twins were running up and down, shooting each other with toy guns. Seeing me, they ran out of the back to continue their game in the car park.

Luke was sitting on a chair by the door, reading Macbeth. At my approach he looked up. My mouth went dry.

‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ I rasped.

‘The reverend’s taking me to Gloucester after he’s spoken to your aunt. I thought I’d try to see you before I left.’

He put the book to one side.

‘What does he want to talk to Aunt Agatha about – Emily Frain?’

‘Who?’

He sounded genuinely clueless and my resolution to keep my discoveries from him crumbled.

‘She was in the local paper – found hanging from a tree in Lapmore Woods.’

‘That woman? The police came and spoke to the reverend about her. He’d tried to help her a few times. It wasn’t her first suicide attempt. What’s she got to do with your aunt?’

‘Emily Frain is Jimmy’s mother.’

‘You’re kidding.’ Fear flitted across his face.

‘She’s the same woman I saw that first night on our way into Sorrow Spring, and the jacket she was wearing in the newspaper photo was the one hanging on Mrs Reed’s banister. Two days after I told you about it, she’s dead. Who did you speak to?’

‘No one.’

‘Are you sure, Luke?’

‘I said so, didn’t I? But if you worked out where she was, so could other people. It was pretty dumb, cleaning the house when everyone knew Mrs Reed wasn’t up to it herself.’ He looked towards the car park, stood up and came closer. ‘We can’t know it was murder. What’s the motive? Anyway, to hang someone, you’d have to be really strong. Your aunt couldn’t do it. Even working together, the Sistren would struggle.’

‘What about Jed Barrowcroft?’

‘What’s in it for him?’

‘I’m not sure. He’s done stuff for my aunt before. It’s all linked to the spring. Do you believe in any of this – St Faran and the healing waters?’

‘Lots of legends have a grain of truth. Back in the Middle Ages, people often drank water polluted with their own sewage. Villages with a pure supply would have survived outbreaks of disease much better.’

‘Wasn’t the plague carried by rats?’ I asked.

‘Maybe it was luck the first time. Who knows? The point is, they believe it. Looking after the spring makes those old women feel important. They’d be nobodies otherwise. Maybe they’ll do anything to keep it that way.’

‘But how was Emily a threat to that? And what did Jimmy have to do with it?’

‘Luke.’ The Reverend Rivers was calling from the car park.

‘Can’t you think of an excuse to stay?’ I asked.

‘Luke.’ The reverend called again.

Luke gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘I can’t get out of it. Look, I’ll see what I can find out from the reverend. And you keep an eye on your aunt.’

I heard the reverend coming to the door. Luke went to meet him, and I backed out of sight. The car drove off. It was then I noticed Luke had left his book.

I ran my fingers over the cover of Macbeth, tracing where Luke must have touched it, lingering where his hands had lingered. I opened it at the page bookmarked and inhaled. It smelt of hot paper, dust and the faintest whiff of a woman’s perfume.

I turned to the first page. Handwritten in black ink it said:

To Ramsay

Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.

C x

Ramsay was the Reverend Rivers. I had heard Aunt Agatha use his Christian name. So the book didn’t belong to Luke. But to C? I tried to think and got as far as Mrs Cox. The stolid Mrs Cox, devoted to nothing but her Yorkshire terrier, seemed an unlikely candidate to inscribe a book and send it to Reverend Rivers. But I supposed that, unlike me, all people who went to school knew Shakespeare. Perhaps what seemed like a declaration of love was only an appreciation of his work. Or was the reverend a widower and C his dead wife? C could be a sibling or cousin.

I flicked back to the bookmarked page. Highlighted were the lines.

look like th’ innocent flower,

But be the serpent under’t.

I didn’t need to have studied Shakespeare to know this was an instruction to deceive.

A reminder that I didn’t know how far I could trust Luke. And that once again, I had said too much.

*

By the time I entered the main room, people were already seated, getting drunk and helping themselves from the trays of sandwiches and cold meats. In contrast to the laughing faces, enjoying the abundance of food and drink, the ladies of the Sistren looked detached and grim.

I took my place next to Joy and Hope. Mrs Cox was at the same table with her husband and two young daughters. A boy who bore a strong resemblance to Mr Murray, the shopkeeper, sat at the end. Joy was pouring cherryade into plastic cups then topping them up with a clear liquid under the table. She appeared relaxed, Hope, less so. Her fingers drummed the tabletop.

‘Milo, take this,’ Joy said, passing him a cup of the pink liquid. ‘Do you want some, Rina?’

I shook my head and took a sandwich. I put the precious copy of Macbeth, on the table next to me and hoped no one would spill coronation chicken on it.

‘Shakespeare – ew?’ Joy said. ‘I’m so glad I’m leaving school this year.’

Mrs Cox took some time looking at the book.

‘Doesn’t that belong to the Glebe boy?’ she said.

Joy tensed. All eyes turned to me.

‘I found it in the corridor. I’ll give it to the reverend when I see him next,’ I said with as much calm as I could manage.

This satisfied Joy and she returned to her drink.

‘He must be reading it because he wants to be an actor,’ Hope said. ‘That’s what he told me, and that’s why Joy wants to be an actress.’

‘Won’t you have to read Shakespeare to be an actress?’ I asked.

‘There are lots of types of actresses,’ Joy said.

She laughed and I could see her tongue was stained red with the cherryade. I wondered how much she’d had.

‘So you won’t act in the same plays as Luke?’

‘Why do you say that?’

Joy drew down her eyebrows. At that moment she was the image of her grandmother, sour faced and bad tempered.

‘Did you speak to Luke just now?’ she asked.

‘No. But I saw him leave with the reverend.’

‘Why do you think he didn’t come and see us?’ Hope asked.

Joy didn’t reply and only glowered at me.

‘Sure you won’t have some cherryade, Rina?’ Hope said.

This time I accepted. Behind the sweetness was a warmth and strength that burnt my throat as it went down, not in an unpleasant way, but enough to make me cough.

‘It’s not so bad once you get used to it,’ Hope said. ‘And you might want a bit more for tonight.’

Joy kicked her under the table.

‘Ow – what did you do that for? She might.’

Mrs Cox intervened.

‘Hope, dear, Rina is too young.’

‘I was her age,’ Hope said.

‘Too young for what?’ I asked.

Mrs Cox hesitated before saying, ‘Alcohol, dear. I’ll turn a blind eye to Joy and Hope. But you, Rina, your aunt wouldn’t approve.’

I put the cherryade down and out of the corner of my eye, I caught Joy’s sneer. It held the same superiority and scorn as Verity Vane’s when she had sensed me behind the grey cloaks in Aunt Agatha’s study.

Neither would look so superior when I followed them that night and learnt the truth. And when I did, I would decide whether or not to tell Luke.

Cocoa

That evening Aunt Agatha appeared different – diminished, tentative and frail. I had become fonder of her since realising we had a common enemy in Verity Vane. Fond and perhaps a little protective. Whilst the shouts and cheers of the villagers carrying on their celebrations at the Red Cow Inn drifted up the hill, my aunt sank into the sitting room’s leather armchair on our return, a vacant expression on her face.

‘Are you unwell?’ I asked.

‘Just tired. So much to do,’ she said. ‘Still, after tonight it will all be over.’

‘I thought it finished with the feast.’

Aunt Agatha raised her eyes, her face drawn and weary.

‘I meant the clearing up.’ She placed her hands in her lap. ‘Perhaps you can get tonight’s tea, dear. Use the leftover sandwich fillings with fresh bread, and there’s still a little of your birthday cake. We’ll eat in here. I need a rest.’

I did as she asked and busied myself in the kitchen, setting out the tray as Aunt Agatha had shown me, sugar cubes with tongs, not loose sugar with a spoon – that’s for baking – the milk in a small jug, crust-free sandwiches cut into triangles and cake served with small forks. By the time the kettle whistled, all was ready.

I waited for Aunt Agatha’s usual criticism of my tray’s arrangement. At first she said nothing. Then revived by the food, she took the trouble to tell me the bread was sliced too thickly.

‘Sorry, Aunt Agatha.’

My plate remained untouched. I was gathering my courage. Verity Vane’s goading, Joy’s sneer, along with the vodka-laced cherryade had emboldened me.

‘Are you going out tonight, Aunt?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘No reason,’ I said.

She leant back in the chair, closing her eyes.

‘You’ve had a long day, Rina. Perhaps you should go to bed after you’ve brought Charlotte’s tray down.’

‘It’s too early for bed.’

‘Just go and read then. I need a little time alone. I’ll come up and see you later.’

*

That night I chose to read Macbeth because I wanted to be like Luke and to understand why he had underlined certain passages.

I made a swift exchange of Macbeth for The Pale Horse when Aunt Agatha entered. I didn’t want her asking where this new book had come from. Not that she seemed interested. She had brought me a mug of cocoa, something she’d not done since my first night at Laburnum Lodge. I remembered how much I disliked the weak and watery drink.

‘Have this, dear. I put an extra sugar cube in.’

Aunt Agatha always berated me for my use of sugar. She told me it would rot my teeth.

‘Thank you, Aunt Agatha,’ I said.

I wanted to throw it away but she sat down by my bed to watch me drink it. I placed the mug to my lips and took a sip.

‘It’s too hot,’ I said.

‘We’ve no more milk until the morning. I could put a little cold water in it if you like.’

‘I’ll just let it cool.’

She glanced at her watch.

‘Very well. Are you enjoying your story?’ she asked, and picked up the Agatha Christie.

‘Yes. It’s about a group of strange women who believe in spirits and witchcraft and that sort of thing.’

‘I remember that one,’ she said. ‘I hope you realise that sort of thing is a load of nonsense. There’s God and nature and nothing more. It’s just a story.’

‘I know.’

‘Good. Drink your cocoa.’

Out of politeness, I took a few gulps. They carried the same bitter aftertaste I remembered from before and I had difficulty hiding my dislike. Fortunately, the doorbell rang.

‘Drink some more,’ she said.

I took another gulp.

The bell rang again. Aunt Agatha looked a little panicked.

‘Stay in your room tonight,’ she said.

I listened to her descend the stairs, then jumped up and spat the contents of my mouth into the sink and poured the rest of the cocoa after it. A grainy residue stuck to the edges of the mug. I prodded at it, then ground it between my forefingers and sniffed. It smelt like the straw we used to use for the alpacas’ bedding. I screwed up my face and rinsed the mug.

It was then I heard the sweep of feet in the hallway and the low murmuring of women.

The Sistren were gathering.

They must have gone to the living room and I couldn’t hear their meeting. I dared not leave my room because people were coming and going in the hall and I would have been seen.

After about an hour, footsteps returned up the stairs.

I jumped into bed and pretended to sleep. I squinted through half-closed lids and saw Aunt Agatha come in and check the contents of the mug. She seemed satisfied and left the room.

Feet swept the hallway once more, this time leaving Laburnum Lodge. Then the revving of engines on the drive.

I was thirteen – no longer a child.

Verity Vane needn’t think I was too young or too weak.

I waited until all the cars had left, counted to a hundred, then ran out into the night after them.

Oblation

A Sorrow Spring night was not the comforting darkness of the commune that signalled the end of the working day, when we would sit around the fire, eating and drinking. Here I was alone and exposed. Spectral shadows flitted over the hilltop as clouds ran across the moon.

At the end of the lane that led from Laburnum Lodge, I was unable to see the direction the cars had taken. The Moot Hall was their most likely destination. I ran down the main road.

The building stood silent, black and empty.

The Moot Hall had been a stupid decision. Of course, they had gone to the church.

The winding lane leading out of the village had been carved dark and deep by centuries of wear. The hedgerows either side rose many feet above my head. Creatures scurried amongst the roots and an owl hooted above. Fletcher once told me the hoot of an owl symbolised death, and for a while I was frightened each time I heard one. Then he explained that death is only a change from one state to another. I should fear death no more than the hoot of an owl. And yet, that night, running towards St Faran’s church, I was afraid. Only foolish pride kept me on my path.

No one – not Joy, not Verity Vane, not Luke – would ever think of me as a child again.

When I reached the church, I found it too was empty. Where were they?

I stood panting at the locked doors of the porch, unsure what to do next. Then I caught a low humming rising from the hollow beyond the church where the spring lay. Above, orange light was dancing through the tree branches.

I crept along the side path and hid amongst the bushes.

At first the light blinded me. Then, as my eyes adjusted, I could make out hooded figures, whose shadows grew and shrank with the flickering flames of torches held aloft. Their grey robes were those I had seen hanging in the study. Each one cloaked a member of the Sorrow Spring Sistren.

A figure moved to the centre of the circle – Aunt Agatha – distinguishable by her clear and unwavering voice.

‘Now is not the time to falter or have doubts,’ she said. ‘This task is appointed to us, the Sorrow Spring Sistren.’

‘To us,’ the others chanted.

‘Failure will bring destruction. It is our duty. Though we are old and our bodies weak, our hearts must be young and strong.’

She bent down to the spring, filled the pewter ewer and poured the water into her mouth. The ewer passed from one to another, each drinking in her turn.

‘It is never easy,’ she continued. ‘It runs against our very nature as women. Still, we do not flinch from our purpose. On 17 July we commemorate the loss of the pious and most innocent Faran by day. By night we acknowledge the far greater sacrifice made by his sister, Osana.’

Some hugged, others held hands to their mouths to stifle sobs.

The church bell struck twelve.

It echoed around my skull. The bitter and oversweet taste of the cocoa rose to the back of my throat.

‘For six hundred and fifty years we have marked Osana’s Oblation. Through war, persecution and famine.’

‘Osana, Osana, Osana,’ the women chanted.

My legs began to buckle beneath me.

‘Osana. Osana. Osana.’

I dropped to my knees.

What was happening?

Aunt Agatha raised her arms above her head.

‘It is time. We call upon you.’

The circle parted and three previously hidden participants entered, taller than the rest and robed in red. Their leader carried an axe, its broad blade glinting in the flames. The two followers hauled heavy sacking along the ground.

Someone – Blanche, I think – started to whimper.

The sacking was dragged to the centre of the circle. The Sistren drew in close around it.

Above me the stars were falling apart, their light splitting and raining onto the earth. The church spire was made of white marble and reached thousands of feet into the air, touching the sky.

The chanting’s volume increased.

‘Osana. Osana. Osana.’

The ground trembled and cracks raced up the church spire, shattering it into jagged stones, which tumbled towards the hollow and the spring. I brought my hands over my head. I tried to warn Aunt Agatha. The chant drowned out my cries.

‘Osana. Osana. Osana.’

The red figure raised the axe. A whistle of steel sliced the air.

Their torches became droplets of light against a dark curtain.

I fell face first into the bushes and remembered nothing more.

2019

Sorrow Spring

Sorrow Spring creeps me out. If Dad hadn’t made me promise to find his sister, I would turn the car round and race straight home. A rook is perched on the signpost as I drive into the village and I swear to God it eyeballs me as I pass. People stop in the street to watch my car wind up the hill like it’s an alien spaceship about to land.

But I did promise Dad I’d find her, so I carry on to Laburnum Lodge, the last place we definitely know she went.

What choice do I have?

The doctors have been tactful – some people last many years in Dad’s condition – but I can see he’s fading before my eyes. The time we have left should be spent together, especially with Christmas so close. He was always busy when I was young. Working long hours in his sales job, often staying overnight in hotels, he was too exhausted at weekends to do anything more than flop in front of the TV. Granny had to be both father and mother to me. Our bond was so close it excluded Dad, and while he was grateful, he was also jealous. In retirement he’d hoped to spend more time with me, Alice and Ben. He never got the chance. Three weeks after closing his last deal, a massive stroke left him part paralysed and in need of constant care. I should be at his side. Instead he’s insisting I head off on this wild- goose chase.

*

The police nearly laughed me out of the station when I reported Aunt Rina missing. A woman not seen since 1978, who never officially existed. We have no birth certificate and no photo. I’m sure the constable who took the details thought I was some conspiracy theory nutjob. It was all he could do not to smirk as he took a note of my enquiry and said he’d put it on record. He probably deleted it the moment I left.

When I told Dad about this, it only made him more determined, although he keeps so much back. He won’t tell me why Granny gave away her only daughter. It’s heartless and cruel, and Granny was the opposite of that.

‘You have to find her for me, Cate.’

The letter I sent received no reply. So here I am, following the address on that cryptic letter hidden at the bottom of Granny’s jewellery box.

Sorrow Spring

Worcestershire

February 1st 1978

Dear Lily,

The Sistren’s patience is running thin. I hardly need warn you of the consequences, should you fail to honour our agreement. This shall be the last letter I write on the subject.

Lily, you must bring us the girl.

Agatha

Laburnum Lodge is set so far back from the road you could be murdered on the doorstep and no one would hear. It’s large, beautiful and dilapidated. Ivy covers the walls, the roof is missing slates and every curtain is drawn. A Christmas holly wreath is the only sign the place is lived in.

I’m still wearing the blue john pendant I found next to the letter, the one Dad said was for bravery. I understand why I need it now. Clutching the stone in my palm for a moment, I think of Granny. Then I tuck it under my T-shirt and approach the house.

The bell is the old-fashioned kind where you have to pull a rope. After about five tugs a woman comes to the door. Tiny and white haired, she’s about as ancient and wizened as you can be without actually being dead.

‘Hello. My name’s Cate. I’m looking for someone who used to live here – a Rina Pine.’

The woman just gawps at me, whilst twisting a heavy pewter ring around her middle finger.

She’s probably deaf and senile. I speak loudly and slowly.

‘Prosperina Fuchsia Pine. I’m her niece.’

Nothing.

‘Is there anyone else here? Someone I can talk to?’

Still she just stares at me. Has she understood anything?

‘Do you have a carer?’ I ask.

This does get a reaction. She screws up her mouth and shoves me from the step. I lose my balance and land splat on my back. The door slams so hard the frame rattles. You wouldn’t believe a woman that old and thin could be so strong. I’m in shock.

I dust myself down, stand up and, more cautiously this time, step forward and pull the bell rope again. The woman doesn’t return.

Surely she can’t live here alone. I call through the letter box.

‘Please, if I could just talk to someone.’

Not a sound.

It’s so frustrating.

I walk around the side of the house where brambles criss-cross the path and scratch at my arms. The garden is a jungle of bushes and half-grown trees. The frame of an old greenhouse, the glass long gone, shows it must have been cultivated once. Now the weeds have run riot and I struggle to find a way through to the back windows.

They’re all shuttered – no chance of peeping in.

How can this old lady be allowed to live here all on her own in this ramshackle place? Who is she? She can’t be Aunt Rina, who’s four years younger than Dad. And Granny’s sister, Agatha, was much older than her so she must have died years ago. A woman like this, all alone in a huge house, is an accident waiting to happen. I should contact social services.

I return to the front of the house and look up. A curtain twitches at the top window. Whoever’s there is too quick to be seen.

I call out again. But no one comes.

I return to the car.

*

As I’m driving away, I spot a bungalow about two hundred metres down the road. A neighbour might know something. I pull over and go to ring the doorbell – an electric one. At least someone’s made it out of the nineteenth century. The woman who comes to the door is in her fifties and smartly dressed, with long, highlighted hair that sweeps across her face.

‘Hi.’ I try to sound breezy.

‘We’re not buying anything.’ She’s offhand and has a marked local accent.

‘I’m not selling anything.’ I say it quickly in case she shuts the door. ‘I’m looking for someone who stayed at Laburnum Lodge back in the seventies. Have you lived here long?’

‘I’m a visitor. I don’t live here at all.’ Resentment ripples through her voice.

‘Perhaps I could speak to the owner then?’

‘My sister’s out.’

She starts to close the door and I think this is going to be the end of our conversation, but curiosity must get the better of her because she stops when it’s half shut and spends some time scrutinising me before asking, ‘Who are you after?’

‘You were here back then? I thought you said—’

‘I grew up in Sorrow Spring. I don’t live in the village any more,’ she says. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name’s Catherine Pine. My family—’

‘Pine.’ Her hand flies to the side of her face. Beneath the sweep of hair, I notice a fleshy scar running from her temple to the corner of her mouth.

‘You knew her – my aunt Rina?’

The woman removes her hand and flattens her hair to her cheek.

‘No, I didn’t,’ she says, still pressing down her fringe. ‘I remember the name. I was told she left years ago, your aunt Rina.’

Rina is spat out with such venom, personal antagonism has to be involved. She’s lying to me. And two girls of similar ages living in a village this size must have known one another. More importantly, it proves Dad wasn’t making it up. He did have a sister. It takes a moment to digest this, and I can’t hide how flustered I am when I ask, ‘Do you know where she went?’

‘Back to live with the hippies is what I heard.’

Not the same story told to Dad – that Rina had gone to London with some boy. But I don’t want to contradict her. She needs to keep talking.

‘And Agatha Pine – did you know her?’

‘My grandmother did but she died years ago.’

‘Do you know anything about the old woman living there now? Who is she? Was the place left to her?’

Her eyes narrow.

‘Is that why you’re here looking for your aunt? You think she left you some money?’

Who mentioned money? She’s starting to irritate me and I struggle to stay calm as I say, ‘I’m here for my father. He’s very ill and wants to know what became of his sister before he dies.’

This does nothing to soften her. If anything, she’s even more scornful.

‘The dutiful daughter? How touching,’ she says. ‘You know something about your aunt? She was a Pine through and through. Thought a lot of herself. All you lot do. Now if you don’t mind, I’m busy.’

‘So you did know her,’ I say.

‘I’m busy. I need to go and so should you.’

There’s a definite menace to her statement. Her hand returns to under the hair, shielding the scar. She closes the door in my face. A traditional Sorrow Spring welcome it seems.

I scribble down my name and number on a piece of paper and push it through the door in case she changes her mind. What can the Pines ever have done to her? Is this some ancient village grudge, a squabble over a cow or a patch of land? I’m glad I live in Bristol. Although there are a few advantages to smaller places, where grievances thrive so does gossip. Let’s hope some of it’s about Aunt Rina.

The Village

Knowing Aunt Rina is a real person, changes my perspective. I’ve been in denial, telling myself Granny would never have done such a terrible thing. Who gives away their only daughter? And not because she was poor and unable to look after her. Granny and Dad had a comfortable life. How could she have done something so cruel and heartless? Tracking down my aunt is no longer a chore to satisfy my dying father. I’m determined to find out what happened to her.

I drive back into the village and park in front of the general store, opposite a pub. Not the welcoming kind you see on cosy Sunday night dramas. This one has narrow windows and a low roof. The rotting sign swinging outside has a huge red splodge at the centre; its barely legible lettering spells out the ‘Red Cow’. What sort of name is that? It reminds me of the Slaughtered Lamb from An American Werewolf in London, an inn full of superstitious locals who menace outsiders before ejecting them. The fear I felt on entering the village returns, and again I have the urge to get back in the car and go. Instead, I turn away from the pub and head into the shop.

Christmas is more apparent here than at Laburnum Lodge, with tinsel strung across the shelves, and stars and angels hanging from the ceiling. A woman with grey hair, set in a rigid perm, has her head bent close to the balding man behind the counter. Gossips. Exactly the people I’m looking for. Their chatter peters out as I enter. When I go and browse the sparse offerings on the newspaper stand, they resume their conversation, but I know I’m being watched. A younger woman in a trench coat is milling around by the vegetable rack; she offers me a reassuring smile. In the background Slade sing ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’.

I take a copy of The Times and a can of Diet Coke to the counter and get my phone out ready to pay.

The shopkeeper, who hasn’t taken his eyes off me, huffs in exasperation.

‘All purchases under ten pounds have to be paid for in cash,’ he says.

I scrabble around in my purse for a note and hand it to him, whilst thinking of a way to start a conversation.

‘Lovely village here,’ I say.

Lovely if you like hostile locals and creepy pubs.

‘Hmm,’ the shopkeeper says and takes the money.

‘I can see why my grandmother loved it so much.’

He pauses in counting my change and looks towards the woman with the perm. A tight anxious smile attaches to her face. Close up, I guess she’s in her late seventies.

‘Your grandmother?’ she says. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Lullaby Pine. You’d have known her as Lily.’

‘I don’t recall anyone of that name, dear,’ she says.

Her voice is strained. Another liar. Why is everyone pretending not to know my family? I notice the woman in the trench coat step closer.

I try again.

‘Perhaps you remember her sister, Agatha Pine?’

Perm woman swallows.

‘Yes, I believe there were some Pines in the village once. But many years ago.’

‘Can you tell me anything about them?’

‘I’m afraid I’m not one for gossip.’ She flicks through a copy of Take a Break magazine that’s lying on the counter.

‘What about Prosperina Fuchsia Pine, her niece? She’s my aunt. I’m looking for her.’

‘Again, no.’

‘But—’

The shopkeeper clanks my change onto the counter.

‘Mrs Greening just said she doesn’t like gossip. None of us do.’

‘I’m only asking about my aunt.’

‘This village is sick of people coming here and sticking their noses into our business.’

‘Has someone else been asking after her?’

He folds his arms. ‘Take your change and go.’

I look at him and perm woman, trying to work out what’s going on. Maybe putting a little pressure on them will get results. They don’t know the police weren’t interested. I raise my phone.

‘If people here don’t want to speak to me, maybe they can talk to the police. I could file a missing person’s report.’

The shopkeeper’s lip curls. ‘You do that, love. See where it gets you,’ he says.

The phone hovers above my pocket. The shopkeeper remains glowering at me. Perm woman becomes engrossed in an article: ‘My Best Friend is Pregnant by My Husband’. I pocket the phone and leave the shop, forgetting my newspaper and drink.

*

Outside I lean on the wall and look down to find my hands are shaking.

The woman in the trench coat exits the shop and comes over.

‘Are you all right?’ she asks.

I clasp my hands together so she can’t see them trembling.

‘What’s going on in this place?’

‘He’s like that with anyone not from Sorrow Spring,’ she tells me. ‘I moved here from Birmingham a few years ago for the fresh air, you know, a bit of country living. But we’re about to sell up. Are all villages this unfriendly?’

‘I’ve no idea. I’ve lived in Bristol my whole life. It’s only a couple of hours away, but it’s a different world.’

‘My brother’s moved to a place nearer to Evesham,’ she says. ‘He reckons they’re much friendlier over that way. It’s just Sorrow Spring that’s stuck in another century.’ She puts her head to one side. ‘The strange thing is, they’re so accepting of the refugee girls who turn up at the old Vicarage. I’m sure most of them are here illegally. I worry that they’re trafficked because you hear of all sorts of horror stories about girls, don’t you? The sort who have no one to miss them.’

A chill runs through me. Aunt Rina has been gone forty years. Like these refugees, no one missed her and there’s no official register of her existence. Anything could have happened.

What am I going to tell Dad?

Brook Farm

I cancel the room reservation I made in Rowlstone, Sorrow Spring’s nearest town. The more miles between me and this bunch of weirdo freaks, the better. If I put my foot down, it’ll still be daylight when I get to Gossdale. That’s the valley where the Wroxwood Commune used to be and where Dad and Aunt Rina grew up.

I’m not like Granny. I don’t believe in auras or fate, but I do believe in gut instinct. Mine tells me to go home to my family and stay there. I can still see the vacant yet faintly malicious look the old lady at Laburnum Lodge gave me when I called on her and the twist of hate in the shopkeeper’s face as he told me to get out. But I know if I go back to Bristol, I’ll never find the courage to leave. So I’m travelling north to see if I can track down any members of Dad’s commune. Although I don’t hold out much hope. Dad thinks they dispersed in the late seventies, not long after he and Granny left.

It takes over an hour to reach the motorway, cross Birmingham then crawl through Spaghetti Junction. But a few miles further north, the ground rises, the air cools and the soft curves of the Midland landscape give way to the crag-scarred Pennine slopes, grey and austere yet somehow more welcoming.

After another two hours the Cumbrian mountains appear in the distance. My cue to turn off the motorway and head east, meandering through the small villages and farms of the North Yorkshire Dales.

When Dad first tried to show me Wroxwood on the map, he couldn’t find it. We had to look on Google Earth, zoom in on the Gossdale valley and scan around. Finally he recognised the large white farmhouse, the barns, the stream and the wooded hill behind. The place is called Brook Farm now, which doesn’t bode well for finding any surviving commune members.

I travel for miles through ever narrower roads. If it was inaccessibility and isolation the commune was after, they chose the right place. At one point I have to back up nearly half a mile to let a tractor pass.

At last I come to a rusted gate, which the satnav tells me is the entrance to Brook Farm. The track from the road to the house was once concreted. Now that concrete has broken into jagged lumps and, like Laburnum Lodge, the rampant weeds suggest it’s rarely used. Worried about the tyres, I pull over halfway down and walk the rest.

From the satellite images I know the farm buildings are ringed by the fir trees up ahead. I jog the last few metres, eager to see the place Dad has talked so much about over the last week or so.

Picking up my pace, I sprint through the trees, then stop dead.

This can’t be right – I’ve come to the wrong place.

I check my phone. There’s no mistake, this is Brook Farm – Wroxwood.

How long ago were the Google Earth photographs taken? I can’t take this in.

Where the farmhouse, stables and barns should stand, there’s nothing but crumbling, blackened walls and the smell of smoke still rises from the burnt timbers.

1978

Gone

A spider climbed up a blade of grass in front of my nose. It stopped and fixed a row of eyes upon me. We studied each other for a moment: I, his furry body; he assessing if I were too large for a meal. Deciding yes, he stalked away.

My face was numb and my skin wet with dew. I had fallen asleep on the hillside behind Wroxwood. My friends were out looking for me. When I ran down the hill they would laugh in relief and we would go to the dining room and stuff ourselves with pancakes and hot chocolate or cocoa – what did that remind me of?

A bell tolled. I rolled onto my back. The bell struck again and with a sick sadness, I realised it was the tower of St Faran’s that loomed against the dawn sky.

Images of grey hooded figures and flaming torches, women chanting and the whistle of steel swept through my mind.

I clambered to my hands and knees. The ground tugged at me, tempting me back to safety. My brain rattled in my skull, my stomach lurched and I tasted the bitter cocoa in my mouth once more. Aunt Agatha must have drugged it – why else had she returned to my room and checked the mug? Why else had my adrenalin-flooded limbs dulled and my mind fogged so suddenly? Thank God I had only drunk half of it.

I rested with my head lolling forward, until my nausea subsided enough for me to move down the slope towards the spring. Little betrayed the Sistren’s previous night’s presence; only trampled vegetation around the clearing and a dark stain on the grass near the pool. I put my hand to it, a thick sticky liquid smelling of earth and iron tinged my fingertips red.

I’d had enough injuries playing in the woods and streams at Wroxwood to recognise what it was.

Again, I heard the swish of steel through the air.

This time my dizziness was not from the drug.

*

I dragged myself back to the still-silent village, my legs heavy with whatever potion had spiked my cocoa. Over and over I told myself, I’m wrong. I have to be wrong, but the sound of the axe dogged my every step.

I turned up the lane to the crest of the hill, although not to Laburnum Lodge.

In front of the white bungalow, Verity Vane’s green car sat on the drive.

No light was on and I could hardly stroll up, ring the bell and ask if Peter was there.

There was only one way for me to find out.

I sneaked round the back.

The curtains to Peter’s window were open and in the dawn light, I could see his bed had been stripped.

He had gone. His entire room had been cleared. Except for the side table next to the bed where my copy of The Count of Monte Cristo lay and, at the back of the room, his wheelchair. As I stood at the window, the room became emptier and the chair larger until it seemed to swell and fill the entire space.

I recalled my first visit to the Moot Hall of the Sorrow Spring Sistren. A leather-bound book had a strip of red clothing holding a page; The Comprehensive History of the Saints – ‘The Legend of St Faran’.

Jealous of the respect and wealth Faran commanded, his elder sister, Osana and her husband, Alfred, conspired to kill the boy, so that they may rule together.

Alfred led Faran to a remote field, there he smote off his head with an axe.

The Sistren had called her name.

Osana. Osana. Osana.

Faran was their saint and Osana their sinner, tempted by the Devil. Why had they called the name of a woman who’d had her brother murdered? What had been the role of the red-robed men at the spring? More importantly, why had Peter left his wheelchair behind? I searched for a reason – any reason – to dispel my fear.

I found none.

Above me three rooks cackled from the rooftop.

I shivered in the early morning air.

Then I found the courage I had lacked that first night in Sorrow Spring.

And I fled.

City

An hour after seeing Peter’s wheelchair, propped up against the wall of an empty room, I was on the dual carriageway to the north of Sorrow Spring, raising a thumb at each passing car.

I left with forty-six pence and a sharp kitchen knife – Forest’s mother always hitchhiked with a knife, ‘just in case’ – and Luke’s copy of Macbeth. Something to keep him close to me.

Harold the rabbit was left behind this time. I was a grown-up now.

After ten minutes of lorries and motorcycles, a young couple in a yellow Beetle stopped and picked me up. I was tall for my age and Mike and Shelly from Evesham asked no questions. They agreed that the bus services in rural areas were appalling and said they would drop me off in Birmingham, where they were picking up some friends, before travelling to Derbyshire for a camping trip.

I leant my cheek against the car window’s cool glass and watched the roadside trees turn into suburban streets, then the traffic lights, ring roads and roundabouts of the city.

The couple pulled over in front of a huge concrete structure. Blue and cream double-decker buses lined up outside, obscuring the lower half of the building. Hordes of people elbowed their way up and down the ramp, which led to the upper level.

‘New Street Station,’ Shelly said. ‘You can get anywhere from here.’

Only after I was out on the pavement and they had driven off did I realise this wasn’t the best place for me. I couldn’t afford a rail fare and hitching opportunities were few. It would have been better for them to drop me near a motorway. I looked down at my forty-six pence. I did have enough money for a phone call.

The train station would have telephones, but the entrance looked terrifying. How could so many people swarm together and not be trampled? I had never visited a city before, and the crowds and traffic noise, along with the reek of diesel, cooking fat and hot bodies made me giddy. I chose the opposite direction to the station and walked down some side streets until I came across a row of telephone boxes.

The coins lay hot and sticky in my hand. Someone had recognised Fletcher’s name when I had phoned Wroxwood from Sorrow Spring. Who else did I have to call?

A woman answered this time. I asked to speak to Fletcher.

‘Not another one.’ An exasperated sigh sizzled down the line. ‘NO, YOU CANNOT SPEAK TO FLETCHER. I’m sick to death of all you freeloaders trying to crawl back here. Bugger off and get a job.’

‘Please, help me. Please. I just need to speak to him.’ I was desperate to get my words out before she could slam down the receiver. ‘I have to find my mother. Tell him it’s Rina.’

I don’t know if it was my still childish voice or the mention of my mother that did it, but I heard a huff before she said, ‘As you didn’t try and reverse the charges like the others, I’ll get him for you. Just this once, mind.’

Her shoes clacked away on the tiles. Then a minute or so later a softer tread approached and Fletcher spoke.

‘Rina – where are you?’

‘Birmingham,’ I said. ‘You have to help me.’

‘What’s going on?’

Everything that had happened since I left Wroxwood came tumbling out: my arrival in Sorrow Spring with Lullaby and Maurice, Mr Proudfoot, Aunt Agatha and the Sistren, Emily Frain’s death and, finally, the ceremony and Peter’s disappearance. I finished by telling him that, ‘I can’t call the police. At least one of them is under Aunt Agatha’s control.’

The horror, shock and offer to rush down and fetch me didn’t come, and for a while Fletcher said nothing. When he did answer, it wasn’t the reaction I expected.

‘Your aunt sounds peculiar, I’ll give you that,’ he said. ‘But the rest – I think your imagination is running away with you. Covens, sacrifice – this is 1978, not a Hammer House of Horror film.’

‘But, Fletcher, you don’t know what it’s like. I didn’t make it up. They’re … they’re … evil.’

‘It’s not that I don’t believe what you saw,’ he said. ‘I just think you misconstrued it.’

‘They had an axe. There was blood on the grass.’

‘I don’t mean to be dismissive, Rina, but so often something can seem frightening or terrible when looked at from one angle, and perfectly innocent from another. Guy Fawkes Night for example – no one dies. But if you knew nothing about the tradition and half-glimpsed a human form on top of a bonfire, you might think someone was being burnt alive, when it’s harmless fun.’

‘Guy Fawkes is fun. This wasn’t. People were crying. I know they killed him.’

‘Not all ceremonies are supposed to be fun,’ he said. ‘I used to go to church with my parents, both of whom took communion. That means eating bread and drinking wine blessed by the vicar.’

‘I know. Aunt Agatha takes me to church.’

‘It represents the blood and flesh of Christ. To some it actually turns into his blood and flesh.’

‘Yuck.’

‘You say yuck, but this tradition is central to their faith and has been carried out by millions of people for nearly two thousand years. To believers, these ceremonies are vital to stop the world falling into chaos. Unfortunately, chaos is the only constant. Spirituality should guide us towards acceptance of this fact, rather than futile attempts to change it. But that’s not my point. My point is that people take comfort in these rituals. In a world where crops fail and children starve, and at any moment war and famine could destroy all you love and care for, it’s comforting to feel you have a level of control. So, all over the world people enact ceremonies: harvest festivals, well-dressings, maypoles in this country; in others, the Day of the Dead or the Homowo festival. I rather think what you saw was something like that.’

Could the terror I’d experienced at the spring really be caused by something so innocuous – the figure dragged for sacrifice a lifeless dummy like a guy for the bonfire?

‘But if nothing happened, where’s Peter?’ I asked.

‘The reverend said he was going to his grandmother’s. Isn’t that the most likely explanation?’

‘Without his wheelchair?’

‘Perhaps he has another. Perhaps the one you saw was broken. Did you check? There are a thousand explanations that don’t involve murder. And think about it, Rina, why would a group of old ladies want to hurt a young boy? What purpose could it serve? Didn’t you say the killer in the legend was hanged and left out for the birds to pick over his bones. Hardly aspirational. Maybe something did happen to you that night. Your aunt is a skilled herbalist, you said. Possibly hallucinogens are part of the ceremony. It’s common in Meso-American cultures. I took peyote with shamans in the Yucatan myself. Most likely whatever substance she used ended up in your cocoa by mistake, using the same utensils without cleaning them, et cetera. It would explain your strange visions.’

‘Jimmy’s mother’s death in the paper wasn’t a vision. That was real.’

‘It sounds to me like a disturbed young woman was unable to look after her child and he was taken into care. Perhaps your reverend saw she was struggling and was instrumental in that. Taking her own life, well, that’s tragic, but sadly not unusual. After all, the police saw no foul play.’

‘I know they did it. I just know. I’m not going back. I want to come and stay with you. I could work on the farm. I’ll do anything.’ ‘If you knew the type of people living here now, you wouldn’t say that.’

‘It’s your farm. Tell them to go. Call the police.’

Fletcher gave a bitter laugh.

‘I’m hardly in a position to go to the police, Rina. Wroxwood could never have survived on the money we made from the alpacas. It was a nice idea. But financially unviable.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘To keep the place running I started selling some of the cannabis we grew. We needed the extra cash and it seemed harmless enough at the time. The unfortunate side effect was those sales attracted the attention of some very dangerous people. The Mortons are notorious across the whole of the North-West. First, they asked me to sell to them, which wasn’t a problem, except I couldn’t supply them with as much as they wanted. Then they bought up my debts and took over the farm. There was nothing I could do about it. They’ve let me stay here on condition I help look after the crop. I’ve nowhere else to go.’

‘What about the others?’

‘Most were driven off. The Mortons have their own people. Ravi’s still here, and I’ve got Forest with me. With his mum working for the Mortons in Manchester, there was nowhere else for him to go. They’ve got her doing … well, never mind. The thing is, Lullaby was right. She saw which way the wind was blowing and got out before the panic. Your aunt gave her some money, her half of the house or something like that.’

She’d said as much the night of our arrival in Sorrow Spring.

‘Was I part of the deal?’ I asked.

‘Why do you think that?’

‘Because Lullaby left me there. Aunt Agatha wanted Emesh to stay too.’

‘Did she?’ He didn’t sound surprised.

‘What do you know, Fletcher?’

I heard him exhale.

‘Fletcher – what do you know about Emesh?’

‘Only that your mother was very protective of him. Overprotective, I thought. That’s why I was interested when you said your aunt wanted him to go there.’

‘So you think I’m right – something weird is happening in Sorrow Spring?’

‘I think it more likely Emesh’s father has been asking after him. I always suspected Lullaby was keeping Emesh away because of that.’

I took some time to think over his words and came to a realisation.

‘Lullaby’s not coming for me at Christmas, is she?’

Fletcher didn’t answer.

‘I’ve nowhere else to go,’ I said. ‘Please let me come and stay with you.’

‘Rina, it won’t take long for your aunt to work out where you’ve got to. She’s your legal guardian. And how would it look, a young girl staying with a middle-aged man like me?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ah, you’re so naïve sometimes,’ he said. ‘You remind me of Lullaby in many ways. Trust me, no one would believe I was just trying to be a friend to you.’

‘Pleeeeeease.’

‘How about this: I’ll call Lullaby and see what she says? That’s the best I can do.’

‘What if she says no.’

‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I’m sure she won’t want to leave you there, knowing you’re so unhappy.’

I brightened up.

‘Do you think?’

‘I’m certain. And I tell you what else, I have a plan to get the farm back. And when I do you can all return. It shouldn’t take more than a year.’

‘A year?’ I said. ‘That’s for ever. I could just hitch to Wroxwood.’

‘No you won’t.’ Fletcher sounded angry. ‘These people are mixed up in all sorts. Not just drugs – protection rackets, prostitution. They’d have only one use for a girl like you. Yes, even at your age. Then you’d know real fear and real danger, and it’s not a bunch of silly old women and their hocus-pocus. The safest thing you can do is to stay where you are until the Mortons are gone.’ His tone was a little gentler as he said, ‘I do know what it’s like, Rina, not to belong, to dream of escaping the world you’re in. That’s why I created Wroxwood. And soon we’ll have it back. I’ll send word the moment it’s safe to return. Until then, stay with your aunt and be strong. Will you do that for me?’

‘OK.’

I had no other plan.

‘Keep your head down, make the most of it and we’ll be back together in no time. And no more hitchhiking. Stay where you are. I’ll phone Lullaby. The number and address of your phone box will be written on the board in front of you. Read them out to me.’

I did as he asked.

‘Now wait there and I’ll call you to let you know what’s happening.’

*

I found a bench and waited. Every time someone used my phone box, I glared at them. One man in a suit, hurried in there halfway through the morning and spent at least forty minutes chatting to God knows who. He came out upset and ran towards the train station. Most of the others at least kept their conversations short. By lunchtime, I was hungry and thirsty but dared not leave. This was the call that was going to save me.

Another two hours passed and I couldn’t last any longer. I ran to the café around the corner, used their bathroom, bought an iced bun and a can of Vimto and ran back to the bench to consume them. No one was in the phone box, which stayed stubbornly silent.

Around five o’clock, the streets became busy once more. Sitting on my bench, no one paid me a second glance. Hunger and thirst started to nag at me again but I stayed where I was.

As the sky darkened, great flocks of starlings gathered in the air and swirled in shifting formations, before roosting on the ledges of nearby buildings, screeching and squabbling as they landed.

Evening turned to night and new characters appeared. A young woman in an orange romper suit and her friend in a pink one, shared a phone call, giggling for ten minutes before heading up the street. They reminded me of Joy and Hope. Then other figures, less recognisable appeared: tramps, drunken businessmen, lone women in latex skirts. One of these came over and flicked a lit cigarette butt in my direction.

‘What are you doing on my patch?’

‘I’m waiting for a telephone call.’

She spent a few moments looking me up and down.

‘As long as that’s all you’re doing.’

I wanted to ask her what other reason I would have for sitting outside a telephone box, but she didn’t look like she’d take kindly to that question. After another quick appraisal, she sniffed and tottered off to the street corner in her vertiginous heels.

The city wasn’t what I expected, all lights and fun.

What was taking Fletcher so long?

I tried phoning again. No one picked up. I returned to the bench. Would I have to spend the night there? I pulled my knees close and hugged them to my chest. Had something happened to Fletcher? Would those people who had taken over the farm really hurt him?

It was then someone walked up behind me. I spun around.

The Reverend Rivers stood grim faced, car keys in hand.

‘Prosperina Fuchsia Pine,’ he said,‘I thought we had an agreement. You promised to talk to me before ever running away again.’

Harmless

Reverend Rivers looked out of place on this grubby side street. The clean, pressed shirt and trousers accentuated my own bedraggled appearance: mud-stained clothes and tangled hair. His presence attracted the attention of the latex-clad woman from earlier.

‘Oi, what did I tell you? This is my patch.’

She tottered over. The reverend turned in surprise. The woman cackled at the sight of his dog collar.

‘A priest – well, well, well. Don’t worry, Father, you’re not the first, and no one tells tales around here.’

I had never seen Reverend Rivers flustered before. He pulled at his sleeves and ran his fingers through his hair.

‘You misunderstand the situation,’ he said. ‘I’m here to assist. This young lady is one of my parishioners.’

‘Of course she is. And I’m Mary Magdalene. Enjoy your evening, Father.’ She laughed again and returned to the street corner.

The encounter completely threw the reverend and he was unable to pick up his train of thought. He rubbed his forehead and took a couple of deep breaths.

‘This isn’t the best place to talk, Prosperina. Let’s find somewhere to eat. You look half-starved.’

*

We walked away from Mary Magdalene and the station, along some more side streets to a late-night café, populated by old men making a cup of tea last all evening and a few more women in latex. All of them looked up, some with amusement, as we entered.

The smell of hot bacon and frying mushrooms filled the café and my stomach growled in response. Reverend Rivers sat us down in a corner, ordered a coffee for himself, and tea, egg and bacon for me. The drinks came immediately. The reverend lit a cigarette and chose not to speak.

When my food arrived, I stuffed it down, burning my mouth and barely chewing, I was so hungry.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on, Prosperina?’ the reverend asked when I had finished. ‘If you’d wanted to speak to your old friend so badly, I could have let you use the phone at the Vicarage. You’re lucky Fletcher had the sense to call Lily and she told him to call me. Your mother will fetch you when she’s good and ready. Hitchhiking – a girl your age – what were you thinking?’ He raised a hand. ‘Don’t answer. I already know.’

My glorious feast, the day spent in the city and the bustle of a modern twentieth-century café, made events at the spring seem as fantastical as Fletcher had painted them.

‘Is Aunt Agatha very cross with me?’ I asked.

He peered over his coffee, his eyes crinkled.

‘She wasn’t best pleased,’ he said. ‘However, I’ve spoken to her and explained how much you’ve been missing your mother, brother and friends, and I think she understands now.’ He put the cup down. ‘I, on the other hand, am rather annoyed.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’

‘That’s what people do when they’re frightened, they stop thinking.’

‘How do you know I was frightened? Has Fletcher said something?’

He didn’t answer immediately and appeared to be mulling over his reply.

Eventually he said, ‘I had a long talk with Fletcher. And I must say, he was far more intelligent than I had imagined, even if he has got himself into an unholy mess. With all his new-age nonsense, I expected a lot of accusations, but he appears to have a rational mind and assessed the situation correctly. The ritual is an ancient one, unique to Sorrow Spring. Unnecessary and ridiculous, but harmless.’

‘You knew about it?’

‘I told you once, very little happens in Sorrow Spring without my knowledge. And my predecessor did warn me of “funny goings-on”. I don’t approve of your aunt’s practices. But then I don’t approve of Hallowe’en either.’

‘What’s wrong with Hallowe’en?’

‘Like the Sistren’s ceremony, it has pagan origins. I suppose there’s no real damage done, but people should at least be aware it goes against Church teachings.’

‘So what was my aunt doing?’

‘The ceremony is for St Faran’s Feast, what used to be called Osana’s Night or Osana’s Oblation, but it was changed to fit in with modern sensibilities, as that young lady has a rather sullied reputation. They re-enact the slaying of our saint. Veneration in this manner is said to keep the spring fresh and maintain its healing properties.’

‘That’s silly,’ I said.

‘Many creeds have practices that may appear silly or even dangerous to outsiders.’

‘That’s what Fletcher told me.’

The scene by the spring rose before me – the chanting, the flickering torches – and the sick fear that took over my body that night began to creep up my spine.

‘I was so scared,’ I said.

‘You were out alone after dark and came across a group of people in bizarre dress, holding torches and chanting strange words. Of course you were scared.’

‘Peter’s gone and I found blood on the ground next to the spring. Lots of it.’

‘Pig’s blood. They get a carcass from the butcher every year.’

‘It wasn’t just me who was scared. Blanche was crying.’

‘Too many sherries, no doubt,’ he said. ‘She’s lucky she didn’t slip and break her neck on that banking. Anything we don’t understand is frightening. Now you know what you saw, there’s nothing to fear.’

I thought about it some more.

‘If they’re not doing anything wrong, why’s it such a secret?’ I asked.

The reverend chuckled.

‘Oh, Prosperina Fuchsia, people love to be in on a secret and the idea that they’re members of an exclusive group, privy to knowledge not laid before the unworthy. You find it everywhere. It makes people feel important, special. Let your aunt and her friends enjoy their little club. After all, what else is there for women their age to enjoy?’ He smiled. ‘In the past, secrecy was a necessity. Your aunt and her followers could have been accused of blasphemy or witchcraft. So in villages where these archaic practices lingered, secret societies were formed. The Church still frowns upon them, but generally there’s little we can do to prevent it. Sorrow Spring was unusual in that there was talk of barring access to the land used by the Sistren. However, it was easier for the diocese to sell up and wash our hands of the matter. Besides, we need the money.’

‘And Mrs Barrowcroft? She died suddenly,’ I said.

He frowned in confusion.

‘What on earth made you think of her? She must have died before you came to Sorrow Spring. Anyway, there’s no mystery there. She was eighty-four years old. These things happen.’

I daren’t tell him I’d hidden in the study and eavesdropped on Aunt Agatha’s conversation with Verity Vane.

The reverend motioned for the waitress to clear the table.

‘And Jimmy’s mother?’

‘Emily Frain? She has nothing to do with this. A troubled young woman. Jimmy was taken from her and placed in foster care. She came to me, you know? Begged me to help get Jimmy back. Of course, I couldn’t. A girl like that, with severe psychological problems, is incapable of being a fit mother, however much she loves her child. I called the authorities and tried to get Emily the help she needed. That I failed … well, that is something I’m going to have to live with. I never thought she’d …’ He brushed his brow and looked distressed. ‘I blame myself. That poor girl.’

I felt sorry for him then. He must have cared for her to be so upset.

We sat in silence for a moment.

‘What we can agree on, though, is that there was no need for you to abscond,’ he said. ‘If you’d come to me, I’d have been able to tell you that on St Faran’s Feast, I drove Peter to his grandmother’s as he asked.’

‘I thought you went to Gloucester that day.’

‘Earlier on, I took my godson there. Later, I returned and went North. I deliberately missed St Faran’s Feast so the bishop couldn’t accuse me of being mixed up in it all.’

I looked at him, unconvinced.

‘Why didn’t Peter take his wheelchair?’

‘He grew out of it. Mrs Vane is giving Peter’s to a charity that will send it to one of the poorer nations, so another child can use it. There, mystery solved, and no more wild accusations and running away.’

I felt stupid, small and childish.

Peter was alive. The axe had struck rags and a pig’s head, who cared? But Peter’s mother said he wasn’t coming home and couldn’t stay with his grandmother. Why had she suddenly changed her mind?

‘Do you think I can call Peter?’

‘You’ll have to ask your aunt,’ the reverend said.

Asking Aunt Agatha meant no.

The reverend was watching me. I’m sure he anticipated all my questions and as each of his answers had made me look foolish, I hadn’t the courage to ask any more. I needed every ounce of it to face my aunt.

I finished my tea and we sat in silence until the reverend stood up and said, ‘Come on. Let’s be getting you home.’

And so I returned to Sorrow Spring.

Gratitude

My filthy appearance and rank smell did little to soften Aunt Agatha’s pinched expression when I arrived back at Laburnum Lodge. Had the reverend not followed close behind me, I’m sure I should have received a more severe reprimand than, ‘You positively stink. I don’t want to see you again until you’ve had a bath.’

Charlotte poked her head round the door as I walked along the landing wrapped in a towel. I raised a hand in greeting and was about to speak when she dived back into her room. A reminder I wasn’t the only reluctant house guest.

She would be leaving soon. Would I? Fletcher had kept his word and spoken to Lullaby. Would he also come and fetch me in a year, as he had promised? I had no way of knowing. I could only hope.

*

Exhausted by the last two days, I slept in late and didn’t come down the next day until early afternoon. I steeled myself against Aunt Agatha’s anger. Then decided I wasn’t going to be scared of this old woman. ‘Hocus-pocus’, Fletcher had called it and that’s how I would view the Sistren’s nonsense from now on.

I found Aunt Agatha in the kitchen, peeling carrots in the manner of a poacher skinning a rabbit.

‘The reverend and I had a long discussion last night,’ she said, scraping a long orange strip onto the chopping board. ‘He’s instructed me not to scold you or remind you of how selfish and reckless you’ve been, so I won’t. I suppose knowing I’m doing my Christian duty must be my reward. I don’t expect gratitude from you or Charlotte.’

She picked up another carrot.

‘But as you’re grown up enough to hitchhike, you can make yourself useful in Sorrow Spring and get in with Verity’s granddaughters. That woman’s up to something.’

‘Joy and Hope hate me.’

Aunt Agatha picked up another carrot and slashed at it with such force, she halved it rather than peeled it.

‘What’s that got to do with anything? You’re a Pine and you need to keep an eye on them. Now go and get Charlotte’s tray. I’ve had to do all the fetching and carrying since you decided to swan off.’

*

Beyond taking her trays up and down, I’m not sure my absence had even registered with Charlotte. Her bedroom was a self-imposed cell. And visits from Verity Vane and Reverend Rivers, which I thought would be welcome, only agitated her.

I had no idea how she could occupy herself all day alone in that room, so I had taken to leaving my finished mystery novels on her bedside table. And though I never saw her reading, I noticed they were often left open at a certain page. My favourite, The Pale Horse, must have pleased her because I saw she had finished it.

‘Can you bring me another?’ she asked, holding it out to me as I entered the room.

I took it from her.

‘I’ve nearly finished A Murder is Announced,’ I said.

‘Is it as good as The Pale Horse? I wish I could find someone to kill my enemies.’

‘Who are your enemies?’

‘The same as yours, I imagine,’ she said.

I thought she must be confused.

‘Don’t you want the baby?’ I asked.

‘More than anything. But they’re going to take him away.’

I thought for a moment.

‘We had a girl at the commune like you, Nellie,’ I said. ‘She cried all the time. Her parents had thrown her out. After the baby came, she called them and they said both of them could go home and live with them

Charlotte looked up, hope in her eyes.

‘They changed their minds?’

‘They came and drove her back to Godalming,’ I said.

‘Godalming,’ Charlotte repeated as if it were Shangri-La. She sniffed and wiped her nose on a hanky she’d pulled from her sleeve. ‘Do you think my parents …?’

‘You could ask,’ I said.

‘I will,’ she said. ‘I will.’

She got up from the bed, went to the basin and splashed water on her face.

‘I’m coming downstairs.’

*

Charlotte arrived in the kitchen wearing a floral print dress. She had brushed her hair and put on a little mascara. Aunt Agatha, who was rolling pastry for another pie, looked up in surprise.

‘Can I help with anything, Miss Pine?’ Charlotte asked.

‘No, dear. You should go and rest.’

‘I’ve had enough rest, being cooped up in that room. I need some exercise. I might walk to the village and back.’

Aunt Agatha sprinkled some flour on the countertop, turned the pastry and began rolling again.

‘You’d do better to take a turn about the garden. It’s very steep around here. You shouldn’t put a strain on yourself with the baby due any day.’

Charlotte looked out of the window.

‘I’ve another two weeks to go,’ she said. ‘Besides, I want to use the phone box.’

Aunt Agatha stopped mid roll.

‘Why don’t you wait until tomorrow? I’ll be able to join you.’

‘Or I could use your phone. I’ve heard it ringing but never seen it.’

‘I keep it locked in the old study,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘I find it so intrusive. We never had a phone when I was young. Later we did. It was something of a novelty. Then soon it did nothing but ring morning, noon and night. Everything nowadays involves noise and rushing about.’

‘But can I use it?’ Charlotte asked.

‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’

‘To phone home. I’ve never gone this long without speaking to Mum and Dad. They were angry with me, but they’ll have calmed down by now. I’m sure if I spoke to them …’

Aunt Agatha began cutting the pastry to fit the ceramic dish.

‘With something as important as this, it’s best to sleep on it. Think about what you’re going to say. You wouldn’t want to upset your parents even more than they already are.’

‘Dad was so angry when I told him,’ Charlotte said.

‘Which is why you came to us. No one’s angry with you here.’

‘I miss them so much. I don’t know what I’ll do if they won’t talk to me.’

‘It’ll be easier in the morning when you’re fresh. For now, you can put your feet up in the living room and have a nice cup of tea. I’ll make one of my special tisanes so you can relax. Rina will keep you company, I’m sure.’

*

Aunt Agatha brought me mint tea fresh from the garden. Charlotte sniffed at hers.

‘Why haven’t I got mint?’

‘You’re expecting. We have to take extra special care of you,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘Raspberry leaf and fenugreek will help with your nerves and give you a little more energy. I’ve added honey for sweetness.’

Charlotte sniffed again.

‘I can just about smell the raspberry,’ she said.

‘It’s dried to intensify the essence. You’re sure to feel the benefit,’ Aunt Agatha said.

I sipped mine, while Aunt Agatha watched Charlotte drink.

It seemed to do her some good. She sat upright and began asking Aunt Agatha about the house, how long she had lived there and what it was like in the old days.

‘I think I will walk around the garden,’ she said after a while. ‘I feel as if I’ve missed most of the summer, sitting indoors.’

‘That’s a much better idea than going to the village because you can always sit down when you’re tired.’

When she had gone, Aunt Agatha smiled at her empty cup in satisfaction.

Three hours later she called to me, her face flushed with triumph.

‘Go and fetch Mrs Vane,’ she said. ‘Charlotte’s waters have broken.’

Stars

Verity Vane fairly bristled with importance when I ran to the white bungalow and told her she was needed by Charlotte and Aunt Agatha. She grabbed an oxblood Gladstone bag kept beside the door and hurried away. I followed her as far as the driveway to Laburnum Lodge before falling back. She didn’t notice and scuttled through the front door, which I had deliberately left open.

‘Yoo-hoo, Agatha.’

I waited to make sure I wasn’t missed, then doubled back. Joy Vane had taught me something useful, although not what Aunt Agatha had hoped for. With Peter gone, Luke would be staying at the bungalow.

I stole around the side into the garden, hid in the bushes, checked no one else was about, then went and peered through the window into Peter’s old room.

The wheelchair had been replaced by new signs of occupancy: a jacket hanging from a hook behind the door, a transistor radio on the bedside table and next to it, tantalisingly, my copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. I banged on the glass.

Luke came into the room, stopped, looked quizzical, then smiled and opened the window.

‘Can I have my book?’ I pointed to it.

‘Sure.’ He reached and handed it to me. ‘You’re lucky Aunt Verity’s out.’

‘Not luck,’ I said. ‘She’s had to go to Laburnum Lodge. The girl staying with us is about to have a baby.’

‘I didn’t know she still worked as a midwife. Aunt Verity delivered me, too,’ he said.

‘Joy told me.’ I had an idea. Was Aunt Agatha’s insistence that Charlotte drank one of her special tisanes and the sudden onset of her labour a coincidence? ‘Did your mum drink a special tea beforehand?’

‘Tea?’

‘I just wondered if it was chance.’

‘What do you mean?’ he said.

‘Aunt Agatha likes children to be born in the village, not a hospital.’

‘What’s it to her?’

‘I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything any more.’

‘Is that why you ran away?’

‘The reverend told you?’

‘I found out,’ he said. ‘Was it because Peter went home? I didn’t know you liked him so much.’

He said it calmly but I sensed, or maybe hoped, for something more. Was it possible he was jealous? I quashed the idea. I was just a child to him.

‘He’s not why I left,’ I said.

‘So why did you?’

‘Something frightened me. The reverend explained and I sort of get it, but it’s just …’

‘What exactly?’

I sounded childish when what I wanted was for Luke to see me as an equal.

‘I followed them that night, after St Faran’s Feast.’

‘And?’

‘I saw the ceremony. The real one. Do you know St Faran’s Feast has another name? They call it Osana’s Oblation. And Peter was there. At least …’ Had he been there? I didn’t know what was in the sacking.

‘And what happened?’

I couldn’t look at him. I felt such a fool.

‘Why can’t you tell me?’

‘The reverend says I have an overactive imagination and Fletcher thinks my aunt gave me a hallucinogen.’

‘Wow – like LSD or something?’

‘I don’t know. But what I saw … it was horrible … frightening … I had to get away.’

I told him about the chanting, the water, the grey and red robes, the sacking and the axe. Then I described the swirling stars and the church spire turning to white marble.

‘They said it’s like Guy Fawkes night. The axe is just for show. Only it didn’t feel that way. I thought it was Peter in the sacking and his blood on the ground. But the reverend said he drove him to his grandmother’s after dropping you off in Gloucester and the blood came from a pig.’

‘That makes more sense. Only …’ A knock at the front door interrupted him. ‘That’ll be Jed. He’s come to fix the washing machine. He has a key. You’d better go.’ The lock was turning. ‘Did you say Peter had gone to live with his grandmother?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s not possible,’ Luke said. ‘Peter’s a distant cousin. My uncle in Gloucester knows his family. His grandmother died last month.’

The door was open and I could hear Jed’s footsteps coming down the hall.

‘She can’t have,’ I said.

Luke glanced back towards the door.

‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Meet me tomorrow in the Bomb Drop – the pit over the brow of the hill. It’s hidden in a patch of brambles. Say about noon?’

A light came on in the hall.

I turned to go.

‘Just a moment.’ He leant through the window. ‘You’ve a twig stuck in your hair.’

His fingers brushed my neck as he held the offending tress for a moment. My heart was beating so hard I thought he must be able to hear it. He plucked the twig away and stood upright.

I could hardly breathe.

‘Until tomorrow then,’ he said, and closed the window. Then shouted to Jed, ‘The replacement part’s on the table.’

I looked back to see his face blurred by the ancient glass. I half raised my hand to wave, then thought it foolish and brought it to my side. At the end of the garden, I turned back. Luke was no longer at the window. I stayed for some time. He didn’t return.

*

Out on the hill I breathed in the evening air. A robin was singing as sweetly at dusk as at dawn. I put my arms straight out from my sides and whirled around in the encroaching blackness until I became dizzy and had to lie down in the long grass. I stared at the stars emerging in the sky above. They appeared within touching distance.

I brought my hair to my lips and kissed where his fingers had once held it; the inconsistent story about Peter’s grandmother was forgotten.

Only tomorrow and my meeting with Luke was important.

Deceived

Eventually the last of the day’s warmth drained away and the moon rose against the smoky-black sky, cold crept into my bones and I headed back to Laburnum Lodge, the sacred lock of hair still twisted between my fingers.

I found Reverend Rivers striding up and down outside the kitchen door, backlit by the inside lights, a cigarette in hand. He spun on his heels at my approach.

‘Who’s there?’

I stepped out of the darkness.

‘It’s only me,’ I said.

‘For God’s sake. What are you doing sneaking around in the shadows?’

His anger shocked me.

‘I didn’t mean to scare you,’ I said.

‘I’m not scared. Why would I be scared? You’re the one who should be scared, wandering around so late. What on earth do you think you’re doing?’

He brushed the back of his hand across his forehead.

‘Where have you been?’ he asked in a calmer voice.

‘Nowhere. I went out on the hill to read.’

I held up the book.

‘Where’s your torch? You can’t have been reading in the dark.’

‘It was light when I went out,’ I said. ‘Are you here for Charlotte?’

‘Your aunt asked me to bring Blanche over. Verity needs an extra pair of hands.’

A guttural wail from the open window above wrenched his attention from me. He threw down his cigarette.

‘Get inside and go to bed, Prosperina,’ he said, before running into the house.

*

I wasn’t tired and the noise from upstairs – screams from Charlotte, instructions from Verity Vane and endless scamperings up and down the corridor – didn’t entice me there. Instead, I poured myself a glass of milk and sat at the kitchen table. I turned the radio dial to the station Blanche liked. No music played. Only then did I realise it was nearly two in the morning and they didn’t broadcast so late.

I tried to read but it was impossible to concentrate with the clamour from above. I was about to give up completely when all fell silent and I heard a new sound, a sort of mewling screech.

The baby had arrived.

Blanche was making cooing noises and for once she sounded sober.

More scampering.

I imagined everyone clucking about what a beautiful baby it was, as they had done to Nellie’s at the commune, when all I saw was a puling, bloodied blob.

I had finished the milk and was taking the glass to the sink when Blanche came in.

She collapsed onto the nearest chair, looking tired and far older without the animation of alcohol.

‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ I asked.

‘Water,’ she said.

I used the glass I had just washed. She looked up at me as I handed it to her, her eyes pouchy and red.

‘I promised Agatha I’d not indulge,’ she said. ‘But we shouldn’t be asked to do such unnatural things without a little Dutch courage. That poor child.’

‘Is there something wrong with Charlotte’s baby?’

‘It’s a boy.’

‘That’s a bad thing?’

She shook her head and knocked back the water in the manner of a brandy chaser, then pulled a face.

‘God, I need a drink.’ She looked down the hall towards the living room. ‘No. No. I’ve promised Agatha. All that’s behind me.’ She leant across the table and grabbed my hand. ‘But, Rina, it’s hard – too hard. And to see that baby, so innocent. And Charlotte, so naïve.’

She sat back. Her eyelids fluttered and I thought she might faint.

‘Are you ill? Do you need more water?’

‘Perhaps a sherry. I know I promised, but on a night like tonight I can hardly be expected to keep to it. A little sherry – a very small one.’

Aunt Agatha kept Madeira in the pantry for cooking. I poured Blanche a glass. She didn’t notice the difference and downed it in one.

Her face relaxed.

‘I mustn’t let them down. Not this time. But what they demand – no, no, no – but we must.’

‘What do they demand?’

‘The child, Rina, the child.’

I thought of Reverend Rivers’ forbidding tales of government- run homes.

‘It’s going to be taken away?’

‘He has to.’

Blanche stared blankly across the table. The jolly Mrs Merryweather turned sad and sombre.

‘Will he ever come back?’ I asked.

Blanche cast her eyes to the glass on the table. The fingers clasping it trembled slightly as she said, ‘They all come back. In the end, they all come back.’

‘When? When do they come back? Where do they stay until then?’

The stairs creaked. Blanche looked up in alarm and pushed the glass across the table. I snatched it up and whisked it to the sink before the reverend entered the room.

‘I thought I told you to go to bed, Prosperina,’ he said.

‘I wasn’t tired.’

‘The truth is, I asked Rina to keep me company,’ Blanche said. ‘It’s been a trying night. I didn’t want to be alone.’

The reverend looked at the glass.

‘Water,’ I said, and made a show of washing and drying it.

‘Can I offer you a lift home, Blanche?’

‘Thank you, reverend, I’ll walk. The air will do me good.’ She stood up. ‘Good night to you both.’

‘Tea, reverend?’ I asked when she had left.

‘I think I’ll have a nip of something stronger.’

This time I was able to go to the drinks cabinet in the living room, rather than sneak into the pantry. I returned with a bottle of brandy and a cut-glass tumbler, by which time Aunt Agatha and Verity Vane had joined the reverend.

‘Charlotte needs rest now,’ Verity was saying. ‘Call me if there are any problems.’

‘You’ve been marvellous, Mrs Vane,’ the reverend said.

‘Always happy to be of service.’ She yawned. ‘I must get back. Last time I came home late, the sitting room stank of smoke. You must have a word with Luke about tobacco. He won’t listen to me.’

‘I fear I’m a poor example,’ he said. ‘Although I could do with a hand at the Vicarage. Some of the paving slabs on the back path need resetting. I’m not relying on the Diocese sending anyone soon. Perhaps you can ask Luke to come over and we’ll have a little chat.’

‘I’ll tell him in the morning. And there’s no need for you to see Charlotte tomorrow. I’ll be up to check on her. In fact, it’s probably best if you don’t come,’ Verity said with a meaningful nod.

‘Indeed,’ the reverend said.

‘Good night then.’

I brought the bottle to the table and the reverend poured himself a glass without acknowledging me. Aunt Agatha didn’t appear to register my presence and tipped a little brandy into a teacup. I left the room but hovered by the door and peeped through the crack. Aunt Agatha was shaking her head.

‘A boy,’ she said.

The reverend placed his hand on Aunt Agatha’s.

She lifted her eyes.

‘You once impressed upon me the importance of our work and how little personal feelings and preferences come into it,’ he said.

‘I hold by that,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘But it becomes more difficult with each passing year.’

She held up her hands in despair. The reverend grasped them. ‘You’re not alone, Agatha,’ he said. ‘Those who truly believe will always support you.’

The reverend must have been humouring her, because he’d already told me it was a lot of superstitious nonsense. Aunt Agatha, however, didn’t doubt his sincerity.

‘You don’t know, you can’t be aware of what some people will do to gain power,’ she said. ‘Even if it means endangering the village and worse.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We were deceived about Peter. He was born in Rowlstone Hospital.’

‘You have proof?’

She nodded.

‘No one would deliberately mislead you,’ the reverend said.

‘It would serve the purpose of some if catastrophe were to strike.’

Reverend Rivers released her hands and rubbed his eyes.

‘I can’t pretend I don’t know what you mean, Agatha. I’m as afraid of … of … anything being brought forwards as you are. But several weeks have passed and nothing’s occurred. Perhaps it is the willingness, the intention that is important.’

‘I pray you’re right,’ she said.

‘Whatever the case, it can’t be undone.’

‘No. Not undone. But …’

‘No, Agatha.’ The reverend was stern now. ‘We’re in August. What good would it do?’

Aunt Agatha dropped her head.

‘You’re tired,’ he said. ‘In the morning you’ll see things more clearly.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, of course.’

‘I’ll go now,’ he said. ‘Get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

I slipped into the living room while he crossed the hall to the front door. Soon afterwards Aunt Agatha went upstairs.

When I was certain she was in bed, I followed.

A mild whimpering was coming from Charlotte’s room. I pushed the door open. The noise wasn’t the baby, but Charlotte. She lay on her back, her hair spread out in a corona around her head, her arms flung back on the pillow as if she’d fallen from a great height. Her breathing was deep but uneven, as if crying in her sleep. The baby lay next to her, wrapped up tight. His eyes were squeezed shut and his mouth was open, giving snuffling little breaths. He looked rather sweet, not as I remembered Nellie’s baby. I felt sorry for him, going to a government home. Couldn’t Charlotte keep him? Perhaps she could if she asked her parents. I’d remind her in the morning.

Charlotte mumbled something, then rolled over on her side, her arm flopping across the baby’s face. Gently, without waking her, I removed it. Then crept back out of the room.

Chastity

That night strange dreams fractured my sleep. A rook cackled to me from outside my window. It had mocking, black gold-flecked eyes and latex feathers, which shone in the moonlight. I opened the window, wings sprouted from my shoulders, and I stepped out into the air and took flight. Together we flew north, back to Gossdale. My heart sang to return to my home once more. But as we soared over the ridge to the valley, a thick column of smoke was rising from its floor. The Wroxwood farmhouse lay grey and smouldering, flames still licking around the fallen timbers of the barns and outhouses.

I woke to the sound of wings fluttering against the windowpane.

I drew back the curtains.

Nothing. It was still dark.

I returned to my bed and closed my eyes. This time I encountered Aunt Agatha and Verity Vane chasing a piglet round and round St Faran’s Spring. They darted after it, agile as young girls. Each held a bow attached to a pin and were trying to fix it to the piglet’s tail. Every time they came near, it squealed, ducked and dodged them. As it ran past me, I tried to grasp it, pick it up, run and save it. The piglet swerved away from me and turned its head. Instead of porcine eyes and a snout, Peter’s face looked back at me, frightened and confused through the thick lenses of his glasses. At that moment Verity Vane pounced on him and thrust the bow through the curly pink tail. Its squeal was so high-pitched, piercing and unbearable, I had to put my hands over my ears.

The piglet was still screaming when I shook off my dream and opened my eyes. No, not a piglet – a baby: Charlotte’s baby, screaming in the dark.

‘Don’t cry, Jacob darling, please don’t cry.’ Charlotte sounded almost panicked. ‘Please, darling. Please, please stop.’

A sweet singing voice interrupted her.

‘“Hush little baby don’t you cry …”’

It was Aunt Agatha. I’d only ever heard her sing amongst others in church before. Her tone was rich and soothing. Soon Jacob’s cries became soft gurgles.

‘How do you do that?’ Charlotte asked.

‘All babies love a lullaby,’ Aunt Agatha said.

I wondered if she thought of my mother as she said these words.

‘You’re so good with him,’ Charlotte said. ‘He won’t settle for me.’

The baby gurgled again and Aunt Agatha sang once more to soothe him.

And I too was dragged back to sleep, this time far sounder than before.

By the time I awoke, the sun was high in the sky and the day was already uncomfortably hot. I threw off my covers.

Down the landing the baby started crying again, the insistent wailing as loud as if no wall stood between us. My journey, the late night and the emotional rush of meeting Luke had drained me. I wanted to rest and hoped Blanche was right about the baby leaving soon.

Deciding I’d not get back to sleep, I dressed. I was meeting Luke later. I prayed Aunt Agatha wouldn’t make me go to see Joy and Hope today, as she’d threatened. Wasn’t Verity coming to the house every day to tend to Charlotte and the baby enough? Spending time with her granddaughters when I could be with Luke would be torture. Then again, Luke was a Vane, of sorts, his father being Verity’s step-brother. Was it possible Verity had asked him to keep an eye on me?

I knew I should be cautious, but all caution was pointless. I couldn’t forget the touch of his hand on my cheek nor the solitary kiss on my birthday. I would meet Luke at the Bomb Drop as arranged.

*

Aunt Agatha was humming as I entered the kitchen; her cheer a complete contrast to her melancholy mood of the previous evening.

‘Sit down and I’ll boil you an egg,’ she said, without turning round.

My stomach was churning at the thought of meeting Luke. I accepted the food, however. Aunt Agatha would interpret a loss of appetite as illness and send me to my room.

As she placed the accompanying bread on the table, she cast an eye over me and frowned.

‘You’re not at that commune now, Rina. That T-shirt’s filthy. Isn’t it the same one you wore yesterday? Go and change after breakfast.’

‘Yes, Aunt.’

She leant closer to me.

‘And you’re looking peaky. Not enough sleep, I suppose – not surprising with all that was going on. Poor Charlotte.’

It was fortunate the reverend had not mentioned my evening ramble over the hilltop.

‘What a to-do,’ she continued. ‘So much noise. I’m sure cattle don’t make as much fuss. Still a woman must suffer in childbirth – in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children. Woman’s eternal punishment for Eve’s sin. Do you remember that from Genesis?’

In truth, the Bible had become muddled and confused for me, what with all the cursing, blighting and smiting – made worse by Aunt Agatha insisting on the King James version, much of which was incomprehensible to me. When Blanche pointed out that Hebrew and Greek were the original languages of the Bible and modern translations were more accurate, Aunt Agatha had given her a withering look and said, ‘I suppose that’s the sort of indoctrination drilled into you at teacher training college. No doubt you passed on such nonsense to your poor pupils.’

‘If you won’t believe me, you can ask Reverend Rivers,’ Blanche said.

‘I’ll be sure to do that,’ Aunt Agatha replied.

Strangely enough, Aunt Agatha never did ask him, nor did Blanche raise the subject again and we continued with the King James.

‘I’ll reread it,’ I promised Aunt Agatha.

‘Good. And an early night tonight, I think. Catch up on your sleep. We don’t want you as moody and slothful as Charlotte.’

Aunt Agatha poured herself a cup of tea and sat down on the opposite side of the table.

‘Talking of which, it’s probably a good time for us to have a little chat.’ She set her cup down. ‘Let Charlotte be a lesson to you. This is what happens when you let a man sweet-talk you into Lord alone knows what. The silly girl still thinks the child’s father is coming for her. He lives the other side of Worcester with a wife and three children. He loves her, he’s just waiting for the right time. As if every girl that’s caught out hasn’t heard exactly the same tale. Don’t trust men. Keep your distance. There’s a reason we consider chastity one of the seven virtues.’

For a moment I feared she’d learnt of my tryst with Luke. However, I recalled she frequently lamented the deceitful and lascivious nature of men and was comforted in thinking this was a general, not specific warning.

Aunt Agatha tilted her head to one side. ‘It’s a pity it’s too far for you to travel to the all-girls’ school,’ she said. ‘It would certainly have been better if your mother had attended one. I do worry you’ll turn out like her.’

At thirteen, and having just met Luke, I was rather looking forward to turning out like my mother and having men fall over themselves to do my bidding. Whilst others mucked out the chicken coop and fed the alpacas, Lullaby wore beautiful clothes and came and went from the commune as she chose. Even Maurice’s machismo had wilted before her. And although, when I thought of Jed, my certainty wavered, I couldn’t believe all men were quite as terrible as Aunt Agatha made out.

‘But don’t we need men?’ I said. ‘For babies, I mean?’

She tapped the side of her teacup with her fingernail. ‘It’s always been an unfortunate dilemma. Though I did see something … never mind, you’re far too young to understand.’

‘I know the facts of life,’ I said.

‘Ah, yes – the commune. Well, as you’re so worldly-wise, I’ll tell you what I read in Blanche’s paper the other day. Normally I don’t bother with such trash, but it was a subject I couldn’t ignore. They call it a test-tube baby. It’s all over the news. These babies are created in a laboratory. It dispenses with all the usual unpleasantness.’

‘Are men really that bad? Fletcher was nice, and Ravi.’

‘And what about your mother’s fellow – Maurice? What about Jed, or the man who’s been leading poor Charlotte such a merry dance? Crying her eyes out over him, night after night, when he made it clear it was nothing more than a fling on his part. And still she clings to some ridiculous notions about love and passion. Well, look where it’s landed her. Trust me, men are nice when they’re after something. Even your Fletcher and Ravi probably had one eye on your mother and one waiting for you to be old enough.’

‘That’s not true,’ I said. ‘OK – what about Reverend Rivers?’

‘He is a man of God, trained to curb his appetites.’

‘But people marry and fall in love all the time.’

Aunt Agatha folded her hands on the table in front of her.

‘One of nature’s cruel little tricks. And now we have test tubes, the whole business can be put to bed, so to speak. I do so wish the scientists were as clever in my day, but they were too busy building atomic bombs. I did want children and nearly married once. But the thought of … ew …’ She shuddered. ‘Oh, no. It would never do. As men go, Matthew wasn’t so bad. An optician, you know.’

‘The same one Lullaby married?’

‘Lullaby – Lily, your mother? What are you talking about?’

‘Lullaby married an optician, Emesh’s father. That’s what she told me.’

Aunt Agatha started turning the pewter ring around her finger. ‘Ah, yes, of course. How silly of me to forget.’

‘Was it the same optician?’ I asked.

‘Dear me, no. My engagement and her marriage were years apart.’

‘So who was Lullaby’s optician?’

She ignored my question and began clearing breakfast from the table.

‘Go and change now, Rina,’ she said. ‘We can’t have you roaming the village looking like a street urchin. Once you’ve dressed, go and occupy yourself outdoors. It’s better if Charlotte’s kept quiet. I worry about her becoming too agitated.’

‘But about Emesh’s father …’

‘Run along now,’ she said.

*

I wasn’t as curious about the optician as I should have been. It seemed a silly coincidence. Perhaps half the men in Sorrow Spring were opticians. How should I know? Nor did I stop to think why Aunt Agatha wanted me away and out of the house, when usually she liked to keep a close eye on me. Her comments about the state of my clothes were of far more concern. I was going to meet Luke and certainly didn’t want to look like a street urchin. I put on my denim shorts and filched Charlotte’s Paris T-shirt from the airing cupboard, but as I didn’t have access to her kohl pencil, I couldn’t completely replicate my birthday outfit.

Running over the brow of the hill, I must have been a splodge of blue and white against yellowing grass; one of the few creatures moving in the rising heat, which confined even the bees to their hives. The clump of brambles Luke had described lay a hundred yards away.

I rushed towards it, my young heart pulled by an invisible thread, my pace increasing with every stride. The brambles concealed the land beyond, and I realised too late I had reached the Bomb Drop. The ground fell away, my momentum carried me forwards and I tumbled headfirst down the bank, the thistles at the bottom bringing me to a halt.

The fall winded me. I gasped empty breaths. I was suffocating. Then a guffaw erupted behind me and my arms were yanked above my head. Air rushed into my lungs and I lay, panting where I fell, wriggling my fingers and toes to check nothing was broken.

My careful assessment was interrupted by more laughter.

Luke stood over me.

‘I like girls falling at my feet.’

I scrambled upright.

‘That wasn’t funny,’ I said.

‘It was from where I was standing.’

‘You could have warned me.’

‘It’s called the Bomb Drop,’ he said.

I brushed the dried grass from me. My knees and elbows were stinging. I didn’t want to let him know I was hurt and give him further cause for amusement.

I looked around at the unlikely hole in the hill. One side, the one I had fallen down, was steep and sharp, the other, shallow.

‘What is this place?’

‘Jed said that when Birmingham was blitzed in the war, the Luftwaffe dropped one of its spare bombs on their return journey. It’s a good place to meet because unless someone comes to the edge, no one can see you. Here, you’re bleeding.’

He handed me a tissue. This time he wasn’t laughing. I dabbed at my grazes. He sat down and lit a cigarette.

‘Do you want one?’

He threw the packet towards me.

I let it lie on the grass.

‘Is Jed your friend?’ I asked.

‘I don’t really know him. He comes to the bungalow sometimes and fixes stuff. Don’t you like him?’

He looked at me enquiringly and I remembered Aunt Agatha’s words: keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Was he spying on me?

I shrugged and, as a distraction, sat down and handed him The Pale Horse. The pages were creased from my fall. ‘I brought you a book as I took The Count of Monte Cristo back.’

He took it from me and turned it over to read the back cover.

‘My stepmum likes this sort of book,’ he said.

I felt stupid. These books, new to me, were old hat to someone like Luke.

‘What do you normally get?’

‘Science fiction – The Day of the Triffids, The War of the Worlds.’

‘I don’t know those,’ I said.

‘If I’d known I was going to be here for so long, I’d have brought them with me.’

‘Can you get to the library? Waiting until next year – it’s a long time with no books.’

‘It’ll be longer than that. Dad says I have to stay here, even if my Aunt Lynn says I can go to her in London.’

‘Aunt Lynn’s your mum’s sister, right?’

He nodded.

‘Your dad can’t make you stay,’ I said.

‘I guess not. I’ll join the library anyway. Have you read The Midwich Cuckoos yet? It reminds me of this place.’ He laughed and ground his cigarette into the dirt. ‘Tell me again what the reverend told you about Peter.’

‘He said Peter was going to stay with his nana. Are you sure she’s dead?’

‘That’s what my uncle said. Maybe it was his grandmother on the other side of the family.’

‘Maybe,’ I said.

‘Your aunt must know. She knows everything. Aunt Verity’s terrified of her.’

‘I thought Aunt Agatha was terrified of Verity. Anyway, she never tells me anything and the only person she listens to is Reverend Rivers.’

‘Her and all the rest of the old biddies. Aunt Verity loves him far more than she ever did her husband. Aunt Lynn says she only married him for his money. Too bad he left most of it to the Rotary Club when he died. All Aunt Verity ended up with was that tiny bungalow. Still, it makes no difference to me.’

‘But she’s not your real aunt?’ I asked.

‘I guess not – her father married my grandmother, so a step-aunt – is that right?’

‘She wasn’t Peter’s aunt either but he had to call her that.’

‘He probably called her aunt so he felt less of a charity case,’ he said.

‘Can you speak to your uncle again? Double-check which grandmother died.’

‘I’ll not get to speak to him until Saturday.’

Luke rolled onto his back, flung his arms over his head and closed his eyes. His skin glowed in the bright sun. I lay next to him, propping my head up on my elbow so I could look properly.

‘Back in Wroxwood, we’d swim in the brook on days like this,’ I said.

He squinted up at me.

‘That’s the commune you lived in, right? Joy told me. Were you happy there?’

It was a question I’d been pushing to the back of my mind. No, I hadn’t been happy. Or at least I hadn’t realised I was happy. Being surrounded by friends, fun and laughter was normal. I never questioned my good fortune.

I knew my voice would tremble if I spoke of it, so I didn’t reply.

‘Are you missing someone – a boyfriend?’

I shook my head.

‘Aunt Agatha was warning me about men only this morning. I think that’s why we’re not allowed to meet. The reverend knows she would never approve. She thinks all men are untrustworthy.’

He smiled. ‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You’ve never had a boyfriend?’ He pushed himself onto his elbows.

‘Forest is a boy, but he was just a friend.’

‘So you’ve never kissed anyone?’

I was too embarrassed to answer.

‘Is that a yes or a no?’ he said.

He had moved closer and I could smell the cigarette he’d just smoked.

‘I don’t think they’re all so bad,’ I said.

Luke leant forward; his lips brushed mine. Though lying down, I felt dizzy and sick; tortured and pleasured at the same time. I grabbed his T-shirt and held him to me. He kissed me harder.

‘What exactly do you think you’re doing?’

Verity Vane stood glaring at us from the top of the slope, her arms folded. Luke rolled away from me.

‘Aunt Verity, how lovely to see you,’ he said.

He stood up and strode towards her.

‘And you’ve been smoking, I can smell it on your breath. That girl gave you the cigarettes, no doubt.’

I stayed where I was.

‘Actually, Reverend Rivers gave me some of his,’ Luke said.

‘I find that difficult to believe. Anyway, Jed’s here. You’d arranged to go to Rowlstone, or had you forgotten?’

‘I lost track of time.’

‘I can imagine.’ Verity glared at me again. ‘Come on now. He’s waiting.’

I sat down in the Bomb Drop as their voices became fainter. I lay on my back and looked up at the sun, the scent of Luke’s cigarette in my nostrils. I’d never liked the smell before. I felt sick with love and sick with fear as I curled my mouth so I could taste the lips that had touched his.

I was young. It was natural that my callow heart overrode my instincts and that, on the slow trudge home, it wasn’t Peter’s fate that occupied my mind.

Lust

Other than the hourly news I could hear on the radio in the sitting room, Laburnum Lodge was quiet when I returned from meeting Luke. Perhaps Aunt Agatha had wanted me out of the house so she could have some peace and quiet.

Upstairs I glimpsed Charlotte through her open door. The curtains were drawn and she was sprawled on the bed in a circle of bright sunshine. She lay so still, I thought she might be dead.

I went and gave her a gentle shake.

‘Charlotte, can you hear me?’

Her eyelids fluttered.

The towelling nightdress she wore was far too thick for summer; her cheeks were flushed and her brow moist.

‘Are you unwell, would you like a drink?’

‘Jacob,’ she whispered.

Her eyes stayed shut although the lids continued to flutter as she began turning her head from side to side in agitation.

‘I’ll get you some water. Would you like that?’ I asked.

No response.

I took the empty mug from the bedside table to the sink, only to find it wasn’t empty. The bottom was lined with granular dregs carrying the same acrid smell as the ones in my cocoa the night of the ceremony.

Why did they want her asleep?

The empty crib gave me the answer.

I let the tap run cold before rinsing out the mug and filling it with fresh water. I raised Charlotte’s head and pressed it to her lips. She sipped a little, then fell back onto the pillow.

Her eyes opened. The pupils were dilated and her gaze unfocused.

‘Where’s Jacob?’ she asked.

‘You need to rest,’ I said.

Her eyelids struggled against whatever drug was pulling them shut. The potion proved too strong, however, and she returned to her torpor.

*

When a car pulled onto the driveway an hour or so later, my first thought was that Verity Vane had come to denounce my behaviour. Then I remembered she would hardly drive such a short distance. My second guess was the correct one. I ran to the top of the stairs at the sound of Reverend Rivers’ voice. Aunt Agatha looked up.

‘What are you doing here, Rina? I told you to stay outside today.’

‘I wanted to read.’

The reverend didn’t notice me. He was too absorbed by the whimpering bundle in his arms.

‘Go back to your room.’

I retreated from the banister, but stayed on the landing.

Reverend Rivers went outside with the baby. Aunt Agatha followed him and shut the door behind her. After a couple of minutes, I heard the car being driven away.

I came downstairs.

‘Where’s he going?’ I asked. ‘Is he coming back?’

Aunt Agatha closed the door and didn’t answer. When she turned to me, I saw her eyes were ringed red.

‘Didn’t I tell you to go to your room?’ she said.

A wail from the top of the stairs made us both look up.

‘Where is he?’

Charlotte stood in her nightdress, her hair tangled, her eyes wild.

‘He’s gone, dear,’ Aunt Agatha said.

Charlotte ran down the stairs, past Aunt Agatha and out onto the drive. She whirled about in front of the house as if her baby would suddenly appear.

‘No. No. No!’ she said.

Aunt Agatha stayed at the door.

‘You knew this was going to happen now, didn’t you?’

‘Jacob,’ Charlotte called.

‘It’s best he goes before you become too attached.’

‘Jacob.’ Charlotte started running along the drive but collapsed in a heap halfway.

Aunt Agatha looked around to make sure no one was about.

‘Come and help me get her back inside, Rina.’

We virtually dragged her back into the house. She was too heavy for us to get up the stairs and so we took her to the sitting-room settee.

‘Now, dear, I’ll allow this today, but tomorrow I expect better. You’ll be going to London in a few weeks. Isn’t that what you wanted – to start a new life – no more gossip? I dare say you’ll meet a nice young man there and get married and have children of your own.’

‘Jacob is my own.’

‘He was never yours. You know that.’

‘But—’

‘Let’s hear no more about it. You stay here. I’ll fetch you something soothing to drink.’

We left Charlotte sobbing on the settee.

‘Where’s the reverend taking Jacob?’ I asked.

‘He’s being taken to a loving home.’

‘Not some government home?’

‘A kind family who can’t have children of their own are taking him in. He’s much better off with them than with Charlotte, who’ll barely have enough money to feed him.’

The car being driven away, separating Jacob from his mother, reminded me of Lullaby’s leaving, and I felt guilty for having once wished him gone.

‘Charlotte should be with her baby.’

Aunt Agatha shut the kitchen door.

‘Charlotte’s nothing but a child herself. This is best for her and the boy.’

She took a tisane of valerian and passionflower back to the sitting room to calm Charlotte. I felt as if I needed some myself.

Then I had an idea. I ran to my room and brought Harold the rabbit back down with me.

‘Here,’ I said.

Charlotte grabbed him and held him to her chest as I had on my first night at Laburnum Lodge.

‘Let’s be getting you upstairs, once you’ve finished that, Charlotte. Then Verity can come and check up on you.’

Charlotte didn’t seem to hear her and continued clutching Harold. After the tisane, however, she allowed herself to be led back upstairs to her bedroom.

Meanwhile, I tensed in anticipation of Verity’s appearance and what she would tell Aunt Agatha.

*

I had intended to be out of the way when she arrived, but as usual Verity caught me out by turning up early at the back door.

‘Has the baby gone?’ was her first question.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘I suppose Charlotte made a terrible fuss. These loose girls are so sentimental.’

I attempted to escape but Aunt Agatha had come to the hall doorway and Verity stood in the one leading to the garden.

‘You can stay, young lady,’ she said.

I hovered between them by the table and considered diving under my aunt’s arm to get away.

‘Is something the matter, Verity?’ Aunt Agatha asked.

‘There most certainly is. I came across your niece today, hiding in the Bomb Drop.’

‘I did tell her to stay out of the house,’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘She was not alone.’

‘You’ve been with Joy and Hope?’ Aunt Agatha asked.

Verity stepped inside the kitchen.

‘I don’t think your niece is particularly interested in female company,’ she said. ‘I caught her in an embrace with Luke Glebe.’

Aunt Agatha looked aghast. ‘Is this true?’ she asked.

I wanted to hide in the pantry.

‘We were only talking,’ I said.

‘You were doing a lot more than that from where I was standing.’

‘It was only a kiss – one kiss.’

My only proper kiss.

‘With a boy you’ve just met?’ Aunt Agatha looked shocked and dismayed. ‘Thank you, Verity. You can go and see to Charlotte now. I’ll deal with this.’

‘It’s your Lily all over again – boys, boys, boys.’

‘I said I’ll deal with this,’ Aunt Agatha repeated.

‘I’ll come back tomorrow,’ Verity said. ‘I’m not in the mood for a weeping Charlotte.’

Aunt Agatha waited for Verity to go before sitting down at the table and motioning for me to do the same.

I couldn’t look at her.

‘After what we spoke about. After seeing Charlotte and knowing what can happen to girls.’

‘It’s not like that,’ I said.

‘No – it never is. It’s different. He’s different. I’ve told you they’re all the same. With Luke Glebe, of all people.’

This time I did look at her.

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘Put it this way, Reverend Rivers won’t be pleased when he finds out.’

‘What’s it got to do with him?’

‘Luke’s his godson and he’s very fond of him. He won’t want him getting mixed up with you of all people.’

‘Why me?’

She paused. ‘Ramsay’s hoping Luke will follow him into the Church.’

‘Why does that matter? Vicars have girlfriends and wives. Anyway, Luke wants to be an actor.’

‘So you found time to do some talking, did you? An actor, I ask you. He must get that nonsense off his mother, Clara. She was married to Verity’s stepbrother. He brought her back from London. I said, we’ll have trouble with that one and I was right. Clara Devereaux. She gave herself such airs and graces. Oh – do people still do that sort of thing up here? Well, she turned out to be no better than she ought.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean you are to stay away from Luke Glebe. Stay away from boys altogether. Until he’s gone, you’re to go no further than the end of the garden.’

‘But his father’s making him stay here for ever. I’ll never be able to go anywhere,’ I said.

Aunt Agatha’s expression changed.

‘Who told you that?’

‘He did.’

She stood up, walked to the window and stared in the direction by which Verity had left. Under her breath she said, ‘That’s the second lie you’ve told me, Verity Vane.’ She turned to me. ‘Verity’s like one of those squawking rooks on her roof – always watching, even if they manage to stay silent for five minutes. We need to be careful. Seeing the Pines flourish sticks in the Vanes’ throats. They’ll use your friendship with the Glebe boy against you. Verity is most definitely up to something.’

Jealousy

Over the following week, I kept to the house and garden, carrying a steady supply of Aunt Agatha’s soothing tisanes up to Charlotte’s room. Often, I found her kneeling on the bed clutching Harold to her breasts, the fabric of her nightdress sodden with milk spilt for her absent child. Her mind became confused. Once or twice we found her barefoot and half-naked wandering outside, calling for Jacob. Aunt Agatha would have to rush out and coax her back indoors.

The Reverend Rivers’ visits, his words of comfort and reassurances about Jacob’s future, only increased Charlotte’s agitation.

Luke’s name was never mentioned.

‘If the reverend knew about you and that boy, he would have raised it by now,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘Discretion isn’t Verity’s strong point. She’s certainly not kept silent to preserve your reputation.’

‘Reputation?’ I spluttered. ‘What do you mean, reputation?’

‘Outside of communes, most people have a sense of shame. You can’t go around kissing boys on lonely hilltops. People will talk.’

Aunt Agatha obviously hadn’t read Joy Vane’s Jackie magazine, in which girls kissed boys at all sorts of locations.

‘I can’t figure out why Verity hasn’t told him. It’s not like her to pass up on an opportunity to stir things up,’ Aunt Agatha said.

She had just finished making some fairy cakes, which she placed in a tin.

‘You can take these to Mrs Greening now. I think the quieter the house, the better, for Charlotte’s sake.’

‘Yes, Aunt.’

‘And, Rina, change out of those filthy dungarees.’

I had no clean clothes other than the blue smock dress with the bow that Aunt Agatha had made me wear to church.

*

Mrs Greening’s house was near the recreation ground, the other side of the Red Cow Inn and the shop, outside which stood Ms Lowther and two other Sistren members. She accosted me as I passed.

‘Any news?’ she asked.

For some reason I thought she meant Luke.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Charlotte’s child – is it …?’

I looked at the other women.

‘What child?’

‘Ah, yes, exactly.’ She nodded and tapped the side of her nose with a long, yellowing fingernail. ‘Very well. You enjoy your day.’

I hurried past, only to stumble upon Joy and Hope, sitting on a wall. Joy wore pink cotton shorts and a backless halter-neck top. She was sucking on a red ice lolly, which dripped in the heat and stained the corners of her mouth. On a lower part of the wall, hidden so that I didn’t see him at first, sat Luke.

‘What did old biddy Lowther want with you?’ Joy asked.

‘Nothing,’ I said.

Luke didn’t raise his eyes to acknowledge me and concentrated on the cigarette he was smoking.

Joy saw me looking.

‘You remember Luke, our friend,’ she said.

I felt a rush of jealousy. The ‘our’ sounded so possessive.

‘Has Charlotte popped yet?’ Hope asked. ‘Is that what Ms Lowther wanted to know?’

‘Popped?’

Joy spoke slowly as if I were dim-witted. ‘Has she had the baby?’

‘Does everyone know? It’s supposed to be a secret,’ I said.

‘In Sorrow Spring – you’d be lucky,’ Joy said. ‘Anyway, when’s your turn?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Going around in that dress.’

I looked down at the enormous smock.

‘I mean, you are pregnant, aren’t you?’ Joy smirked.

I was too shocked to speak. Is this what Aunt Agatha had meant about reputation?

Joy burst out laughing. Luke looked on steadily and didn’t react.

Seeing my confusion, Hope said, ‘It’s a maternity frock – you know, for when you’re pregnant and fat.’

My neck and fingers tingled with humiliation.

‘It’s not mine,’ I said. ‘Aunt Agatha gave it to me. I only have three dresses and the others are in the wash.’

Joy was laughing so hard by now that the red ice lolly was dripping down her chin. She turned to Luke as she licked it off.

‘Rina here’s from a hippy commune. They start ’em young.’

Again, Luke didn’t react.

‘Stop being so mean, Joy,’ Hope said. ‘You can see she’s far too young for all of that.’

‘Not if what I’ve heard about these strange cults is true.’

‘We’re not a cult,’ I said, unsure exactly what the word meant.

Joy snorted.

‘She’s just a kid in a big frock,’ Hope said. ‘Leave her alone.’

‘Whatever you say. It makes no difference to me.’ Joy finished her lolly and tossed the stick into the nearby bushes. ‘We’re off to the pub. I’d love to invite you but they won’t serve kids – even ones in big frocks. See you around, Rina.’

She jumped off the wall and strolled away.

I wanted to shove the lolly stick back down her throat. I could have borne being the butt of their jokes if Luke hadn’t been there. Annoyingly, in with my hate, mingled a tortured longing. What I wouldn’t have given to be Joy Vane, in her shorts and backless top, those long legs swinging nonchalantly as she sucked on her lolly with sly glances thrown at Luke. Had he told her about the kiss? Had it been a joke – a dare? Would they sit around in the pub laughing about it?

Shame swamped me. It had been a game to Luke. He was only Verity Vane’s spy.

I took the tin to Mrs Greening, who looked less than impressed.

‘Not more cake?’ she said. ‘The boys will be the size of barrels at this rate.’

*

I decided to walk two sides of the village triangle, rather than risk being spotted and laughed at when I passed the Red Cow. In fact, I didn’t want anyone to see me. I was ashamed of my dress, ashamed of my upbringing, ashamed of what might be said about me – pregnant! And worse than all this was Luke’s betrayal. Ignoring me for the second time in front of Joy and Hope, as if there had been no kiss and it meant nothing. Perhaps Aunt Agatha was right: they were all the same. To him it had meant nothing. I had fallen as Charlotte had. He would be laughing at my naïvety in the pub. Jed and Art would join in. I wanted to disappear. I’d not leave Laburnum Lodge until he’d gone or Fletcher came to fetch me.

I heard someone walking behind me so picked up my pace. I didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. The footsteps broke into a run.

‘Hey, Rina.’

I spun round to see Luke coming towards me. I half turned from him, in embarrassment. He caught up with me.

‘Where did you go? I was looking for you. You ran off so quickly.’

I stared at the ground.

‘Joy said you were all going to the pub,’ I mumbled.

‘Bill serves under eighteens if they’re pretty enough, but Marjory’s behind the bar today. Joy will go thirsty.’

‘Is she your girlfriend now?’ I asked.

Luke laughed. ‘She’s not.’

‘What about Hope?’

‘I’m afraid Hope is as hopeless as Joy is joyless.’

I laughed, though not quite understanding.

‘Do you have to get back?’ Luke asked.

This time I did look at him. We were standing in the shade of a tall beech tree whose leaves threw dancing patterns across his face. He looked different, older than the last time I’d seen him. The past week had seemed an age. His lips were dry and cracked as they had not been before. I wanted to press them to mine to see if they felt different. I longed to be close to him and yet far away at the same time. Having his eyes upon me and his skin only inches from my fingertips was overwhelming.

My breathing became unsteady. I was taking too long to answer.

‘Aunt Agatha doesn’t want us seen together. The reverend would disapprove. I don’t always do what she says,’ I added, ‘only things are difficult at the moment.’

‘No one will see us if we cross the fields.’ He held up a bunch of keys. ‘The reverend keeps the church spares in a drawer. There’s something I need to show you.’

‘What?’ I asked.

‘Come and find out.’

Luke’s pace was faster than mine and I had to skip to keep up.

He swerved off the road into a narrow gap in the hedge and vaulted over a rotting stile onto a path that took us directly across the hill, then down a dip. The searing heat left me craving some shade as even the loose fabric of the hated dress made me too hot.

It was nearing noon and Luke, tall and thin, barely cast a shadow as he crossed the field; the slight swish as he moved through the grass, the only sound. The air was still. Even the crickets had ceased their endless chirruping. We came to a hedge on the other side, jumped over another stile and landed on a narrow track flanked by a row of trees – finally, some shade.

I paused. A distressed screech was coming from beneath the branches. It came again.

‘What’s that?’

‘Probably a rook,’ Luke said.

Something in its cry disturbed me. I moved towards the repeated calls and found a cage on the ground. A small bone, no doubt used as bait, had been picked clean. The bird flapped its wings against the wires. The poor thing was exhausted. How long had it been trapped in this heat?

‘Who’s done this?’ I asked.

‘Jed traps them. They’re pests,’ Luke said.

And I knew where they ended up, although I didn’t want to tell Luke. He’d probably be as disgusted as I was.

The rook flew in futile anger at the cage.

‘I’m sure that trap’s illegal though,’ Luke said. ‘They’re supposed to have a perch. It’ll get attacked by rats and mice down there.’

‘Can’t we free it?’

‘Jed won’t be happy.’

‘He won’t know.’

I knelt next to the cage. I expected the bird to be frightened. Instead, it looked at me, its head cocked to one side. Against the gleaming black feathers, a single white one stood out from its chest. For some reason I remembered my dream, flying back to Wroxwood. Had this been the rook that accompanied me? How foolish. One rook looked much like another, and my dream had been formed by my wish to return home. But why, then, had the farm been in ruins?

I undid the catch and the bird hopped out. It looked around itself, then fluttered to the nearest tree.

‘Do you think it’ll survive?’ I asked Luke.

‘Sure,’ he said.

He sounded bored.

‘You won’t tell Jed?’

‘I couldn’t care less about Jed,’ he said. ‘Come on, it’s too hot to be standing around.’

I turned back to see the rook watching me from its branch.

*

The cool air inside the church was a welcome relief. Emptied of the congregation, it looked different. I noticed how the aisle stones had been worn smooth with centuries of Agathas and Blanches walking to their chosen pew and worshipping before another Reverend Rivers.

Luke went straight to the font and I joined him. He looked at me so intently, I hoped he was going to kiss me again. Instead, he stripped off his T-shirt.

‘It’s too hot today,’ he said, and splashed water over his head and torso.

The sight of him made me giddy and I lowered my eyes.

He stood up, shaking water from his head like a long-haired retriever.

‘I asked my uncle about Peter,’ he said.

‘Peter?’ I was having trouble concentrating on what Luke was saying.

‘Guess what? His grandmother did die in May. I double-checked. And his father’s side of the family never had anything to do with him. So it’s not his other gran.’

My stomach tightened. St Faran’s Spring, the robes and the chanting all rose before me, terrible and frightening.

‘Do you think something bad’s happened to him? Why did you bring me here?’ I asked.

He took the keys from his pocket.

‘Follow me.’

We went to the vestry. It was sparsely furnished, with only a couple of chairs, a table and a mahogany cabinet, which Luke unlocked. It contained numerous, tightly stacked books. From behind the larger ones at the front, he retrieved a thick volume, whose binding was new but whose yellowing paper was old.

‘This is what I wanted to show you.’

He laid it out on the table.

The pages were handwritten in a swirling black ink, but I could make out the script on the first page.

MCCCL.

‘That’s a Roman date – 1350,’ Luke said.

‘So old,’ I said.

The pages were covered with names and other writing in a language Luke informed me was Latin.

‘The interesting part of the book is not the beginning, it’s the end.’

He turned to the last page and pointed to the very last line.

The temperature inside the church dropped.

My eyes must be deceiving me. I reread it.

There was no mistake.

Aunt Agatha had told me. Blanche had told me. But I had not listened.

On the page were written the names of the Sorrow Spring Sistren. Some names had ‘dis’ next to them:

Agatha Pine (dis)

Verity Barrowcroft m Vane (dis)

Blanche Hill m Merryweather (dis)

Lily Pine* (dis)

And at the very bottom:

Prosperina Fuchsia Pine (dis)

Distaff

I spent some time examining the book. The handwriting on the earlier pages was barely legible but I traced my finger over the faded ink and was able to decipher the name of Osana and those of her daughters: Matilde, Clotilda and Athelyna, followed by their daughters and theirs, right on through the following centuries.

I reread the last page.

Agatha Pine (dis)

Verity Barrowcroft m Vane (dis)

Blanche Hill m Merryweather (dis)

Lily Pine* (dis)

The only living members of the Distaff. No daughters followed Verity’s name. She’d had sons. Joy and Hope were not descended through the direct female line. Only next to Lily Pine’s name did an asterisk appear, indicating that she alone had produced a daughter.

‘Do you know what all this means, Rina?’ Luke asked.

‘The Distaff line is nearly at an end. Aunt Agatha said that to Jed on my first night in Sorrow Spring. That’s why I’m so important to them and why they paid Lullaby to leave me here. Mrs Reed knew. She told me I’d never leave. I’ll be trapped. I have to stay and have lots of babies.’

‘They can’t force you to stay or have babies,’ Luke said.

He was right. I would be back at Wroxwood within the year.

I returned to the nave and sat on a pew.

‘What’s any of this Osana stuff got to do with Peter?’ I asked.

‘Do you know why I was talking to Joy and Hope today?’

I shrugged. ‘They’re pretty, I guess.’

‘No, not because they’re pretty. Because they like to impress me. Knowing things others don’t makes them feel special.’

He reminded me of Reverend Rivers when he spoke like that.

‘You know the legend of St Faran?’ he asked.

‘His sister had him killed so she could rule instead.’

‘That’s the Church’s version, that Faran was killed because of his piety and Osana’s greed. Joy and Hope told me another story. The Sistren believe Osana had her brother killed, not out of greed but as a sacrifice.’

‘Like when Abraham was told to kill Isaac?’

‘I don’t know any of that Bible stuff. But at the time of the Black Death, an angel appeared to Osana, telling her that if she sacrificed what she valued most, the village would be spared.’

‘Faran!’ I said.

‘Where he was killed a spring bubbled up from the ground and all those who drank from it would be protected. To the Sistren, it is Osana, not Faran, who is the saint.’

‘She murdered her brother.’

‘She gave what she loved most to protect the village from plague. When the villagers found out what she and her husband had done to Faran, they hanged them. It was only later they realised Osana saved the village.’

I hugged myself, picturing the spring pool and the bodies, rooks pecking at them.

‘That was hundreds of years ago,’ I said. ‘We have hospitals and medicine now. There’s no need to kill someone to stop people getting sick.’

‘Antibiotics can’t cure everything. My dad’s cousin died of a viral pneumonia outbreak about three years ago. Thousands of people died. But not in Sorrow Spring.’

‘But you don’t believe it. You said it was just a pure water source and everyone has that these days.’

‘Exactly. But not everywhere is protected like Sorrow Spring.’

‘Who have you been talking to? You’re not starting to believe all that, are you?’

‘You have to admit, the spring does have an atmosphere, and if so many people have believed for so long, there has to be something in it, doesn’t there? Did you see those graves from hundreds of years ago with fresh flowers on them? They belong to the dead Sistren. Aunt Verity organises the rota. Then there’s those rooks’ beaks they push into the church walls, they’re some sort of offering. And have you never noticed how old they are, but hardly any of them are ever ill?’

‘I don’t know, Luke.’

I looked at the stained-glass window depicting St Faran’s death.

‘They take a boy, born in the village and re-enact the sacrifice. Osana’s descendants must continue the tradition,’ Luke said. ‘I think it was a real sacrifice once. And they didn’t want their own sons to die, so they brought women here to give birth then sent the boys away again until it was time.’

‘And what about the girls?’

‘I don’t know the details. I just think that it explains what’s happening. Peter was the mock sacrifice, and when it was over, and they didn’t need him any more, they sent him away again.’

‘Where is he then? Definitely not with his grandmother.’

‘Can’t you ask your aunt? She is the Sistren’s leader.’

‘She’d never tell me. I’ve learnt more from Blanche than Aunt Agatha.’

‘Blanche – she was the one who cried during the ceremony. She likes you, right?’

‘She’s taken a shine to me because my dad’s a saxophonist and she loves jazz.’

‘And she’s a drunk?’

Though true, I didn’t like people talking about Blanche in that way, even Luke. She did drink to excess, but to describe her as a drunk when she had so many other qualities, was unfair. She was well read and had a kind but broken heart. Perhaps Blanche had felt about her husband the way I felt about Luke. No wonder she drank.

‘Blanche is clever; she knows stuff.’

‘Then talk to her. I’ll see if I can get any more out of Joy and Hope.’

He returned to the font and pulled his T-shirt over his head. It clung to his still-wet torso.

‘Wait for ten minutes so we won’t be seen together,’ he said. ‘Meet me at the Bomb Drop at four this afternoon and let me know what you’ve found out. If either of us can’t make it, we’ll leave a note.’

He leant over and kissed me again, slowly this time. I wanted it to last for ever but he pulled away and smiled.

‘Till later.’

I followed him to the porch, then stood in the shade and watched him leave, my dress damp from where he had pressed against me.

A nearby squawk intruded on my lustful thoughts.

On a gravestone opposite perched the rook with the white feather. The one I had freed.

I stepped into the sun.

It hopped onto the next gravestone along, then the next, until it settled on Maude Barrowcroft’s temporary grave marker.

Flowers lay on the grave and the earth was damp and dark. I tried to see what had attracted the bird to that plot. Perhaps the chance of slugs and worms. The rook squawked one more time before flying off.

Rooks are clever birds with an affinity to humans. They can recognise a face many years after they last saw it. This rook knew I was its rescuer and it wanted to rescue me in return.

But how? What was its warning?

Sloth

I had already been away from Laburnum Lodge for too long. But as I’d be in trouble anyway, and I didn’t know the next time I’d have permission to leave the house, I went to visit Blanche.

Wisteria wound its way up the crooked walls and around the small leaded windows of Fox Cottage; bees buzzed lazily in the blossoms. Hollyhocks, roses and hydrangeas provided white, pink and red to complement the mauve, and a small stone cupid, green with moss, pointed his arrow with reckless aim at the front door.

Blanche couldn’t have spent her entire time drinking. A garden like this took work.

I slowed a little as I walked up the path, unsure what to ask and how to ask it – hints of Peter’s whereabouts perhaps. In the end, subtle questioning wasn’t required.

Blanche took her time coming to the door. When she did, her eyes widened in delight.

‘Rina, so lovely to see you, my dear.’

Though she had a glass of gin and tonic on the go, she appeared reasonably sober.

Inside, the cottage was cool and dark. The sitting room took up one side of the cottage. Pictures and tapestries rich with detail decorated its walls and the shelves displayed strange objects in an array of shapes and colours.

‘My little museum. I collect curios from all over the world. This is from Nepal,’ Blanche said, picking up a silk cushion cover. ‘And this from Japan.’ She showed me a papier-mâché head. ‘It grants you one wish. And one wish only.’

‘Have you used yours?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It didn’t come true. I wanted to travel but never did.’

‘Then where did you find all these things?’

‘There’s a marvellous junk shop in Rowlstone. That’s the limit of my adventures these days. I have been to Birmingham and London once or twice, but never abroad.’

‘Why not, if you wanted to so much?’ I asked.

‘Honestly, I don’t know. I had enough money. I barely spent any of my teacher’s salary. Daddy left me this place, so it was only bills and food.’

And drink, I wanted to add.

‘Perhaps it’s nothing more than sloth, but it seems to me something about Sorrow Spring keeps you here. Unless you’ve a strong heart and mind like your mother.’ She looked up from her objects. ‘And you, I hear. You returned to your commune.’

‘I only got as far as Birmingham.’

‘Such a shame. Don’t let them keep you here, Rina,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t say this – Agatha would be livid if she knew – but this is no place for a spirited girl like you. In a couple of years, you’ll be old enough to leave on your own.’

I didn’t have enough confidence in Blanche’s discretion to tell her I’d be long gone by then.

‘You could still leave, Blanche.’

‘And end up like Mrs Reed? Stuffed away in a home hundreds of miles from here, with instructions to keep her brimful of sedatives and the more lurid her stories the less she’s believed.’

‘But if you choose where to go?’

‘And where would I go at my age? Eastbourne or some such place – learn to play bingo, attend the Darby and Joan? No, Rina, that’s not for me. Finding what someone fears gives you a power over them and Agatha always knew I was afraid of being alone. That’s the one thing that would never happen in Sorrow Spring. If I had my time again, I would go abroad to America perhaps. I always wanted to go to New Orleans. Have you ever been? I thought your father might have invited you.’

Blanche had obviously run away with her notions about my father. I had no idea if he was from New Orleans. In fact, I had started to doubt the few things Lullaby had told me about him.

‘I’ve never met my father,’ I said.

‘That’s a shame,’ Blanche said. ‘Maybe in the future.’

She picked up her glass of gin.

‘You’re still a bit young for this,’ she said. ‘How about a lemonade?’

She popped into the kitchen, came back and handed me a beaker.

‘Take a seat, dear, and you can tell me what you’ve been up to since you got back?’

I sat down in a green velvet chair facing Blanche on the sofa.

‘Nothing much. Charlotte’s baby’s gone.’

‘That poor girl.’

‘Do you remember telling me Jacob, the baby, would come back?’

Blanche looked alarmed.

‘I never said any such thing. And you mustn’t repeat that.’

‘You did. The night he was born you said they all come back.’

She stood up and went to the sideboard, resting her fingers on the top as if to steady herself.

‘You must forget what I said that night. And say nothing to Agatha, Rina, or … or …’ She took a deep breath. ‘Jacob is being looked after by a kind family in the North. They’re good people and he’s going to have a happy life.’ She turned back to me. ‘You must understand, Rina. In Sorrow Spring we have certain ways and you must follow them. None of us can tread our own path.’

‘Is that why Aunt Agatha wants me to hang around with Joy and Hope?’

Blanche snorted. ‘Never were two girls more inaptly named. They take after their grandmother those two – Joy especially.’

‘And there’s someone else.’ I was hesitant about saying his name. ‘The new boy staying with Verity Vane.’

‘That’ll be the Glebe lad, Luke,’ she said.

‘You know him?’

‘He comes every year. Good-looking lad, takes after his father.’

‘What’s his family like?’

‘It’s a long time since any of them visited. David, that’s Luke’s father, is Verity’s stepbrother. He’s very wealthy, does something in oil – or was it arms? He came back a few times with his wife. She was very religious – went to church every day when she was here. I can’t think of her name – what was it? – Cora or Clara, I think. That’s it. Clara. Well, David made her come back here, to Sorrow Spring, when she was pregnant. A wicked thing to do. Whatever she’d been up to.’

‘Why was it wicked? What had she been up to?

‘Nothing that should concern you.’

‘Has this got something to do with Peter?’ I asked.

Her reply was mechanical, as if learnt by rote. ‘Peter left to go to his grandmother’s.’

‘Peter’s grandmother’s dead, Blanche.’

She wouldn’t look at me.

‘You know what happened to him, don’t you?’ I said. ‘Peter’s one of the boys born here who came back.’

Blanche’s face flushed.

‘And what about Jimmy?’ I asked. ‘His mother was looking for him and then she turned up dead in Lapmore Woods.’

Blanche waved her free hand in front of her face as if to bat away the question.

‘Rina, you mustn’t ask me. All is not as it seems. There are reasons.’

‘What reasons?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s better you don’t know. You must promise me, Rina, next time you run away, stay away and don’t come back. Sorrow Spring …’ She came and sat on the arm of the chair next to me. ‘Sorrow Spring is evil.’

‘Evil? What did they do to Peter, Blanche?’

‘Please, please don’t ask.’ She clutched her glass tightly between her hands and rocked back and forth. ‘That poor boy. I don’t know why I’ve gone along with it for all these years, knowing in my heart it’s lies. But to leave the Sistren – it’s impossible.’

‘I could go to the police.’

‘No, Rina.’ She clutched my hand. ‘You mustn’t do that. Even with your aunt as head of the Sistren, it would place you in great danger.’

‘You have to tell me everything,’ I said.

She downed the last of her drink and her energy seemed to drain with her glass.

‘I’ve said too much already. You should go now.’

‘But—’

‘Go and forget we had this conversation. And, for God’s sake, don’t talk to the police. They will come for you.’

‘The Sistren?’

‘Go.’

‘Blanche, is Luke Glebe safe? You have to tell me.’

She looked at her empty glass. ‘Oh dear, the ice cubes don’t last in this heat. I filled up both trays and now they’re all gone.’

‘Blanche, answer me.’

Her eyes had turned pink, from alcohol or because she was about to cry, I couldn’t tell.

‘For now,’ she said, turning her glass, as if more liquid would magically appear. ‘Perhaps the Reverend Rivers being so fond of him, will keep Luke safe. Verity found Peter for us instead this year. But what about next year and the year after that?’

‘It was supposed to be Luke this year at the Oblation?’

She put her glass down so hard the small side table tipped.

‘I’ve said too much, Rina. It’s unfair of you to come round and question me when I’m…’ she looked at her empty glass. ‘When I’m not quite myself.’

‘But Luke…’

‘That’s enough. You should go now. And for God’s sake, say nothing to Agatha. Say nothing to anyone.’

Blanche staggered towards the drinks cabinet. I’d get no more answers from her now, so I left her to her warm gin.

Joy and Hope were cycling past the cottage when I came out.

Hope waved to me. Joy half lifted her hand.

I let them ride by, wondering how much they knew.

Blanche’s words had fallen out in a jumbled mess, but their meaning was clear. One, Peter must be dead. And two, Luke’s father had placed him in danger.

Wrath

Leaving a note at the Bomb Drop wasn’t an option. I needed to find Luke right away. I tried the bungalow. Verity was in her front room watching television. I slipped round the side of the house to the back garden. Luke’s transistor radio sat just outside the open door of the shed. A woman singing in a high, yearning voice was calling for Heathcliff, her lost lover.

‘Luke,’ I shouted. ‘Luke.’

I ran to the shed.

The song finished and Reverend Rivers stepped out onto the lawn, wiping his oil-splattered hands with a cloth.

‘I’m sorry, Reverend. I didn’t know it was you.’

‘I said I’d look at Mrs Vane’s lawnmower. I’ve always found machinery fascinating.’ He threw the dirty cloth to the ground. ‘So, you were looking for Luke. You two have become friends.’

‘I don’t know what Verity said, but it wasn’t like that.’

‘Wasn’t like what?’

‘It was nothing. Only a kiss.’

‘You kissed Luke?’ His brow contracted.

‘Just a kiss,’ I said.

Reverend Rivers took a step towards me. ‘Listen to me. You will stay away from Luke Glebe.’

‘I thought you wanted me to have friends here.’

‘Not him. Not Luke.’

‘Why?’

He turned from me. His face reflected in the shed window, the jaw clenched, his eyes cold and hard.

I couldn’t see why everyone was so upset about a kiss. In the commune it would have been ignored or perhaps a little joke made. The only advice Lullaby gave me about men was, ‘Don’t love any of them too much.’ Advice she certainly took herself. I wondered if the reverend had loved her. He told me they had once been friends. That’s how Lullaby described these men she occasionally took up with – friends.

When he turned back to me his face was calm, but his voice remained unsteady.

‘Have you done anything else, beyond kissing?’

‘No.’

‘And you came here today to find him?’

‘What have I done that’s so bad? I’m thirteen. Lots of girls have boyfriends.’

‘Yes, girls like Charlotte. You’re far too young. I know your mother wouldn’t approve. And I’ve told you, not with Luke.’

‘You think he’s too good for me?’

Reverend Rivers looked puzzled. ‘It’s nothing to do with his being too good. I’ve always thought well of you, Prosperina, you know that. The point is that Luke may be staying with Verity but I am his godfather, in loco parentis. It’s my job to make sure no harm comes to him. His mother was a good friend of mine. She would never forgive me if anything happened to him.’

‘How could I hurt him? He’s older and stronger than me.’

Reverend Rivers shook his head.

‘A woman can always hurt a man, however young and weak she may be.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Don’t you? No – perhaps not.’ He laughed. ‘Most likely this peculiar feminine cruelty is innate, not learnt.’

Again, my thoughts strayed to Lullaby.

‘Reverend,’ I said, ‘are you in love with my mother – is that what this is about?’

Before the sentence was out, the back of his hand whipped across my cheek. Its force slammed me into the shed, scraping my other cheek before I slid into a heap on the floor.

Reverend Rivers loomed over me. ‘Don’t you ever … don’t you ever …’

My ears were ringing and he sounded far away.

The commotion brought Verity Vane rushing out into the garden. The sight of her forced the reverend to collect himself. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘A misunderstanding.’

Shock blocked out the pain. I put my hand to my face. Blood was seeping from the graze.

Verity must have been in shock too because, despite her dislike, she helped me to my feet and ushered me towards the bungalow.

‘We’ll need to get you cleaned up before you go back to Agatha’s,’ she said.

My ears continued ringing.

The reverend followed us to the door. I cowered behind Verity. No one had ever hit me before.

‘Spare the rod and spoil the child,’ the Gossdale vicar had once lectured Fletcher, in a vain attempt to reach out to the commune and bring them into the local Christian community. He had been a fussy old man with an apple-cheeked wife, adult children and numerous grandchildren, all of whom lived within a few miles of the Gossdale Valley. The sort of vicar I imagined hit children, not Reverend Rivers.

I struggled not to cry.

‘I thought you were my friend,’ I said to him.

‘I am your friend,’ he said.

The look on his face frightened me more than his fists, a strange contortion of conflicting emotion.

‘I’m g-g-going home.’

‘You really need to be cleaned up first,’ Verity said.

‘Let her go,’ the reverend said.

Verity hesitated.

‘The girl needs to get home now,’ he said.

She stood aside and I ran.

*

‘What on earth happened to your face?’ Aunt Agatha asked the moment I walked through the door.

I couldn’t hide my cheeks, one bruised, the other grazed. The tears filling my eyes had yet to fall and I wiped them away before they had the chance.

‘Reverend Rivers knows about Luke.’

‘Ramsay struck you?’

She took my hand from my face and examined the welt.

‘He was really angry,’ I said.

‘So, Verity did tell him.’

‘I thought she had because of something he said. But she hadn’t, and then it was too late.’

This annoyed her more than the reverend’s violence.

‘You need to learn to be cautious, Rina. You can’t afford to make mistakes like that.’

Aunt Agatha turned my head to inspect the other cheek.

‘Wait here,’ she said gruffly.

She returned with a brown bottle and a small tin, which contained a strongly scented, waxy substance.

‘Arnica and lavender balm.’ She placed a blob at the end of her ring finger and dabbed it onto my face. It was cool and soothing. ‘That will bring the bruising down in no time. The calendula ointment will stop the graze getting infected. Go to your room and rest now.’

I took the tin from her and started to climb the stairs.

‘A couple of things, Rina,’ she said when I was halfway up. ‘Firstly, I will personally ensure the reverend never strikes you again. And secondly, you discuss this with no one. Absolutely no one. Understand?’

‘Yes. But what did I do wrong? Why can’t I see Luke?’

‘Ramsay has strange ideas about that lad. And about you, I think. Keep out of his way for a few days. And for the moment, stay away from Luke.’

‘I can’t,’ the words burst out of me.

Aunt Agatha gave a resigned smile.

‘It’s like that, is it? Well, I’ve seen it enough times, even if I’ve never experienced it myself. Don’t worry. I think a friendship with Luke Glebe could be a good thing. It will help us keep an eye on the Vanes. And with the reverend being so fond of him… Only, for the moment, be discreet. Sit tight. Change is coming.’

‘What change?’

‘You’ll find out soon enough. Now, go and rest.’

*

I longed to ask her about the Distaff and the book with my name in it. Is that why she had lured me to Sorrow Spring? But I knew she would only ever give me vague replies. I had to follow the plan hatched with Luke and find out for myself.

I did as Aunt Agatha suggested and went to my room.

I studied my face in the mirror. The bruises and grazes weren’t pretty but I’d had worse in falls. It was not my injuries that caused me pain, however, but the alteration in Reverend Rivers. I had no uncles and, like Fletcher, he had gone some way to replacing them. He had been kind and understanding, steering me in the right direction without dictating. Now he behaved more like a father or, Lullaby’s greatest fear, a husband, trying to rule over me.

His reaction was confusing. Yes, he wanted Luke to follow him into the Church but how was I an impediment? Could one kiss be so bad? Had the reverend never kissed a woman? I thought of Lullaby again. The suggestion of their love had angered him. Is that why he lived in that great house, all on his own, when everyone agreed he was attractive and could marry anyone he chose?

The sight of his reflection in the shed window, that handsome face twisting to the ugliness of another man, frightened me. Perhaps I should fear this other man. Or Luke should.

Protection

Although I was exhausted by the day, my fatigue could not outweigh my anxiety. The ringing in my ears acted as a constant alarm. And long after the moon rose, I walked up and down my room piecing together what I had learnt.

Like Jimmy and Jacob, Luke had been born in the village, and not by accident. I was sure one of Aunt Agatha’s special tisanes had induced Clara Glebe’s sudden labour. Hadn’t Aunt Agatha complained about the number of children being delivered in hospital? Well, she had a solution for that.

Unlike Jimmy and Jacob, Luke was still in Sorrow Spring. But for how long?

The boys used in the Oblation had to belong to the village and to do that they must be born here, like St Faran.

Luke’s father came from Sorrow Spring. His step-sister, Verity, was a prominent member of the Sistren. He must have known Luke was in danger. That bit didn’t make any sense, except that Luke had told me his father hated him.

Blanche said we still had time. Until the next Oblation, perhaps.

From the window at the end of the landing, I looked across to the bungalow. It was gone eleven and Luke’s bedroom light had yet to come on. Was he with Joy? The thought maddened me, even if it meant he was safe.

Tomorrow was the earliest I could meet him and there was no guarantee I could get away with Aunt Agatha, the reverend and Verity Vane all watching me.

My face began to throb. The welt was more prominent now and the graze had started to scab. I dabbed the calendula lotion on it, which stung and made my eyes water.

It was then I heard a tinkling at my window.

I froze.

It came again.

I peeled back the curtains. A shower of tiny pebbles plinked against the pane.

Lifting the sash and leaning out, I saw Luke below with another handful of pebbles ready to hurl.

‘Stop,’ I hissed. ‘Aunt Agatha will hear you.’

‘Why didn’t you come to the Bomb Drop today? Come down,’ he said.

By now I knew which stairs creaked and which to avoid, and I descended silently, ran out the back and flung my arms around his neck.

‘You’re safe.’

He detached himself from my grip, looking confused and amused.

‘Of course I’m safe,’ he said.

‘I spoke to Blanche. Luke, you’re in danger.’

‘What exactly do you think is going to happen to me?’

‘The same as what happened to Peter. Tell me – did Verity or someone in the village ever give your dad money?’

‘Aunt Verity’s husband was a major investor in his business. Why?’

‘I think you were part of the deal. My mum traded me too.’

‘That’s insane,’ he said.

‘You were born in the village. We know that’s important to them.’

‘I was here for five minutes before they took me to hospital.’

‘My brother was born here too. Lullaby was always worried about him. She wouldn’t let him out of her sight or come anywhere near Sorrow Spring. She was frightened for him. You told me your father doesn’t like you. Maybe he can’t afford to like you – he doesn’t want to get attached.’

Luke stood silent for some moments, taking in my words.

‘We have to go to the police,’ he said. ‘Get this whole business with Peter cleared up. That will settle everything.’

‘It’s too dangerous, Luke. Blanche said even Aunt Agatha’s protection wouldn’t help me if I did anything like that.’

‘How would they know it was us?’

‘Nothing happens in this village without Reverend Rivers finding out. Someone’s bound to tell him if I’m spotted at the phone box.’

‘I can do it,’ Luke said. ‘I call my aunt in London every couple of weeks. Aunt Verity doesn’t let me use her phone for long distance calls.’

‘They will find out. I know they will.’

‘I think Blanche has got it wrong. The stuff she’s saying – it’s mental. And she’s an alcoholic, confused all the time. We’ll find Peter and everything will be fine.’ He tried to look unconcerned, but I could tell he was scared. ‘And if it turns out something has happened, then I’ll figure out what to do.’

‘We’ll have to leave. Before St Faran’s Feast next year.’

‘We?’

‘I have somewhere to go. Fletcher’s rebuilding the commune. Even if they came looking for us, there’ll be a thousand places to hide. We’d be safe there.’

‘When you say it, it sounds real,’ Luke said. ‘But when I go over it in my head, it’s crazy. I think we should wait and see what the police say. I’ll call them next time I ring my aunt. Then we’ll know for sure.’

‘It’s dangerous, Luke.’

I leant forwards and touched his arm. In doing so, I moved into the moonlight. Luke’s face clouded.

‘What happened to your cheeks?’ he asked.

‘That’s the other thing I have to tell you. Reverend Rivers knows what happened at the Bomb Drop. I’ve never seen anyone so angry.’

‘He hit you?’

‘It doesn’t hurt.’ I wanted to appear brave.

Luke took my chin in his hands and examined my injuries.

‘I’ll get the bastard for that,’ he said. ‘And if what you say is true, he must be up to his neck in this. Why else would he lie about taking Peter to his grandmother’s?’ He kissed my forehead. ‘I’ll go now. I don’t want to be missed. I’ll leave a note under a stone in the Bomb Drop if I can’t get back to you.’

‘Can’t you stay?’ I said.

‘I need to go and think.’

And in a moment, he was gone and lost in the darkness.

*

When I returned to my room, a slender figure was sitting on my bed. Dressed only in a cotton nightie and clutching Harold by the ear, Charlotte looked vague and dazed.

‘Was that the reverend’s boy?’ she asked.

‘Luke’s his godson. Don’t tell anyone, Charlotte. I’ll get into trouble.’

She stood up, came close to me and gripped my shoulder with her free hand.

‘Don’t trust him,’ she said ‘He’s a liar. Like his father.’

She couldn’t have been fully awake, or perhaps one of Aunt Agatha’s draughts had left her woozy because she didn’t know what she was saying. It was doubtful she’d ever met David Glebe.

I led her back to her own room, tucked Harold under her chin and sat holding her hand until she fell back to sleep.

Shame

The next two days were torture. Aunt Agatha’s eye was on me constantly and I had no opportunity to go to the Bomb Drop to find or leave a message. I don’t know if she caught wind of my night-time jaunt downstairs, but she had taken to hiding the key for both the front and back doors.

Charlotte said nothing about Luke’s visit. She seemed to have forgotten it herself and remained silent and sullen. I dismissed her warning. She imagined Luke to be like Jacob’s father, the man who had abandoned her.

Luke was different.

On the third morning we sat in the kitchen eating breakfast in silence; Charlotte taking tiny mouthfuls of toast and Aunt Agatha little more. My tiredness had left me hungry, and I cleared my own plate and the scraps from theirs.

Afterwards Charlotte went upstairs and Aunt Agatha to the sitting room. I was left with the washing up and was halfway through when Verity Vane came to the back door. She entered without knocking, as was her habit.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

‘I live here, remember?’

‘How could I forget? I need to see Agatha on urgent business.’

She pushed past me and was about to go into the sitting room when the doorbell clanged. She hurried back to the kitchen and positioned herself out of view from the hallway. Aunt Agatha came out and opened the front door. I expected to see Reverend Rivers, but it turned out to be another man dressed all in black – a police officer.

‘Constable Evans, come in,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘May I offer you a cup of tea?’

‘No, thank you, Miss Pine. If I could just have a word.’

Aunt Agatha led him to the sitting room.

With Verity next to me, I was careful to show no reaction even though my stomach was churning.

‘Do you have something to do with this?’ she asked.

‘With what?’ I said.

‘Don’t take that tone with me, young lady.’

‘Fine. I’ll go upstairs.’

She grabbed my arm, her knobbly fingers digging into me as they had done at the Moot Hall. This time I wrenched it free.

She gave a sneering laugh. ‘That bruise on your face has nearly gone, and the lesson you should have learnt with it. Is this your idea of revenge?’

‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’

‘Who have you been talking to?’

‘No one.’

‘You must have spoken to someone.’

‘I’ve not left the house for days. You can ask Aunt Agatha.’

She squinted at me, unsure what to believe.

‘I came to warn Agatha about that policeman. He’s just been around to mine asking all sorts of impertinent questions about Peter – wanting to see his room.’

‘If you’ve nothing to hide, you’ve nothing to worry about.’

She eyed me slowly. ‘Facts can be twisted. Sometimes by mistake. Sometimes through mischief.’ She stepped closer and jabbed a finger in my face. ‘If I find out—’

At that moment, the sitting-room door swung open and the policeman stepped into the hall, followed by Aunt Agatha.

Verity dropped her finger and ducked back out of view.

‘Of course,’ Aunt Agatha was saying.‘Come here, Rina. Constable Evans wishes to talk with you.’

‘Keep your mouth shut,’ Verity hissed in my ear.

I walked towards the constable. He was young and appeared more nervous than I was.

‘Now, miss, someone told me you were friends with Peter Marshall.’

Luke.

I glanced at Aunt Agatha.

‘I’m not sure who you mean,’ I said.

‘I understand you met him once at one of your aunt’s meetings.’

‘That Peter. I didn’t recognise the surname.’

I was lucky the constable was young and inexperienced because I was a poor liar.

‘We’ve heard that Peter’s gone away and no one knows where. Did he ever say anything to you?’

‘He said he wanted to go back to his nana’s.’

‘His nana’s not his mother’s?’

‘That’s right,’ I said.

‘On his mother’s or father’s side.’

‘He didn’t say.’

The constable scribbled something in his notebook.

‘Hmm. We’ve reason to be concerned about Peter. Can you tell me anything that might help us track down exactly where he is?’

‘I haven’t seen him since …’ St Faran’s Spring, the circle, the axe. ‘For ages.’

‘I see. We do need to locate him as soon as possible. Can you think of anything else – anything at all?’

Aunt Agatha watched me with cold detachment. Did she know the truth?

‘Nothing,’ I said.

‘Very well. But if you do remember anything, ask your aunt to contact us.’ He turned to Aunt Agatha. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Pine. The chief constable sends his regards.’

‘I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding,’ she said. Her voice was light and cheery.

‘I’m sure you’re right, Miss Pine.’

Verity came out from the kitchen the second the door closed. Aunt Agatha was still standing in the hall, looking grave.

‘Who’s been talking, Agatha? We need to find out,’ Verity said. Then staring at me. ‘I can take a good guess.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Rina’s not left the house for days and I keep the phone locked in the study.’

‘Told you,’ I said.

‘Hold your tongue,’ Verity snapped.

‘It can’t have been Rina, Verity. Be reasonable.’

‘Who then? Luke?’ Verity said.

‘He’s under your roof. Aren’t you responsible for him?’

‘That one? He comes and goes as he pleases, and he’s been asking all sorts of odd questions. The reverend told me the same thing. No doubt your niece has been putting ideas into his head.’

‘You’ve become fixated on Rina, Verity. Follow the facts. What makes you think it’s Luke Glebe?’

‘He doesn’t understand our ways. And, as I’ve said, he’s been asking questions.’

‘But he doesn’t know Peter. Why would he care?’ Aunt Agatha asked.

‘But he does know him. They’re distant cousins and he came round to visit him a few times. And Luke has nothing to do here. The Devil will make work for idle hands. He fancies himself as a detective. And someone’s most likely been encouraging him.’

‘That’s hardly proof.’

‘He uses the phone box in the village to call his aunt in London. The last time was Saturday and two days later the police turn up.’

‘If he did do it …’Aunt Agatha looked at me. ‘We should talk in private, Verity.’

What was Aunt Agatha going to say? If they knew it was Luke, what would the Sistren’s retribution be? In a few moments’ time Aunt Agatha would be alone in a room with Verity Vane deciding his fate.

‘Blanche told them,’ I blurted out.

They both turned to me.

‘It wasn’t Luke,’ I said. ‘It was Blanche.’

‘How do you know that?’ Aunt Agatha asked.

‘When I went to Fox Cottage, I asked if she knew where Peter was. She started crying – kept saying it wasn’t right, it had gone on for too long and how she was going to fix it. I didn’t know what she meant at the time. But you see, it definitely wasn’t Luke.’

‘Joy and Hope did mention your visit,’ Verity said.

‘Are you spying on me?’ I asked.

‘It’s a small village.’

Aunt Agatha didn’t believe her any more than I did. However, Blanche was of more concern.

‘Are you sure, Rina?’ she asked. ‘Are you absolutely certain?’

I caught myself in the hall mirror. Its glaze was aged and my image distorted: eyes black and hollow, attenuated limbs. I liked Blanche, she had been kind to me, but I couldn’t risk any harm coming to Luke. Besides, I reasoned, being thrown out of the Sistren might do her a favour, set her free to go travelling as she’d always wanted.

‘She said she wasn’t sure whether to phone 999 or the local station,’ I said.

‘You should have come straight to me,’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘I was going to tell the reverend but he was too angry about the other thing.’

Aunt Agatha looked at Verity.

‘You can go to your room now, Rina,’ she said. ‘Verity, we must call a meeting of the Sistren.’

*

Up in my bedroom, I went and looked in the mirror over the sink. It was not old like the one in the hall but reflected a clear and true image. My cheeks were beginning to lose some of their childish roundness. And despite my athletic build and colouring, my face was becoming that of a Pine. It was not, however, my mother whom I started to resemble but Aunt Agatha.

Blanche

The first consequence of my lie was Charlotte leaving early. She was supposed to go to London the following week, but her departure was brought forward to the Saturday. On the nights prior to her departure, no sound came from her room. She ceased wandering aimlessly and calling for Jacob. When the day came, she remained dry-eyed and said very little as she packed up her small case and drove off with Reverend Rivers.

I gifted her Harold as a companion.

Although she had been barely a presence in the house, I missed her. There was something comforting in having another person padding to and fro across the floorboards. I felt less alone – and less guilty. Aunt Agatha pottering about was not enough to silence my nagging conscience.

I had betrayed Blanche.

*

Aunt Agatha’s constant surveillance made communication with Luke impossible. Church on Sunday was my only outing. A subdued Mr Wilson had taken the service once again as Reverend Rivers was helping Charlotte settle in London.

By the following Sunday, my face was fully healed. We didn’t attend church but Aunt Agatha informed me that the reverend had invited us for dinner that evening.

*

I had passed the Vicarage before but never been inside. It stood at the edge of the village, some distance from the church. High conifer hedges surrounded the grounds, which included two large patios, a summerhouse and a croquet lawn. A Victorian house, it was large and rectangular, evidently built for a married man with servants and numerous children, not a bachelor of modest habits.

Even though I hadn’t expected to see Luke, I was still disappointed when Verity Vane told me with some satisfaction, ‘Luke’s gone to his aunt in London for a few days.’

Unconsciously, I looked at the reverend and brought the back of my hand to my cheek to soothe the now vanished bruise.

He turned away and began welcoming the other guests: Ms Lowther, Ms Fisk, Mrs Cox and the annoying Yorkie. Blanche was the only one I was pleased to see. Especially if it meant the Sistren had forgiven her. If, on the other hand, it meant they disbelieved my accusations, Luke’s trip to London was ominous. The explanation that he had gone to his aunt’s was too reminiscent of Peter’s sudden removal to his grandmother’s.

I was desperate to ask Aunt Agatha but she had been so severe and withdrawn over the past week, I wouldn’t have dared even if we had been alone.

Reverend Rivers led us to the drawing room, which had large windows overlooking one of the lawns. Aunt Agatha insisted that Blanche have the leather armchair with the view, taking in both the garden and hills beyond.

Mrs Cox and Ms Fisk looked at each other in confusion. Usually, Blanche came last and least. Perhaps the Sistren were using a carrot rather than a stick in dealing with her, not knowing their efforts were wasted. Blanche was innocent.

‘You’re looking a little drawn, dear,’ Aunt Agatha said to her. ‘You’re not coming down with anything, are you?’

‘I’ve not been sleeping well,’ she said. ‘I’ve so much on my mind.’

‘Perhaps a drink will calm your nerves,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘Sherry?’

A quick glance passed between her and Verity, who went to the drinks cabinet and returned with a small glass of greenish yellow liquid.

An uncomfortable silence settled upon the room.

Ms Lowther cleared her throat.

‘I must say how kind the reverend is, inviting us to dinner,’ she said. ‘Jane has twisted her wrist and I’m hopeless in the kitchen.’

‘In the normal way of things, it would be the parishioners inviting the reverend to dinner,’ Mrs Cox said. ‘What with him being a bachelor.’

‘He’s one of those men who prefers his own company,’ Verity said.

Was it my imagination or did Aunt Agatha arch an eyebrow at this assertion?

‘Some men are like that,’ Mrs Cox said. ‘But it would be so pleasing to have a Mrs Rivers, don’t you think? A vicar’s wife makes such a difference to a village. Though I’m not sure who would be right for our reverend. He’s very handsome and must have had plenty of women chasing him in his younger days. Even now, what is he – forty, forty-five? It’s no age for a man. We can still hope for a Mrs Rivers.’

‘The very last thing I would want is a Mrs Rivers,’ Verity Vane said.

‘His marital status is no concern of ours. We’re lucky to have him and not one of these so-called modernisers,’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘Oh, certainly,’ Mrs Cox said. ‘Just atheists by another name. My cousin, Eleanor, told me their vicar supports the ordination of women. A woman priest, presiding over marriages and christenings – can you imagine?’

‘Which parish is this? The man should be defrocked,’ Verity Vane said.

‘Is it such a terrible idea?’ Ms Lowther asked.

Mrs Cox and Verity looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.

‘You cannot be serious, Martha?’ Mrs Cox said.

‘I’m completely serious,’ Ms Lowther said. ‘Is our only role in church to arrange the flowers and make jam to raise money for missing roof slates?’

‘Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under obedience, as also saith the law. Corinthians,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘Leave the priesthood to the men.’

‘And where does that leave us?’ Ms Lowther said.

‘I ask you, Martha, what has the Church done for this village compared to what we have done for it? I for one am quite happy for men to take the lead in all public forums. But in private – that is a different matter. Remember 1919.’

‘The Sistren will never forget 1919,’ Ms Lowther said.

‘Many of our problems today stem from that unhappy experiment. Let us keep to our roles,’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘What happened in 1919?’ I asked.

The room fell silent. Fearful glances passed amongst the ladies and then rested on Aunt Agatha. She stared in front of her at the empty fireplace.

Ms Lowther cleared her throat.

‘You see, the men—’

Aunt Agatha cut her short. ‘It’s not something we choose to talk about,’ she said, and turned to the others. ‘You must excuse Rina. My sister never taught her to hold her tongue.’

Verity Vane smiled as if to say, ‘I told you so.’

‘The faults of the past will not be repeated,’ Aunt Agatha continued. ‘And the good thing is that soon we may not need men as we have in the past. You’ve all seen the case of this test-tube baby, I take it?’

‘Most unnatural,’ Verity Vane said.

‘So are aeroplanes and antibiotics,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘The Sistren have never been an enemy of progress, where it serves our purpose.’

‘But we know nothing about these babies,’ Verity Vane said. ‘How will they turn out? They may be damaged in some way. What if they’re born without a soul?’

‘What nonsense,’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘What does the reverend think?’ Verity asked.

‘What do I think about what?’ Reverend Rivers was coming in with a tray of home-made lemonade. He looked overheated from the kitchen and had a tea towel slung over his shoulder. Whether the subject of procreation was too indelicate for ladies to discuss in front of a man of God or perhaps for other reasons, Aunt Agatha changed the subject.

‘A female prime minister? Many are saying we’ll have one this time next year,’ Aunt Agatha said quickly. ‘Do you think it’s acceptable?’

The reverend put down the tray.

‘We have a queen on the throne, indeed some of our greatest monarchs were queens, not kings. Why not a woman prime minister?’

‘My thoughts exactly,’ Ms Lowther said.

Aunt Agatha pursed her lips. Her views on men were contradictory. On one hand, they were lustful, unclean and never to be trusted. On the other, they were to be deferred to and respected. Women in a ‘man’s’ role – lady doctors and lady lawyers – ran against the natural order. A Conservative through habit, rather than any particular political conviction, the prospect of Margaret Thatcher as leader of the country presented a dilemma as two forces of tradition pulled her in opposite directions.

The reverend seemed unaware that he had displeased her and placed the tray on the side table.

‘Can I leave you to pour, ladies? Prosperina, help me with the vegetables, if you will?’

I would rather have stayed in the drawing room, but the reverend ‘if you will,’ had been a command, not a question.

*

In the kitchen the smell of thick meat juices was rising from the oven and a plum crumble waited on the side. My mouth watered in appreciation.

The reverend reached for an apron and went to loop it over my head. I flinched at his approach.

‘As you please,’ he said.

He handed it to me and I put it on and secured the ties myself.

‘The potatoes need peeling. The knife’s next to the chopping board,’ he said. ‘Now, I think we need a little chat.’

I took the knife and turned the handle over in my palm.

‘I owe you an apology,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have struck you.’

I said nothing.

‘I’d like us to be friends again, Rina.’

‘I was never not your friend,’ I said.

‘I’m glad to hear it. But I must explain. I promised Luke’s mother I’d take care of him. His father also expects that. It’s unfortunate that our hearts, especially when they are young, can lead us in the wrong direction.’

I thought of his reaction to my suggestion he was in love with Lullaby. Had she been his wrong direction? I was too scared to mention her name, so picked up a potato and checked it for flaws.

‘At your age it’s far better to have friends of your own sex,’ he said.

‘I don’t like Joy and Hope,’ I said. ‘And they don’t like me.’

‘You’ll start school soon. There you’ll meet other girls.’

‘I suppose so,’ I said, knowing none of them could replace Luke.

‘The other thing I must ask is that you stop harping on about Peter. It’s upsetting a lot of people. I’m disappointed you don’t trust me. I told you, I took him to his grandmother’s. Peter is safe and well. All this fuss you’ve stirred up with Blanche is unpleasant and, more to the point, it’s dangerous having police time wasted in this manner.’

So they were blaming Blanche. I breathed a sigh of relief for Luke.

‘The police went to the trouble of going to his grandmother’s house and taking a picture,’ he continued. ‘As if they haven’t got better things to do. How would you feel if a murderer escaped because you sent the police on this wild-goose chase?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘You should be.’

‘Will Blanche get into trouble for ringing the police?’

The reverend flung the tea towel down in exasperation.

‘The Sistren aren’t the Mafia, Prosperina. I’m sure she’ll receive a strict talking to. It won’t be her first and it won’t be her last. Intemperance will do for Blanche before anyone else steps in.’ He looked at me. ‘You’ve not started on those potatoes, yet you told me you helped in the kitchen at that commune of yours.’

I began peeling. His words allayed my fears. The police had proof; they had visited Peter. Blanche would not be punished. The only problem was his ban on my friendship with Luke. I counted on his vigilance soon slipping and my being able to sneak away and see him again.

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘I’d rather you asked me than your aunt or Blanche.’

‘What happened in 1919?’

The reverend was in the process of removing the joint from the oven in order to baste it.

‘I’ve no idea,’ he said. ‘Really, Rina, how old do you think I am? That was decades before I was even born.’

He poured the dark, oily juices over the meat.

‘In my experience, the past is best left alone. How are those potatoes coming along?’

*

Dinner was a strange affair. Aunt Agatha busied herself attending to Blanche as if she were both an invalid and a guest of honour. She chose the exact slice of lamb Blanche preferred, from the end and singed on the outside, and gave her first servings of the vegetables. For pudding she received the largest portion of the rather small crumble, and had it served with the skin off the custard, which was her particular favourite. Throughout the meal, her glass was discreetly kept full. Of all this, Blanche remained unaware. She seemed half in a dream. The other ladies watched Aunt Agatha’s fussing, baffled. A strained atmosphere hovered about the table and it was left to Verity Vane and the reverend to carry the conversation. He was asking Verity about her stepbrother’s time spent in the Middle East, which interested me because this was Luke’s father.

‘It was positively cruel for David to keep his wife out there with him. Clara detested the place. Clara was my step-sister-in-law,’ Verity said, turning to Mrs Cox. ‘The one who died. A nice enough girl, but from London, you know, used to theatres and restaurants and such like – totally incapable of entertaining herself. She couldn’t knit or do anything useful like that. She read a lot, but I understand English books were hard to come by out there. The reverend was kind enough to send her some. Do you remember?’

Reverend Rivers looked disconcerted for a moment.

‘The books were for both Clara and David,’ he said.

‘Yes, yes, indeed,’ Verity said. ‘And you were so very good with her when she came to Sorrow Spring.’

‘What is the role of a priest, if not to offer succour? She was a troubled young woman.’

There was an awkward pause before the reverend changed the subject.

‘And have you heard any news about Mrs Reed?’

‘She’s settled into the home very well. Not causing any bother. All’s under control,’ Verity said.

Aunt Agatha raised her head at this remark.

‘You can be certain, Reverend. Mrs Reed is in the best hands.’

*

We returned to the drawing room for coffee and mints, where, at Aunt Agatha’s instigation, the reverend played some jazz records. Blanche immediately livened up and even induced him to dance for one number. Verity Vane looked as if a bad smell had entered the room.

After the dance Blanche soon tired and Aunt Agatha led her back to the leather armchair with yet another glass of sherry.

‘Perhaps it’s time we took Blanche home,’ Verity Vane said.

‘That seems wise,’ the reverend said.

He accompanied us to the door and waved us off.

‘And you must come and see me again soon, Rina.’

*

‘Do you think Blanche had a good evening?’ Aunt Agatha asked once we were back inside Laburnum Lodge.

‘She liked you making a fuss of her,’ I said.

‘Do you think so?’ Aunt Agatha looked pleased.

‘But why did you give her sherry? She’s not supposed to drink.’

‘Blanche needs a little extra help these days. If we give her a sherry with dinner, she’s less likely to drink at home.’

I thought this improbable.

‘So you’ve forgiven her?’ I asked.

‘Blanche made a mistake. We all do that sometimes,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘But as the police have confirmed Peter’s whereabouts, there’s no harm done.’

*

That night I watched from my bedroom window as Aunt Agatha went out into the garden. Beneath the dark sky of a new moon, she carried a torch, gloves and secateurs to the greenhouse beyond the side wall.

Devil’s Bread

Two days after the meal at the Vicarage, and the day after Aunt Agatha had visited Blanche for afternoon tea, I was summoned to the sitting room. Reverend Rivers had joined Aunt Agatha on the settee. Both appeared grave.

‘I’ve some distressing news for you, Rina,’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘Has something happened to Lullaby?’

‘No, Rina. It’s Blanche.’

She looked towards the reverend.

‘This is going to be difficult for you to hear, Rina,’ he said. ‘The milkman noticed Blanche hadn’t taken in her bottle from the day before. He knocked. When no one came to the door, he looked through the letterbox. Blanche was lying on the hall floor.’

‘What happened – is she going to be OK?’

‘She’d been lying there for many hours,’ the reverend said. ‘It seems she’d had some sort of seizure. There was nothing the doctors could do. I’m very sorry. I know she was your friend.’

Yes, she had been my friend, but I had not been hers.

I sat down on the nearest chair.

Blanche, dead.

‘And to think, I was in Fox Cottage only the day before, drinking tea with her,’ Aunt Agatha said.

Now I understood the reverend invitation to the Vicarage and the fuss made of Blanche: the jazz, the sherry, the dancing. It had been a loving goodbye, a final party, the perfect send-off.

‘What killed her?’ I asked.

‘A heart attack,’ Reverend Rivers said. ‘Hardly surprising with her drinking and excess weight. We did try to tell her.’

‘You were giving her sherry on Sunday,’ I said.

‘A small sherry now and then wasn’t Blanche’s problem,’ the reverend said.

I looked at Aunt Agatha.

Maude Barrowcroft had conveniently fallen down the stairs when she laid down conditions on her purchase of the land around St Faran’s Spring.

The loose-tongued Mrs Reed was sent to a far-off retirement home to be sedated and disbelieved.

Emily Frain supposedly hanged herself in Lapmore Wood.

And now Blanche had died of a heart attack. Blanche, who Aunt Agatha admitted had done no harm.

She and the reverend were watching me carefully. I knew I could not let them know of my suspicions.

‘Poor Blanche,’ I said, and let genuine tears run down my face. ‘How could this have happened to Blanche?’

*

Later, I sneaked out and went to the greenhouse behind the wall, where I had seen Aunt Agatha on Sunday. A place she had told me was strictly off limits. I was careful not to touch a single leaf. I examined the plants gathered there; some with pale and spikey leaves, others thick and rubbery. One very pretty plant had fernlike leaves and small white flowers. Many of its stems had been clipped.

I consulted Aunt Agatha’s herbalist manuals. The plant she had harvested the night of Blanche’s farewell party was conium maculatum, also called devil’s bread, also known as hemlock.

Polaroid

The weather remained blisteringly hot in the days following Blanche’s death. Heat alone, however, could not account for Aunt Agatha’s lethargy. She took desultory tours of the garden, clipping random plants and pulling out the odd dandelion. Mostly, though, she stayed in the cool of the sitting room, an open Bible unread on her lap. I took the opportunity to learn more about hemlock. It is a toxic alkaloid, which can induce respiratory failure. If ingested, the contents of the stomach should be emptied immediately. Poor Blanche never stood a chance. She absorbed the poison and twenty- four hours later the doctors declared her dead.

I heard Luke had returned from London, but I had no opportunity of going to find him. Did he know about Blanche? Had we come to the same conclusions?

The following week, Aunt Agatha was forced to leave the confines of Laburnum Lodge. She had to go to Rowlstone to finalise arrangements for Blanche’s funeral and see a solicitor about the will. Apparently, Blanche had left everything to the Sistren.

At eleven o’clock Jed’s car rolled up onto the drive. I hid and waited until Aunt Agatha had got in and they had disappeared from view before making my move.

I flung open the front door, ready to race to the bungalow, only to find a policeman standing on the step, his hand on the bell rope. It was Constable Evans.

‘It’s Rina, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Is your aunt in?’

A stupid question. He’d arrived so quickly after her departure, he must have seen her leave.

‘She’s just gone,’ I said.

He looked over his shoulder before leaning forwards so his face was level with mine. He spoke softly to me, as if I were a much younger child.

‘I came to clear up the misunderstanding about Peter Marshall. I didn’t want there to be any bad feeling, especially as Miss Pine is so respected within the community.’

‘That’s kind, but Reverend Rivers has already told us.’

He nodded and bit his lip.

‘The thing is, as his friend, I thought you might be especially worried about him.’

‘I was, until the reverend explained,’ I said.

Why wouldn’t he just go?

‘As there’s been some questions raised about Peter’s grandmother in the past, I thought I’d double check. A friend of mine works for the Lancashire Constabulary and I asked him. It’s true Peter’s maternal grandmother did die earlier this year. However, he’s with his paternal grandparents. Just to clear up any doubt, my friend took a Polaroid and sent it to me, and the reverend was able to confirm the boy in it was Peter. It shows him happy and in good health.’

What was his point?

‘Thank you. The reverend already told me all of this,’ I said. Constable Evans took a deep breath. ‘I wanted you to see it, Rina.

I know it must be difficult, coming into a village like this. I’m not from these parts so I understand.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Really? Because if you ever have any problems …’ He looked at me, kind and concerned.

‘I’m fine,’ I said.

‘I see.’ He dropped his head. ‘Anyway, I thought you might want the photo of your friend, seeing as it’s no longer of interest to us.’

He handed it to me.

I took it from him, scanned the picture, then put it in my dungarees pocket.

‘Looks like he’s settled in well, doesn’t it?’ the constable said.

‘Yes,’ I said.

Evans stared at me. ‘It must be nice to see him like that.’

‘It is.’

‘I’ll be on my way then.’ He turned, then paused. ‘And you’re sure you’re all right, miss? No one’s pressured you into saying anything, have they?’

‘Heavens, no,’ I said in my best imitation of Aunt Agatha.

‘Because any time you feel … uncomfortable you can come and talk to me.’

‘That’s good of you, Constable, but really I’m fine.’

He hesitated a moment before turning his back on me and striding away.

Constable Evans had meant to be helpful, but I wish he’d never shown me that picture.

The Polaroid had been taken in a modern lounge with textured purple wallpaper, a stereo and a large TV. Peter’s idea of heaven. The grey-haired couple on the sofa next to him looked like the perfect grandparents. She had a soft, kindly face and would knit mittens and bake Peter’s favourite cakes. The old man would take his grandson to watch cricket and entertain him with stories of his wartime exploits. The image clearly stated that nothing would be spared in caring for this boy, who was sitting between them in a new orange T-shirt and smart pressed trousers, with his toothy grin, stubborn cowlick at his temple, shiny glasses and a new wheelchair to one side.

A boy of about fourteen.

A happy boy.

A boy who was not Peter.

Thunder

The weather had changed from the previous days’ dry heat to a sticky, thick humidity. The air pressed at my temples. Malign energy crackled through the trees and hedgerows.

I knew the signs.

We were in for a storm.

The Polaroid weighed heavy in my pocket and my urgency in finding Luke increased.

The bungalow was empty. I headed for the Vicarage, knowing Luke often went there. I took a moment to pause outside Blanche’s cottage. It looked sad; her beautiful flowers already brown and withered. The coming rain would not revive them.

I’m so sorry, Blanche.

Her death had been pointless. The police would never find Peter. I skirted around the Vicarage’s conifer perimeter and saw the drive was empty. Still, I didn’t dare approach via the front, and instead I pushed through the trees, coming around the side of the house. The French windows, facing the lawn, were half open but the curtains were drawn. I jogged over and peered inside. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom and see Luke draped across the sofa, watching cricket on the television, a glass of golden liquid next to him.

I pulled back the curtains. He jumped to his feet and swiped the glass from the table.

‘Christ, Rina. You made me jump. I thought you were the reverend. He’ll go nuts if he catches me at his whisky again.’

Luke’s London aunt must have taken him for a haircut because it was much shorter. I preferred it long, though this style showed his handsome face to greater advantage. Not that I wanted others to see.

‘Where’s the reverend?’

‘He’s getting the car repaired. Why haven’t you come to the Bomb Drop? I left messages.’

‘I haven’t been able to get out of the house.’

‘I heard about Blanche. Was it them?’

Tears sprung to my eyes.

‘I told Aunt Agatha and Verity she was the one who phoned the police. It’s all my fault.’

Luke put his arms around me and I could smell the whisky on his breath.

‘You lied for me,’ he said. ‘I won’t forget that. But you’d better go. The reverend will be back soon and we can’t be seen together. Not now.’

‘Wait. I didn’t come to tell you about Blanche. Well, I did, but there’s something else. A policeman came to the house today.’

I showed him the photograph and explained what had happened.

Luke was silent for a moment before he said, ‘Peter has to be dead, doesn’t he?’

I nodded.

‘What do you think they did with his body?’ he asked. ‘Without that, we have no proof.’

The spring on the edge of the church. A rook perched on a new gravestone above freshly turned earth.

‘Maude Barrowcroft,’ I said.

‘Who?’

‘Jed Barrowcroft’s grandmother. She would only allow the Sistren access to the land on condition that the Vanes became next in line to lead them. She died – fell down the stairs or something. At least that’s what they said. I think Jed killed her for Aunt Agatha. Maude’s buried at St Faran’s. Her funeral was on the day I arrived. Grass and moss had started to grow over it. But when we went there the other day it was bare. The soil was freshly dug.’

‘They put Peter in the same grave?’ Luke said. ‘We have to tell the police.’

‘It’s too dangerous,’ I said. ‘Anyway, Aunt Agatha’s friends with the chief constable. Who’s he going to believe?’

‘We have to do something.’

‘There’s nothing we can do except get out of here before next year’s feast. You’re in danger, Luke.’

‘Me?’

‘Blanche said it was supposed to be you this year but they chose Peter instead. I wasn’t sure what to believe until now. Blanche is dead. Peter is dead. Luke, you have to get out of here.’

‘You’re not serious.’

‘Verity and the reverend will tell everyone you’ve gone back to your father, or you’re staying with your aunt.’

‘The reverend would never do that to me.’

‘A few weeks ago, I’d have told you he’d never hit me.’

‘I still can’t believe he did that. I need to think. St Faran’s Feast isn’t for another year.’

‘I won’t go without you, Luke.’

His fingers touched mine and we stood there a moment. Then jumped apart.

‘Luke.’

It was the reverend’s voice. For some reason he had also chosen to come in via the garden.

Luke and I stared at each other for a moment, then I darted for the door leading into the hall. Luke shut it behind me as the reverend was saying, ‘There’s one paving slab still needs replacing. See – this one next to the rosebush.’

I ran to escape by the front door. It was locked from the inside and I couldn’t see the key.

Then the drawing-room handle started to turn.

‘… parched … need a drink …’

I dived behind the nearest door and peeped through the crack in time to see Reverend Rivers go into the kitchen.

The room I’d ended up in was evidently the study. A half-written sermon and an open Bible lay on the desk. I assessed the window as a means of escape, but stayed listening at the door.

Luke came into the hall. He must have guessed I was trapped and retrieved the key from underneath a vase on the side table and placed it in the lock. At that moment the reverend came back from the kitchen holding two bottles of beer.

‘This heat’s unbearable. I think we could both do with these. Go to the lounge – we need to have a chat – but there’s something I have to fetch from the study first.’

I froze for a second, then jumped into a narrow gap between a filing cabinet and the wall, just as Reverend Rivers entered the room.

He had only to step to his left to see me. I tried to make myself as small as possible. He reached beneath the desk and retrieved a key taped to its underside, which he used to open the middle drawer. Without sitting down, he removed a small green notebook. He spent several moments scanning the pages, before writing something on the last one and replacing it. Then he took out a small envelope and put it in his pocket. After that he leant on the desk supporting himself by his fingertips. He appeared agitated and spent some time taking deep, slow breaths. Once calmer, he left the room.

I should have got out straight away. Curiosity got the better of me. The locked drawer must be investigated.

Notebooks of different sizes were stuffed inside, the green one on top. Next to them was another key, a cheque book and a series of black-and-white photographs of the same child; as a baby, toddler and young boy. It didn’t matter that they were old and monochrome, I would have recognised those eyes anywhere. Why had Reverend Rivers so many pictures of Luke and why keep them locked away?

I opened the green notebook, hoping for a clue.

It was a list of names and dates of birth. Those with ‘M’ next to them, for male, also had a place of residence. Many of the ones with ‘F’, for female, did not.

I flipped through the pages. The recent ones, including the Fs, all had Starshine as the address. I flicked backwards. Some but not all of the boys’ entries had been crossed out. One name I recognised had a black strike through it. Peter Marshall, 8 March 1964, Macclesfield.

The latest entry was Jacob Hobson, 3 August 1978, Starshine.

I went further back. I knew what I was looking for now. Luke Glebe, 11 January 1962. Holding the notebook close, I could see his name had been struck through in pencil, which had subsequently been rubbed out, leaving a mark.

Most of the boys from this section of the book had been crossed out, some in black ink, others in green. The oldest dates listed were in the late fifties. On the very first page was written: Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.

Under the quote was a smudged pencil sketch of a boy kneeling beneath a raised axe, a poor reproduction of the image in the stained- glass window at St Faran’s church.

Was all this the work of Reverend Rivers? I wasn’t familiar with his handwriting. But the notebook was in his drawer and he was consulting it and making additions. How could the kind, understanding Reverend Rivers allow himself to become so deeply involved? Then I remembered the anger that had contorted his face when he hit me. Was that the real Reverend Rivers, and his mild forbearance merely a mask?

I picked up the cheque book. The handwriting that filled out the stubs matched that of the notebook. All the money was being paid to the same organisation, the Starshine Children’s Home. Jacob hadn’t gone to a loving family but an orphanage. Somehow this outraged me more than the fate I knew awaited him. A fate the reverend was helping to orchestrate.

His calm dismissal of the Sistren’s ways, his plausible explanations of their eccentricities was a blind. He must be laughing at Fletcher, at me, at the whole world.

Everything looked different now: his care for Charlotte, his kindness to me, his interest in Luke.

The tall, narrow cupboard in the corner was also locked. Taking the second key from the drawer I opened it, knowing exactly what I would find inside. On a hanger, beneath a loose sheet, swung the blood-red robes of the executioner.

I saw again the reverend’s smile as he told me how foolish I’d been to think the Oblation was a real sacrifice. That smile had been mocking, not kindly as I had thought at the time.

Cold fury replaced my fear. I’d make him pay for this, bring him to justice, whatever it took.

My first instinct was to run back to the lounge, denounce the reverend and leave with Luke. But we had to be cautious and take time to plan our escape. The reverend mustn’t learn what I knew.

Carefully, I replaced the keys, then sneaked out of the front door.

The first drops of rain from the coming storm were starting to fall. I tilted my face to the sky as relief from the heat. I now trusted myself and believed in my plan. By next year, Luke and I would have left Sorrow Spring and we would never come back. We could go to Wroxwood or a new commune, and Lullaby and Emesh would return, as well as my old friends – everything I longed for.

As I stood there dreaming of my future, thunder rumbled in the distance.

Vanity

By the time I returned to Laburnum Lodge, the rain was steady, although the thunder was still far off. The front door lay open and, ahead of me, two women under umbrellas let themselves in without knocking. From their waddling gait, I knew them to be Mrs Cox and Mrs Anthony of the Sistren. Ms Lowther and Ms Fisk hurried in after them. My absence alone would not have brought about this surge in activity.

Something was amiss.

More Sistren women were coming up the hill behind me and I turned the bend in the drive to find several cars parked there. One of them was Jed Barrowcroft’s. The sight of it nearly made me turn back. Only curiosity drove me onwards and I ran the rest of the distance to the house.

Twenty members of the Sistren were crowded into the kitchen. Some had found seats around the table, others stood or leant against the countertops. Every face wore a mask of fear. And the woman addressing them was not Aunt Agatha, but Verity Vane.

She stood with an expression of exhilaration, leaning forwards, her bony knuckles resting on the table.

What could cause so much alarm and bring so many members of the Sistren together in the kitchen of Laburnum Lodge?

‘I did hear something,’ Mrs Cox was saying, feeding a cube of cheese to her Yorkie. ‘But I thought there must be some mistake.’

‘No mistake,’ Verity said. ‘It is what I warned against, though no one would listen. This morning my son phoned me from Birmingham. Some of you may have heard it on the radio. Our worst fears have been realised.’

She paused and closed her eyes. I could not have been the only one to sense that Verity was savouring this moment.

I looked around for Aunt Agatha. Only wisps of grey hair floating from the crown of her head were visible above the shoulders of others, all rigid with anticipation.

‘Plague is upon us,’ Verity said.

The ladies looked to one another.

‘Plague? What plague, Verity?’ asked Mrs Anthony, who had once been a nurse. ‘This is the twentieth century. We have vaccines and antibiotics. Plagues belong to the history books.’

‘I don’t blame Phyllis for her ignorance. She’s only repeating what we’ve all been told. The people we should be able to look up to have become arrogant and turn to science rather than religion for answers,’ Verity said. ‘And this is the result – a woman lies in hospital with a disease we thought had vanished for ever.’

The ladies gasped.

‘The red plague. The speckled monster.’

More gasps. Verity’s eyes widened.

‘Better known to us as smallpox.’

‘Impossible,’ Mrs Cox said.

‘To confirm my son’s story, I asked Jed to bring back the papers from Rowlstone.’ Verity placed a copy of the Birmingham Evening Mail on the table.

Women at the back stood on tiptoe to catch a glimpse.

The headline confirmed her story.

‘Smallpox! It’s true,’ Mrs Anthony said with a mixture of horror and glee.

Her expression mirrored those around her.

‘You’re mistaken.’ Aunt Agatha spoke for the first time. The ladies stood back to clear a space for her. ‘There must be some error. As Phyllis says, it’s been eradicated. Reverend Rivers and I were discussing it not so long back. He showed me a copy of a science magazine. The eradication of smallpox is a modern miracle.’

‘And it never occurred to you that the reverend, or indeed science, could have it wrong? Smallpox has not been eradicated. In the pursuit of knowledge, it was held in a laboratory. It has escaped and now some poor woman is sick and many more will follow. All in the name of science,’ Verity said. ‘This meddling will ruin us all. First that Frankenstein baby, created in a test tube. And now this. Not in some far-flung corner of the globe, but less than thirty miles away.’

‘Thirty miles,’ Ms Fisk echoed.

Aunt Agatha stepped through the throng and picked up the paper. She held it to the light and read the front-page article. Everyone waited. When she finished, she put it slowly and carefully back on the table, as if the pages themselves were infected.

Then she stood in silent contemplation.

‘I’m afraid you must bear some of the responsibility for this,’ Verity said.

‘I?’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘I did warn you. We all did. You took the reverend’s advice when you should have listened to us. Do you think it’s a coincidence this happening so close when it could have been in London or California or Peking? It was your choice of Peter that caused this.’

‘What has Peter got to do with it?’

‘He was born in Rowlstone Hospital. You told us he was born in the village. His mother invented that story of the home birth for the money.’

‘It was you who assured me he was suitable.’

Verity looked affronted. ‘I did no such thing. I expressed my doubts. You rejected other candidates because of your fascination with Reverend Rivers and his affection for Luke. So you lied to us.’

‘You deliberately misinformed me,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know where the boy was born. All that umming and aahing about him. All that glossing over times and dates. Be honest, Verity, you wanted me to fail so you could take over the leadership.’

‘I never wanted you to fail. But for a long time I have feared you would.’ Verity crossed her arms. ‘Your judgement has become clouded, and your honesty … well … I hardly dare use the words. What I will say is that you knew all along Peter wasn’t born in this village. Nothing happens in Sorrow Spring without your knowledge. It’s impossible you were in the dark. You deceived me and the Sistren. And now, when disaster strikes, you act surprised.’

‘I was away trying to persuade Lily to come back. You exploited the situation. You lied and put us all in danger to further your own ambition,’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘Lies all lies.’ Verity turned to the other members present. ‘I told Agatha the path she should take, but she’s half in love with the reverend. Remember how she showed us Peter’s birth certificate. It was doctored.’

‘You doctored it.’

The other ladies looked to one another, unsure whom to believe. ‘The buck stops with you, Agatha,’ Verity said. ‘How could you let a man become so involved? They can take sermons, run businesses and govern the country, but they cannot rule over the Sistren and this village. You of all people should know the fatal consequences – losing your own mother in 1919.’

‘This is a completely different situation,’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘For many years we’ve given you the benefit of the doubt: when you let your sister leave with her boy; when she came back with that little changeling.’ I pressed myself against the wall. ‘When you overrode the wishes of the majority and chose Peter. Well, the chickens have come home to roost. A medieval disease back from the grave, so close to us. And still you won’t accept responsibility.’

‘You cannot believe this,’ Aunt Agatha cried, turning to the other women.

‘You did recommend the boy,’ Ms Fisk said. ‘And let that man – an outsider – have too much say, and his judgement is clouded by his stupid affection for that boy.’

‘I was deceived.’

‘We trusted your judgement and look where it’s led us,’ Ms Lowther said.

‘My stepbrother, David, sent that silly wife of his here to give birth for a reason. And you’re ready to throw away all his forward planning,’ Verity said. ‘But it’s not too late. We can still repair the damage.’

A buzz of excitement ran around the room.

‘How?’ Aunt Agatha asked. ‘It’s another eleven months until the next Oblation.’

‘Under your leadership I’m sure that would be the case,’ Verity said. ‘But I think it’s time you accept you’re no longer fit for the role.’

‘I warned you, Verity.’ Aunt Agatha’s voice was low and harsh.

The Sistren watched in silent anticipation.

Triumph flickered about Verity’s face.

‘You did warn me, yes,’ Verity said. ‘I think you’ll find the arrangement you had with Jed is a transferable one. He’s a very reasonable young man.’

Like Verity, I knew Agatha had an arrangement with Jed. Unlike her, I had no idea what they had agreed. Whatever it was, the mention of it troubled Aunt Agatha and, for the first time, she looked unsure of herself.

Verity raised her arms in a gesture of embrace.

‘We will perform the ceremony again. The correct ceremony. This very night.’

‘That’s not possible,’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘It’s not your decision.’

‘The Sistren has not survived for over six hundred years by allowing itself to be a vehicle for one woman’s vanity. You cannot sweep in here and declare yourself leader.’

‘It’s true,’ Mrs Anthony said.

‘Agatha is still our leader,’ Mrs Cox added.

Ms Lowther stepped forward. ‘But Verity has a point. We have proof with this disease.’

‘We must do nothing in haste,’ Mrs Anthony said. ‘Over six hundred years, Agatha is right.’

Mrs Cox nodded in assent. ‘I, for one, would not see Agatha replaced. True, Verity is one of the Distaff but she is the last of her line. Agatha’s sister and niece are the only others remaining. We cannot alienate them.’

‘But this disease is so close,’ Ms Lowther said. ‘Are we to do nothing?’

‘Any ceremony is invalid without our leader, our true leader. This matter has only just come to our attention. Agatha didn’t have time to think upon it. Now that she has, I’m sure she’ll reconsider.’

Mrs Anthony had once worked as a secretary for the local council and must have picked up some political wiliness. Verity had not foreseen that Aunt Agatha could agree to her demands.

Mrs Cox jumped in upon the possibility.

‘Agatha, I’m sure now the facts are before you, you will do the right thing,’ she said.

Thunder rumbled, a little closer this time.

I saw Aunt Agatha waver a moment before climbing onto the passing life raft.

‘Indeed, the case is new to me. We will make new arrangements for the ceremony immediately.’ And with a twisted smile: ‘I’d like to thank Verity for bringing the unfortunate events to our attention. I do wish you had spoken to me privately first, however.’

Verity’s expression would have curdled milk.

Aunt Agatha’s diffidence vanished. She clutched her pewter ring as she said, ‘Go home, ladies. Rest and prepare for tonight.’

My relief at Aunt Agatha’s reprieve was cut short by the sudden and sick realisation of what had been agreed.

The ceremony was to be that night, with a new sacrifice.

Luke and I didn’t have a year.

Our time had run out.

Thwarted

The ceremony was hours away. I had to get back to the Vicarage and save Luke. We needed to get out of Sorrow Spring now – go to Wroxwood, to Luke’s aunt in London, anywhere but here.

The Sistren were too intent on their business to notice me, the ladies chattering as Aunt Agatha tried to restore order. I ducked out of the kitchen into the hall. I took four backward paces then swivelled round.

Two hands were waiting for me. They grasped my shoulders, the fingers pressing deep into my flesh.

I’d forgotten the car on the drive.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Jed asked.

He pushed his face an inch from mine, his stale tobacco breath forced its way up my nostrils. I twisted from his grasp and tried to dart past him. He was too quick. In one movement he grabbed my arm and wrenched it behind my back. My skin burnt beneath his grip. His other hand crept across my throat, the fingers pressing and probing.

I wriggled and uselessly kicked at his shins with my heels.

‘I like it when they fight,’ he rasped in my ear.

Then his hand moved from my neck and down below the fabric of my T-shirt. He squeezed my breast hard then plucked at the nipple. I screeched in pain. The hot hiss of his laugh bore into my neck.

Aunt Agatha came out of the kitchen, followed by Verity Vane.

Jed snatched his hand back from under my T-shirt and moved it onto my shoulder.

‘She heard everything,’ Jed said. ‘Off to warn that lad, I reckon.’

The rest of the Sistren gathered behind Aunt Agatha and Verity.

‘He’s hurting me,’ I cried.

‘You should have kept to your room, Rina,’ Aunt Agatha said.

Verity looked on, sneering and contemptuous. ‘You expect that girl to do anything she’s asked? What are you going to do with her? You call her one of the Distaff and yet she’s about to betray her own flesh and blood.’

‘You’re not my flesh and blood.’ I spat the words at her.

Jed gave my arm another twist. I squealed. Verity laughed.

‘We Sistren are all descendants of Osana,’ she said. ‘Though it gives me little pleasure to know I share her blood with you. Agatha, you know what we have to do.’

I tried to wriggle free again, but Jed’s grip only tightened, and his breath came faster against my neck.

The Sistren moved closer.

‘Please, Aunt,’ I said.

‘Be quiet, Rina,’ Aunt Agatha said.

Mrs Anthony came and stood behind her. ‘She’ll ruin us. She’ll ruin everything.’

‘Exactly,’ Verity said. ‘We cannot tolerate betrayal. Not now, with this disease at our doorstep.’

Aunt Agatha stood still and silent. The arrhythmic tick of the grandfather clock filled the hall. Verity watched her, the tip of her tongue resting on her lower lip.

‘Take Rina upstairs, Jed,’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘But, Agatha—’ Verity was saying.

‘I’ll deal with this.’

Aunt Agatha went to the hall cupboard and removed a bunch of keys.

‘Jed,’ she said sharply.

He yanked my wrist. I gasped in pain. Aunt Agatha shivered but she would not look at me.

Jed hauled me up the stairs. Aunt Agatha followed him.

‘Please, Aunt, no,’ I said.

‘That’s it?’ I heard Verity say below.

Jed flung me into my room. I fell and smacked my head on the floor. The door slammed. I sat up in time to see the lock turn against me.

I ran to the door and banged the flat of my hand against it.

‘Aunt Agatha,’ I shouted, though I knew it was futile. ‘Aunt,’ I called again, and finally, ‘Luke.’

Cruelty

The rain was coming down harder, lashing the windowpanes, and the foundations of Laburnum Lodge trembled under the approaching thunder.

I searched for an escape. The house had been built on a grand scale and the drop from the window would break my ankle, even if the Sistren didn’t spot me plummeting past.

The vegetable knife from my hitchhiking adventure was still hidden in my canvas bag. I took it out and considered using it to prise open the door but that would be noisy and I would have to wait until the house was empty.

I paced the room, unsure what to do.

Why had Luke and I waited?

The sound of chatter faded from the kitchen. I heard footsteps on the hall tiles and the spluttering of ancient car ignitions. Other voices were still audible, although softer. They must have moved to the sitting room. Again, I assessed the drop to the ground from the window. Could I climb down? No – the knife and the lock were my best option.

As the rain drove down, the early evening darkened to resemble night.

The bedroom door lock started to turn. I hid the knife under my pillow just before Aunt Agatha entered, carrying a tray with a mug of cocoa.

Jed shut the door behind her.

She came and sat on the bed next to me.

‘If only Lily had brought you here when you were younger,’ she said.

‘If she had, would Peter still be alive?’ I asked.

She looked at me with tired eyes.

‘You think I’m cruel and unfeeling, Rina. You’re wrong. The pain becomes more acute with each passing year. If you had been brought up here, you would understand what we do and why we do it. City folk eat their roast dinners without ever thinking of the pig or lamb taken to the abattoir. It doesn’t change the fact that to feed them the creature must be slaughtered. We cannot exist without cruelty.’

‘Peter never harmed anyone,’ I said. ‘And neither has Jacob. You lied about sending him to live with a family. He’s gone to a government home. No one will love him and then he’ll be brought back here.’

Aunt Agatha brushed her fingertips across the bedspread.

‘Have you ever seen smallpox, Rina?’ she asked. ‘I have, just after the war. Returning troops brought it back with them. I was working in Rowlstone at the time. It is ugly, cruel and utterly without mercy. St Faran’s waters protected me. Others were not so lucky. Five people died. You’re right when you say Peter and Jacob never harmed anyone. No more than a lamb harms those who carve its flesh on Easter Sunday. Some things must be done, however distasteful. Peter, who no one wanted or loved, whose life served no purpose, has done wonderful and miraculous things for everyone in this village. He has saved them. Or at least he should have done. Verity lied to us.’

‘None of it’s real.’

‘In the fourteenth century whole villages were wiped out,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘At least three surrounding Sorrow Spring disappeared. Countless Peters and others died horrible, painful deaths. And there have been other plagues since: diphtheria, cholera, typhoid. Diseases so easily forgotten in the modern age. But Pestilence is one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. He may rest, but he will always return.’

‘It’s just a custom. Fletcher told me, like maypoles and well dressings.’

‘Do you know what happened when we let men like your Fletcher interfere – telling us it was all an evil superstition? The Oblation ceased just before the outbreak of the Great War. Then, in 1919, Spanish flu came and killed millions. If we’d kept to our beliefs, we would have been safe. Instead, thirty villagers died, including my mother. I was very young; I hardly remember her. They told me she’d never had a day’s sickness in her life before that. It cannot happen again, Rina. Only the Sistren, with one of the Distaff at its head, can keep us safe as it has for century upon century.’

Her eyes brightened and her breath quickened. For the first time I glimpsed the absolute mania that possessed her.

‘We cannot rest. The ritual renews the spring and its protection. The Sistren exist to ensure the continuance of the ritual. From century to century the burden has been passed down through Osana’s line, from mother to daughter. Each year a boy born in the village, like Faran, must be slain to replenish the potency of the spring’s waters and for the village to be preserved from plague. It used to be done by lottery, you know. They’d bring boys between the ages of seven and seventeen to the green that now forms part of the recreation ground. The one who pulled the short straw became Faran for the purposes of the ceremony. But you can imagine how painful that was with a child whom the entire village had got to know. So later the tradition changed and women, usually unmarried, were brought here to give birth. Their children were sent out to work on nearby farms. The boys were brought back when the time came. That worked for many years, but recently so little shame is attached to illegitimacy that these silly girls started trying to trace their sons. Girls like Emily Frain. The woman Peter called his mother was paid to take care of him, and even that’s had repercussions. It was the reverend who suggested we send them to a children’s home. So many boys run away from those places, no one notices if they never turn up again.’

‘But it doesn’t work. The disease has come back,’ I said.

‘Peter wasn’t born in the village. Verity Vane tricked us, put us all at risk so that granddaughter of hers will take over as leader one day. Vane – a well-named family.’

‘What happens now, Aunt?’ I raised my eyes to hers, pleading. ‘Can’t you let me go?’

‘Sadly not,’ she said. ‘All the Sistren are descendants of Osana, but not all through the direct female line. Verity Vane and the Pines are the last of the Distaff line and you are the last of the Pines. You’ve brought this on yourself. I did warn you not to get attached to that boy.’

‘Please, Aunt Agatha, no. You can’t,’ I said. ‘I … I … love him.’

She gave an exasperated laugh. ‘You’re too young to understand the word. Besides, it’s not too far off incest.’ She saw the look of horror on my face and, just for a moment, she looked sorry for me. ‘Remember you once said you’d met the reverend before? Can you think of anyone like him?’

‘Luke?’

‘Yes, Luke. But someone else? I thought you might have guessed from your mother’s lazy lie about the optician. Matthew was my fiancé. Lily never married. Ramsay Rivers is Emesh’s father.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘He’s also Luke’s father. Which is why he was so upset about you and Luke. It’s not technically incest, of course. You don’t share a parent. But Ramsay sees it differently. He thinks of you almost as a daughter.’

‘Luke can’t be…’ I began, then stopped.

I could see it now: Luke next to Reverend Rivers, the dark eyes and assured swagger. The reverend’s protectiveness towards Luke. Shakespeare’s book with the inscription from ‘C’ – Clara, Luke’s mother. And then there was Emesh, who was less self-assured but still had those gold-flecked eyes.

‘Luke and Emesh are half-brothers?’

‘Yes. Both born in Sorrow Spring,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘That’s the reason your mother left. She was frightened for Emesh. There’s a scarcity of boys. She traded you not just for her half of the house but the promise to keep Emesh safe. I lied when I said the reverend was different. He’s actually just like all other men. But he is paying the price now. He genuinely loved Luke’s mother, Clara, and he’s the only one of his children he has shown any affection for. The others, well, we’re running out of boys. David Glebe learnt of his wife’s infidelity and planned his revenge well. Tonight Ramsay must bring Luke to the spring. Unlike Abraham with Isaac, no angel will stay his hand.’

‘He’ll never do it.’

‘I think you’ll find he will. The converts are always the most zealous.’

The red robes at the Vicarage would be worn tonight.

‘All this for a muddy puddle,’ I said.

‘It’s so much more, Rina. Come, I’ll show you.’

‘No.’

‘I can’t protect you for ever. If the rest of the Sistren think you’ll inform against them, I won’t be able to stand in their way. Verity wants you dead, so no true Distaff is left and Joy can one day lead the Sistren. Come and take your place. You are young. This boy is nothing. You will meet others.’

‘I don’t want others. Joy and Verity can lead the Sistren. I don’t care,’ I said.

‘This is your destiny, Rina. Can’t you feel its power, its pull? Drink the waters of the spring, eat the flesh and you will feel it.’

‘What flesh?’

‘The rooks. They ate Osana, and we eat them to draw upon her power.’

I pulled my hand across my mouth, remembering the pie’s strong earthy flavour.

‘I’ve worked too hard, given up too much to allow Verity and Joy to have their way. The Sistren must be led by a Pine.’

I realised then that she was truly insane and would do anything for this wretched village.

‘Did you kill Maude Barrowcroft?’ I asked.

‘Not personally.’

‘You got Jed to do it – to kill his own grandmother. In exchange for what?’

No reply.

‘And Blanche?’

She picked at a loose thread on the bedspread and rested her head on her shoulder.

‘For Blanche, the hemlock was only swapping a quick and dignified death for a long and humiliating one. It’s easy to forget that she was one of the Distaff. Did you know she should have been leader instead of me? I can see you’re surprised. She was so pretty when she was younger – brilliant and clever. Then she fell in love. Which wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t gone and got himself killed. I think Blanche – the Blanche I knew – died the day that telegram arrived. You see, men are like a crutch: if you get used to one your own strength will wither. Let Luke go.’

‘I can’t.’

She picked at the bedspread again.

‘Do you know in ancient cultures they used to hobble their smiths, cut their Achilles tendons or even amputate a foot so they couldn’t run away? You see, the smiths were vital to the community and couldn’t be allowed to leave.’

‘Why are you telling me this? You can’t hobble me. You can’t make me stay.’

Aunt Agatha looked tired.

‘If you’ll not participate, it’s better you drink your cocoa, Rina. It will be kinder for you to sleep. In the morning you will see things differently.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘You will. Drink your cocoa.’

I took a sip.

‘All of it, dear,’ she said.

The mug stopped halfway to my lips.

‘Would you prefer Jed to come in and force it down your neck?’

The thought of Jed’s touch disgusted me. I drank the bittersweet cocoa with the acrid powderiness I knew by now.

I finished and pushed the mug back into Aunt Agatha’s hand. She inspected it, to make sure it was empty.

‘I hate you,’ I said.

‘That’s what I told the leader before me. I meant it at the time. But you will change. Soon you will understand.’

She stood up.

‘Please, Aunt. Not Luke. There must be other boys.’

‘It’s too late,’ she said. ‘Until tomorrow. Sleep tight.’

She moved towards the door. I followed her. Jed was on the other side when she opened it, a sneer on his lips. As Aunt Agatha walked through, he blew a kiss at me and laughed.

The lock turned once more.

Verity said I was like my mother – reckless and headstrong. Well, I would prove her right tonight.

The moment they were downstairs I raced to the sink and shoved my fingers down my throat. The sour liquid surged out from my stomach and left me red eyed and coughing on the floor.

I would not sleep tonight.

Patience

I lay on the floor listening to the house for some time. Above the thunder and rain, it was difficult to tell if it was empty or not. I tried to prise the lock off with my knife. It wouldn’t budge. Then once again I heard footsteps on the stairs. Two sets, if I wasn’t mistaken.

I jumped on the bed, pretending to sleep, and praying the stench of vomit hadn’t lingered.

Whispering and a low laugh outside.

The door opened.

A bolt of lightning illuminated the room.

Joy Vane stood in the doorway. She resembled her grandmother more than ever, framed in the ghastly light of the storm. It bleached her youth and all that was left was a sharp nose and strong jaw.

‘Don’t pretend you’re asleep. I heard you moving around,’ she said.

I sat up.

‘Joy, you have to help me. They’re taking Luke to the spring.’

She flicked on the light, went to the sink and sniffed.

‘So you worked it out about the cocoa,’ she said. ‘They always use cocoa for children.’

‘Joy – did you hear what I said?’

‘I like Luke. It’s a shame. But …’ she smiled, ‘… it’s for the greater good.’

‘You don’t believe all that, do you?’

She turned to me with a flash of anger.

‘There’s smallpox in Birmingham. What more proof do you need? All because pathetic Peter the Worm was born in hospital and now Granny has to clean up the Pines’ mess, as usual.’

Someone moved behind her on the landing.

‘You already know who that is, don’t you?’

The second set of footsteps. I felt sick.

‘Joy, just let me go,’ I said.

Jed stepped into the room behind her.

‘To think Agatha wants you to be leader one day. You,’ Joy sneered. ‘Hope you don’t care for your aunt too much, ’cos she’s not going to be around for much longer. After tonight Granny will take over and I’ll be her heir. She always told me it would happen. We just needed patience.’

‘I don’t care who’s leader.’

I was looking over her shoulder at Jed. He stood leering, one hand on the doorframe.

‘That’s what you say. I’ve seen how you look at your aunt and at Granny. You fancy it for yourself. That old woman has to go,’ she said. ‘The next generation needs to take over and everyone knows that’s not you. Granny says your mother swapped her real daughter for one of the commune brats no one wanted. That’s why she wasn’t bothered about leaving you behind and took her real son away.’

I jumped off the bed.

‘That’s not true.’

Her face lit up with glee and spite. Older and stronger, she grabbed my hair and pulled my head back until her nose nearly touched mine. ‘We’re not waiting for Agatha to make up her mind. You’d betray us in a heartbeat and that’s not going to happen. Granny wanted you drowned in the spring. But Jed wants a little favour first.’

I managed to pull free and smacked her in the mouth, splitting her lip. She fell back. Jed caught her by the elbow.

‘Teach this vicious bitch a lesson,’ she said to him.

He approached me slowly and with purpose.

‘I’m glad you didn’t drink that cocoa,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want you to miss anything.’

‘Don’t touch me.’ I backed away. ‘I’ll tell Reverend Rivers.’

Jed paused his advance.

‘My father said the Pines were always above themselves. I could have gone to jail for what I did to my grandmother and Emily Frain. Your aunt double-crossed me. She only wanted the land. She was never going to get rid of Rivers. Looks like I’ll have to take by force what’s not being given to me willingly.’

He took another step forwards.

‘And I’m not just talking about the reverend’s dealings with the Sistren. Did you know your aunt agreed that you’d be my wife as soon as you’re old enough, so Barrowcroft girls would be of the Distaff line?’

That was the deal struck. From the first night I stepped in the house, Aunt Agatha planned to hand me over to Jed Barrowcroft, like a bag of apples from her orchard.

‘Stay away from me.’ I put my hands up to him.

‘You wouldn’t say no to lover boy Luke, would you – you hippy slut?’ Joy said.

‘Hope reckons you’re a virgin. Joy says not. Shall we find out?’ Jed said. ‘Staying to watch?’

‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ Joy grinned, sucking on her bloody lip as she would a lollipop.

Every impulse telling me to run, to fight, was thwarted by limbs that held me motionless as a shop dummy.

Jed only had to tap my shoulder for me to fall rigid on the bed. He manoeuvred himself above me and brought his face close to mine.

‘Verity says to drown you,’ he said. ‘But if you please me, I might take you back to the farm and keep you all to myself.’ Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. I wanted to heave him off me and still my limbs refused to move. ‘Or I could take you for one last night out. Go to the spring. Watch what happens to Luke. How would you like that? Will you cry? I reckon you won’t care too much by then.’

Jed’s teeth flashed white in the storm, which was directly above us now, the lightning and thunder coming simultaneously. He licked his fingers slowly before reaching to unhitch my dungarees. Joy knelt on the bed next to him, breathing hard and savouring my distress.

‘No,’ was all I could say.

Another clap of thunder.

Wings fluttered against the window. A rook – the one from my dream. I thought of Wroxwood and freedom. I thought of Luke, unsuspecting that both the Sistren and the reverend had forwarded their plans. I thought of Lullaby and Emesh in France, unaware of my fate.

My limbs loosened. I wriggled a hand towards the pillow.

Another lightning bolt. Jed’s fluorescent grin. A thunder clap. The rook squawked again. My hand clutched the wooden handle of the knife. One more streak of lightning. I launched myself upwards and slashed at Jed’s neck, and this time his teeth did not flash white. They were black with the blood spurting from his severed jugular.

Jed gaped in horror as his shirt turned from cream to crimson.

Joy didn’t understand what had happened until I pushed him off me and she saw my red-stained clothes and face. Jed lay at my feet choking to death in his own blood. Before she had time to react, I ripped the knife across her face, tearing the flesh from the corner of her mouth to her temple. She looked at me in disbelief and fell to her knees, blood gushing through her fingers.

I ran to the door and turned the lock against them as they had done to me.

*

Joy’s bicycle was propped up outside the house. The gradient carried me down Sorrow Hill towards the church. This time I knew where to go and how to act.

St Faran’s Spring

Thunder shook the ground beneath me. Rain and wind whipped my face. I could have gone to the phone box and called the police. Except I was no longer the victim. Joy was maimed and Jed was drowning in his own blood.

I raced to the church and ditched the bike by the lychgate. Caution was unnecessary as the rain and thunder obscured the sight and sound of my approach along the graveyard path.

A dim glow rose through the blurred outline of trees in the dip behind the church.

Now closer, a low chanting became audible, the women’s higher refrain being repeated and echoed in the deeper register of the few men allowed to attend.

The long shadows cast by the hooded figures appeared as wraiths dancing in the flames, which blazed bright against the insistent rain. The chant grew louder. Different from before: an eerie whine that vibrated through the earth, seething tentacles that groped for me in the dark. They found me, wrapped around me and dragged me down towards St Faran’s Spring.

The gathering was greater than before. I moved through the bushes, hoping weakness did not overcome me this time.

The spring was no longer a muddy puddle. The rain had turned it into a frothing torrent, in which the water bubbled and swirled as if boiling on a stove.

Then I saw it – the great axe, the blade glinting in the flames. Next to it stood a tall man robed in red.

A smaller figure stepped forwards. Aunt Agatha’s voice rang clear.

‘And so Osana sacrificed her only brother, so the village might survive the plagues sent by God to rid the land of sinners. Each year, we give a village boy to the spring to renew the waters and thank St Faran for keeping us safe.’

‘Blessed Osana,’ the Sistren cried.

‘We have learnt the error of our ways. A disease sent from the past now reminds us of our duty. And this night, we offer our finest son, in hope of atonement.’

Two men, robed in red, dragged forth an inert figure covered in sacking.

Luke.

They must have drugged him. His arms and legs were spreadeagled and his neck positioned on a wooden stump. The tall, red-robed figure paused before raising the axe above his head. The hood fell back to reveal the Reverend Rivers. Even the rain could not mask the tears streaming down his face.

‘Abraham did not hesitate to do the Lord’s bidding. I have failed. I tried to replace the child promised with another and brought us to the brink of destruction. In penance, I give you my most beloved son.’

A low moan escaped the sacking. Indecision rather than fear kept me rooted to the spot. I had my knife but the Sistren were too many.

The reverend’s voice quavered as he said the words I’d heard before. ‘And so Alfred took Faran to a quiet woodland glade. There he … he …’

The company waited.

The axe trembled in his hands.

‘There he—’

The reverend never finished his sentence. The Sistren’s eyes were upon him, not the inert figure at his feet. Luke must have remembered my warning about the cocoa. In one movement he leapt up and launched himself at his father, the reverend, knocking the axe from his hand. Both of them crashed into the swollen pool.

Screams rang out around the Sistren.

Verity Vane picked up the axe. No one was looking in my direction, and before she could stand upright I dashed forwards and plunged the knife into the top of her thigh. She squealed, twisted round and swung the axe at my head. I jumped back. The blade whistled by, an inch from the end of my nose. Verity’s expression switched from anger to horror as she doubled over, realising her injury was more than a scratch. My knife had severed an artery. Blood spurted from the wound, showering her face, falling into her open, shrieking mouth as she collapsed to the ground.

I experienced a surge of triumph.

‘Help me,’ she wailed.

No one was paying either of us any attention.

The rest of the Sistren thronged around the pool, their chants replaced by cries of panic and alarm. Through their huddled bodies I could just make out Luke and the reverend in the water, writhing around like two eels. Luke had overcome the reverend with surprise. Now, in the pool, he was still a lad and the reverend was a man in his prime, broader and stronger. He pushed himself upwards and thrust Luke back, forcing his head beneath the water. He held him there fast and firm.

The Sistren ladies quietened and stuttered to silence. I hurled myself through the crowd and landed on the reverend’s back, slicing the knife into his neck. This time I missed the artery and only tore the flesh. He swung around, took my wrist and twisted it so hard, I heard a snap. Though adrenalin shielded me from pain, I dropped the knife. An elbow connected with my temple, for a second all went black and then I was underwater.

My feet just touched the bottom. I pushed myself to the surface.

The reverend was waiting for me. He grabbed me by the throat, his fingers crunched down on my windpipe.

I tried to call my aunt. All that escaped was a gurgle.

My eyes bulged. My vision flickered. The Sistren’s faces were merging with the darkness. Then out of nowhere came a jolt.

Luke was on the reverend’s back now, digging his thumbs into his eye sockets. Rivers roared in pain. Luke pressed down harder. The grip on my neck slackened. I freed myself.

Luke clung to his father, twisting and turning his fingers deeper and deeper.

‘Go,’ he shouted at me.

Somehow, I struggled out of the pool using my one good hand. Lack of oxygen dulled my senses. I looked back to see Luke crawling onto the bank. The Sistren swarmed across him like maggots over a roadkill. I made it to my knees, my feet, then lurched back towards him.

A whistle of steel.

A crack.

Screaming pain ripped through me, too fierce and intense for adrenalin to mask.

Aunt Agatha, that tiny bird of a woman, had picked up the axe, taken aim and landed the blade in the centre of my spine.

The ground pitched beneath me and I fell to the floor.

Hope rushed to my side. I twisted around, thinking she was coming to help me until I saw my knife in her hand.

She plunged it deep into my abdomen.

Sheet lightning illuminated the thunderous clouds above Sorrow Spring. Fat raindrops drowned my eyes and the clouds swirled into nothing.

2019

Locals

I have to sit down on the grass to take in what I’m seeing: the blackened walls and burnt timbers of what was once the Wroxwood Commune. Dad spent his formative years here. This is where he played with his sister and their friends. Over forty years have passed and you have to accept that places change, but I didn’t expect to find it totally destroyed. The Google Earth images can’t have been taken that long ago. How could all the buildings be destroyed? They’re not close together and the climate here is damp.

At least Dad won’t have to know. In a way, it’s lucky the satellite photos are out of date. Viewing this destruction might finish him off. I’m finding it hard not to despair myself. What chance do we have of finding Aunt Rina now?

*

I sit on the wall until it starts to get dark, which is early in December this far north. I’m too tired to drive all the way home tonight and so book a room at the local inn.

Taking one last look in the fading light, I can see why this spot was chosen for the commune. It’s as beautiful as it is isolated, almost hidden by the trees, which all remained untouched by the fire. They spread from the valley floor to the top of the ridge beyond, their branches nodding in the stiff breeze. Then something rustles in the dead bracken. At first I think it’s an animal, a sheep perhaps. I saw plenty on my way here. Or could it be a fox? But then I catch a flash of yellow and blue. Not a fox – a person.

I stand up.

‘Hello.’

Despite being here alone except for an unknown person lurking in the bushes, I don’t feel scared or threatened as I did in Sorrow Spring. I sense the spy is only curious.

‘Hello,’ I say again, and run to the edge of the trees.

The undergrowth quivers. Whoever’s there moves nimbly away from me. I think of following, then decide that, however safe I feel, running into a wood after a stranger as night falls is not a smart decision.

I turn back towards the car.

*

Gossdale’s Sparrow Hawk Inn is the nearest place to Wroxwood that my hotel app was able to find a room. After the hostile locals in Sorrow Spring, I’m nervous as I pull up outside. Unlike the Red Cow, this looks like the quintessential country inn, all grey-green limestone walls and white window frames. Inside it’s flagged floors and open fires. A Christmas tree, bedecked with tinsel and lights, twinkles in the corner. To my relief, the landlady greets me with a smile.

‘Come far?’

‘I drove from Worcestershire this morning. But I’m from Bristol.’

‘You’ll need a rest after a drive like that. Follow me. I’ll take you to your room. There’s tea-making facilities and biscuits.’

*

The room is small and comfortable. Watercolours of country scenes hang on the wall. But none of them can match the view from the window, even in this failing light. The fell behind the pub rises so sharply, I can barely see the top. A waterfall tumbles down the slope into a pool at the bottom and some large birds – sparrow hawks? – swoop across its slopes. No wonder Dad loved this place. Growing up here must have been amazing. So much sky. So much freedom. I can imagine living here with Rob and the twins. They could run wild all day instead of staying indoors gazing at their tablets. Although I love my work, sometimes I feel I’m on a treadmill. Living here would be a much slower pace of life. Perhaps I could work part time, maybe grow some vegetables – become semi-self-sufficient.

I’m getting carried away by the idea until I start jabbing madly at my phone because my Spotify playlist is taking for ever to download. The WiFi is snail paced and I have only two bars of reception. Granny used to accuse me of having city dust in my veins. She must be right. I wouldn’t last long out here. It would be lovely for a holiday, though. Pity it’s the other end of the country. Sorrow Spring’s much closer but I’d never take the twins there. Somehow it didn’t feel part of nature – too symmetrical and neat. I wonder how my aunt felt being taken from this beautiful valley to a strange hilltop village hundreds of miles away. Were they as unwelcoming to her as they were to me? More so?

I’ll probably never know. Discussing it with Dad would only upset him. So I lie on the bed and call Rob. I can tell he’s busy and not really interested in my news. He thinks trying to find my aunt is a waste of time and the twins are too excited by the prospect of a movie followed by Nando’s to miss me. Rob always treats them when I’m away. Sometimes I think they look forward to me going just so they get junk food and trips to the cinema.

There’s no room service here so I’ll have to go downstairs. Please, please, let the locals be friendly.

The lounge bar is cosy. Santa’s reindeer dance across the mantelpiece and a bright fire crackles in the grate. Above them hangs a heavy leather yoke and several brass objects – agricultural tools I’m unable to identify, all interlaced with tinsel. The smell of warm pastry wafting in from the kitchen reminds me steak and kidney pie is on the menu. I order it along with a large Malbec.

I feel conspicuous here on my own. A group of men are gathered at the bar. They all have local accents except for one Londoner. He’s retelling a misadventure he had on his holiday to Kos. The others find the tale hilarious and no one notices me. A middle-aged couple eat at a table close by, and next to the window a family with teenage daughters argue good-naturedly. I carry my glass to the seat nearest the fire. Until the wine’s warming blackberry flavour floods my taste buds and my shoulders drop, I don’t realise how tense I’ve been ever since Sorrow Spring. And despite the miles I’ve put between myself and that village, a deep-seated unease nags at the corners of my mind.

However, looked at rationally, all I encountered were a couple of village eccentrics and a foul-tempered shopkeeper. Most likely they were harmless and I’m transferring my worries about Dad’s health onto a pretty normal situation. Or is my intuition right? The question I never dared ask Dad is why Granny, who cared for me and, later, my children, would abandon her only daughter like that? Why is there no photograph? Is it possible Aunt Rina died and Granny was too traumatised to admit it to herself or to Dad? The Sorrow Spring story was an explanation for her absence. No – that woman with the scar had known Aunt Rina.

None of it makes any sense, and by the look of Wroxwood – or Brook Farm, as it’s now known – I won’t be getting my answers up here.

*

When my food arrives, I’m so hungry, I don’t care that the pie isn’t the best and I order another glass of wine. The alcohol is making the room fuzzy. I wouldn’t drink so much at home. I’m always worried one of the twins will need rushing to hospital. Stupid really. They’ve always had perfect health. Granny used to laugh at me.

‘You can’t hover over children the whole time. They need space to grow their wings.’

Dad scowled whenever she said this. He was always hard on her. I used to think it was because he was jealous of her close relationship with me. Now I wonder if it was something else – anger at her treatment of his sister? Would my relationship with my own mother have been equally as fraught. Dad rarely speaks about her and my questions pain him. Once I thought of finding her family, he told me they’d disowned her. All I have is a photograph. She’s in a bikini on a beach. France, Dad said, although it looks more tropical. By any standards she was a beauty, not something I’ve inherited. What drew her to Dad, who, apart from his black-gold eyes, is rather plain?

I watch the teenage girls by the window, laughing with their mother and feel a twinge of loss for something I’ve never known. I always tell myself I never missed having a mother – I had Granny. Deep in my heart, I know it’s not the same. But what good would it do to linger on it? I would only make myself unhappy, and wasn’t it better to have Granny, who loved me so much more than a stepmother, who would have wanted me out of the way?

I’m not in the mood for dessert and though I fancy another glass of wine, two is quite enough. As I walk past the Londoner, he stumbles backwards, knocking into me.

‘Sorry,’ he says.

‘No problem,’ I say.

‘Hey,’ says an older man sitting on the barstool. ‘Didn’t I see you turning into Brook Farm today?’

After the antipathy shown to my enquiries in Sorrow Spring, I’m wary.

‘I was looking for someone,’ I say.

‘You won’t find anyone there,’ he says in a cheery voice. ‘It burnt down last week.’

‘What happened?’

‘They say it was the owner, trying to pull an insurance job but he must have made a mistake because he burnt along with his farm – an old hippy called Fletcher Sun. He was head of some commune there, back in the day.’

Only last week, I could have spoken to him. He was probably the only person who could have given me the information I need. I must look disconsolate because the man says, ‘Sorry, did you know him?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I only wanted to speak to him. Do you remember it, the Wroxwood Commune?’

‘Sure.’ He nudges the man next to him.

‘Happy days,’ his friend says.

‘We were teenagers, back then. Used to go up there to buy a bit of the old wacky backy. They grew it in greenhouses. You couldn’t get it out here otherwise.’

‘Do you remember a girl called Rina?’

‘Their kids never came to school. We hardly knew any of them.’

‘One of the women worked for my dad for a bit, as a receptionist. He was a vet. She only lasted a couple of months. Dad was spending too much time at work, or at least that’s what Mum thought. She made him replace her. What was her name now …?’

‘Lullaby?’ I say.

‘That was it. How did you know?’

‘Lucky guess.’

It sounds just like Granny. Even in her seventies she had the young, handsome arthritis consultant cooing over her as if she were a pretty woman of twenty.

‘Rina was her daughter. Prosperina Fuchsia Pine.’

The man laughs.

‘You got to hand it to the hippies, they had the best names.’

‘But do you know why they all went?’

‘Dunno. Do you know, Craig?’ he asks his mate.

‘Some dodgy types arrived from Manchester and ran it for a bit,’ Craig says. ‘Then they disappeared. Only that Fletcher stayed. God knows why he didn’t just sell it. He never did anything with it after the Mancs left. The place was falling apart long before he torched it.’

‘It was definitely him?’ I ask.

‘They found the body,’ Craig confirms.

Not the person watching me in the bushes then.

‘Say, what’s your interest?’ the first guy asks.

‘I’m trying to find out what happened to my dad’s sister.’

The Londoner looks up and frowns.

‘What did you say her name was again?’

‘Prosperina Fuchsia Pine.’

‘That name does ring a bell.’

He’s youngish and not from the area so can’t have had anything to do with Wroxwood. I note the row of empty glasses in front of him and the slurred speech. Is this a pickup line?

‘Prosperina … Prosperina … no it’s gone.’ He leans closer to me. ‘Can I get you another drink?’

‘Thanks – I’ve got an early start. Lovely to meet you.’

I give them a quick wave and leave the bar.

*

The staircase to my room is narrow and the steps bowed at the centre. I’m drunker than I realise, and more than once I have to lean on the banister to aid my balance.

Once in my room, I drink a glass of water and open the window for some fresh air. Against a dark sky undiluted by streetlamps, the waning moon sparkles off the waterfall. It’s then I spot a figure flitting between the shafts of light, moving, then still. And something else glints against the black crags, something other than water is reflecting the moon. Glass? Binocular lenses?

I shut the window and close the curtains.

Gordon

I wake up late. My head is fuzzy and fur covers my tongue. I’m not used to so much wine. I need some Nurofen. With my eyes still shut, I lie and listen to the sounds of the inn below: tables and chairs being scraped across the stone floors and shouts from the kitchen. Then my nose twitches at the smell of bacon and mushrooms filtering through the gap under my door.

Checkout is at ten. I can’t lie here all day and a fry-up will do me good.

When I pull back the curtains the light hurts my eyes, although the day is overcast and a light drizzle is falling. I blink as they adjust and the world comes into focus. It must have rained hard after I fell asleep because the waterfall is a torrent of pure white. A lone sheep stands on a ledge overlooking it, and I remember a lens glinting against the moon last night. Who was it? The same person who spied on me at Wroxwood? Perhaps it was the inn they were watching and not me, or the binoculars may only have been pointing in this direction by chance. Are there owl watchers and poachers in Gossdale?

*

After a quick shower, I dress, pack my case and put it in the car boot before sitting down in the dining area. I chose the same seat as last night, next to the fire. In the grey morning light it’s far less cheery. The remains of other people’s breakfasts, toast crusts and bacon rind, scatter the tables. I think I’ve arrived too late but nothing is said when I order a full English.

The breakfast is good, with fresh tomatoes and locally produced sausages. However, I can finish only half of it. My mind’s on yesterday and what I’m going to tell Dad. Nothing from Sorrow Spring, nothing from Gossdale, Wroxwood burnt down. Only one person, the woman with the scar, has confirmed Prosperina Fuchsia Pine ever existed, and how do I know she’s a reliable witness?

With no photograph and no birth certificate what can I do? If she’s still alive, wouldn’t there be some trace of her somewhere?

The best I can hope for is to keep up the pretence of a search long enough that Dad never needs to know his little sister must be dead.

*

The landlady comes to the kitchen door, rubbing her eyes. She squints when she sees me then ducks back into the kitchen.

I push my cutlery to one side and go to settle the bill.

‘Ellen,’ the lad behind the bar calls. ‘The customer’s waiting.’

The landlady returns.

‘Was everything OK?’ she asks.

‘Lovely, thanks.’

‘I hope that lot at the bar last night weren’t too annoying. They’re harmless, but they can get carried away after a few.’

‘They were fine. I left because I was tired, that’s all.’

‘Sleep OK?’

‘Like a log. Say – do you have owl watchers or something in Gossdale?’

‘Owl watchers? Not that I’ve heard of.’

‘Poachers, perhaps?’

‘There’s nothing to poach around here. Why do you ask?’

‘I saw someone out on the hillside last night. They had binoculars.’

She frowns. ‘I’m not sure who that could be but you needn’t worry. The inn’s safe. We’ve never had a break-in. I’ll get my husband to ask around, just in case.’

‘It’s probably nothing,’ I say.

She’ll have me down as some nervy city type, freaked by the absence of street lighting.

I hand her my debit card and she processes the payment.

‘Thanks, then,’ I say.

She pauses, card and receipt in hand, a pained expression on her face.

‘I’m not sure I should pass this on,’ she says. ‘Gordon’s a nice guy, but a bit of a ladies’ man and likes his beer too much. I wouldn’t want you to think one of our regulars is harassing you.’

‘Harassing me?’

‘It’s a bit awkward. He left you his card and I can see you’re married.’ She looks at my ring. ‘I wouldn’t want to cause any trouble.’

She lifts a formal business card from her pocket.

‘I can throw it away if you like.’

I’m about to tell her to do just that when I notice something written on the back.

‘I’ll take it.’

Her surprise makes me feel I need to explain.

‘I think Gordon’s the guy who said he knew something about my aunt.’

She gives me a dubious look as she hands it over. Her disapproval makes no difference. I’m not coming back.

*

Once in the car I examine the card.

Gordon Davis

Fulbright and McKenzie Solicitors

21 High Street

Gossdale

And on the back is scribbled: ‘I remember where I saw the name Prosperina Fuchsia Pine. Come to my offices tomorrow and I’ll explain.’

Enquiry

Gossdale seems too small to have its own solicitors. But there it stands at the end of the High Street after the post office, a grocer’s, an Olde English tea house and the more modern Café Zia. Fulbright and McKenzie’s sign stands out with black and gold lettering on a green background.

The office’s exterior has the pleasant rustic style of the rest of the village, but inside the reception is modern and soulless, with a plain blue carpet, white walls and a single pot plant decorated with Christmas baubles in the corner. The middle-aged woman behind the desk has a bored expression, which changes to mistrust when I ask to see Gordon Davis.

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘We only arranged to meet yesterday evening.’

She huffs.

‘If it’s personal perhaps you could contact Mr Davis out of office hours.’

I pull out the business card and try to sound authoritative.

‘It’s a legal matter and I can’t wait.’

‘May I ask what sort of legal matter? Perhaps one of our other solicitors could help.’

I have no idea what Gordon wants to tell me.

‘It’s confidential. I’m only prepared to discuss it with Mr Davis.’

The receptionist looks unconvinced.

‘In that case you’ll have to wait,’ she says. ‘He phoned earlier to say he’d be working from home the first part of the morning. There’s a tricky contract that requires his full concentration.’

‘Can you tell him I’m here? I think he’ll want to speak to me.’

She glances at my wedding ring. I want to tell her I’m happily married and have no interest in her employer beyond his promised information about my aunt. But that all seems to be a bit protesting too much.

‘Your name?’ she asks.

‘Catherine Pine-Hewson.’

‘Pine?’ She gives me a sharp look then fires off a couple of texts. Presumably to Gordon.

I take a seat and send my own text to Rob, telling him about my progress. He sends back a picture of Alice and Ben stuffing their faces at Nando’s the night before.

Come home x

*

Gordon rolls into the office at a quarter to twelve. His bloodshot eyes and the enormous cup of take-out coffee tell me the tricky contract was really hangover recovery time. When the receptionist nods in my direction and says something, he looks confused. Was he too drunk last night to remember me?

I retrieve his card from my pocket and hold it out.

‘You left this for me at the Sparrow Hawk,’ I say.

He takes it, turns it over and comprehension dawns.

‘Yeah … right … I remember now. Please, come to my office. Drink?’

‘Coffee.’

‘Maureen, be a love and pop to Zia’s, would you?’ he asks the receptionist.

‘Black Americano, no sugar, thanks.’

Maureen scowls.

*

I follow Gordon into the office. He collapses into his plump leather chair on the far side of the desk and motions for me to sit down on the more utilitarian one opposite.

‘Remind me again what your interest is in this?’ he asks.

‘My aunt, Prosperina Fuchsia Pine, used to live at the Wroxwood Commune. Brook Farm, as it’s called now. The last time my dad saw her was in 1978. We’re trying to find out what happened to her. I know it was a long time ago but … you said you knew her.’

‘Not quite,’ he says. ‘I remember the name. It’s unusual – not one you’d forget. And it relates to Brook Farm. We had some dealings with the owner, Fletcher Sun. Old Mr Fulbright drew up his will.’

Maureen comes in with the coffee – a latte. I don’t say anything and wait for her to leave before asking Gordon, ‘Did my aunt ever come back and live here?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. Sun was well known in the village. Something of an eccentric. He was up at the farm for years all on his own. The place was in a terrible state, even before the fire – missing slates, crumbling walls. One of the barns collapsed. He was pretty much living under canvas by the end. A tramp almost.’

‘And you’re sure there was no one else up there – no woman?’

‘Not as far as I know. I’ve only been here a few years. Maureen’s local. We can ask her.’

He buzzes through to reception. Maureen’s so quick in returning I suspect she’s been listening at the door. Her expression is still sour; the triumph of the milky coffee can’t have been sufficient compensation for the insult of being asked to fetch it in the first place.

‘You’ve always lived in Gossdale, haven’t you?’ Gordon asks.

‘In and around,’ she says.

‘Do you remember the commune that used to be Brook Farm?’

She looks bored as she replies. ‘I remember my parents complaining about the hippies.’

‘But the owner, Fletcher Sun, he stayed on after the commune broke up.’

‘We called him Grizzly Adams ’cos of the massive beard. He never shaved – or washed, by the smell of him.’

‘Did anyone else ever live there?’ I ask.

‘After the hippies there was some dodgy gang from Manchester. Then they got raided or something. It was only ever Grizzly up there afterwards. I don’t know why he lived like that. About ten years ago Ken Beardsley offered him two hundred thousand for the place. It will be worth ten times that now. There’s been talk of a Center Parcs- type resort there.’

‘Why did Fletcher turn it down?’ I ask.

‘Not everything’s about money.’ Distaste crosses her face.

For the first time in Gossdale I’m reminded of the Sorrow Spring locals, wary and unfriendly. Maureen’s like the woman with the scar, who claimed I was only there hunting an inheritance.

Gordon clears his throat. ‘Thank you, Maureen. Good to have some local knowledge. I’ll take it from here.’

She leaves, hovering at the door a moment to give me a curious look.

‘Don’t mind Maureen. She’s been a little prickly since Mr Fulbright retired – thinks things are getting slack. Bringing mugs of coffee into the office is unprofessional, apparently.’

I smile.

‘I cut her off because there’s a more delicate matter I have to tell you about,’ Gordon says. ‘After the fire a body was found in one of the barns.’

‘Fletcher Sun. They told me in the Sparrow Hawk.’

‘That’s not confirmed.’

My stomach lurches.

‘Aunt Rina?’

‘Definitely not your aunt. The body’s male. Everyone’s assuming it’s Sun. The police are resorting to dental records. The identification is going to be difficult.’ Gordon twirls his coffee cup around. ‘The strange thing is, just two days after the fire someone contacted us. We received an enquiry about Mr Sun’s will. This is where you come in.’

‘I don’t understand. What’s his will got to do with me?’

‘The enquiry came from its sole beneficiary. A Prosperina Fuchsia Pine of Laburnum Lodge, Sorrow Spring.’

Bravery

Gordon’s news spooks me. I’m glad I’m sitting down.

‘She must be alive after all,’ I say.

Why hadn’t I forced my way into Laburnum Lodge when I had the chance?

‘I’ve no idea if she’s alive,’ Gordon says.

‘But if she contacted you …’

‘My partner’s dealing with the case, which is why I didn’t recognise the name immediately. He’s away skiing this week.’ Gordon rests his elbows on the desk. ‘This is a little awkward. I’m not sure how much I should tell you, but as the woman concerned isn’t a client of ours …’

‘The woman? You mean my aunt?’

He spreads his hands. ‘That’s the thing, you see. The original enquiry came in writing. We explained that without proof of Mr Sun’s death we couldn’t act upon the will. We would also need to confirm the claimant’s identity.’

‘How did she respond?’

‘She said that she had a birth certificate and passport, for when the time came.’

‘Dad said Aunt Rina was born at Wroxwood, I mean Brook Farm. Her birth was never recorded.’

‘In such cases a birth certificate can be obtained later. However, you can understand we have to be careful.’

Not only must Aunt Rina be alive, somehow she knows what’s going on in Gossdale. But why didn’t she reply to my letter and why was I turned away from Laburnum Lodge? There was no sign of her there. Only that terrible old woman.

‘I’m sorry I can’t help you further,’ Gordon says. ‘I’ve probably said too much as it is.’

‘No, you’ve been great,’ I say. ‘When do you think they’ll confirm the body is Fletcher Sun?’

I’m thinking that is when my aunt will resurface.

‘It could take weeks or even months. But there’s something else you should know,’ Gordon says. ‘As the fire was deliberate, this is a murder investigation. The body of the man found cannot have been the same person who set fire to the buildings.

I follow the train of his thoughts.

‘You think …?’

‘The police investigate. I’m just a solicitor – it’s not my job to jump to conclusions.’

Nor mine, but we all do it. Am I chasing a murderer?

‘Thanks, Gordon. Will you call me if you hear anything else?’

I give him my number.

‘I have to honour our client’s confidentiality. Not that Mr Sun’s visited this office since he deposited his will.’ He smiles.

‘I only want to find my aunt.’

‘You have her address now.’

I don’t want to tell him about my trip to Sorrow Spring. He’ll think I’m an idiot to come all this way only to be directed back to where I first started.

‘Thanks. I’ll try there,’ I say.

*

Maureen is busy texting as I leave Gordon’s office. She stops when she sees me.

‘Bye,’ I say.

I expect either no response or a snide one. It takes me by surprise when she says in a conversational tone, ‘Are you heading back to Bristol?’

‘Yes, I’m … wait….’

How does she know where I live?

The office phone starts ringing.

She’s still glaring at me as she picks up the receiver.

‘Fulbright and McKenzie Solicitors. How may I help you?’

A sarcastic smile spreads across her face.

Suddenly the office is too hot. My throat feels tight and it’s hard to breathe. I stumble outside, gasping in the cool fresh air.

If I am being watched and I am chasing a murderer, does this mean I’m in danger? Are my family?

However much I love Dad, the kids come first. I will tell him everything that has happened, including the possibility that Aunt Rina is still at Laburnum Lodge but wants nothing to do with us. He’ll have to accept it. I’m not going back there. I’m going home to pick up my life as a wife, mother of two and a lab technician at a respected pharmaceutical company.

In some ways I’ve enjoyed the last couple of days. It’s been exciting playing detective. Maybe one day the truth will come out. But it will be too late for Dad, and I’m not risking everything for an unknown relative who doesn’t want to be found and might be dangerous.

The decision makes my breathing easier. I go to Café Zia to buy the black Americano I wanted in the first place. In the calming buzz of the café, with Wizard wishing it could be Christmas every day, Maureen seems less sinister. She had my name so could easily Google me. It’s a reminder to change my privacy settings on Facebook.

Even taking that into account, it’s best I head home. This has been a wild-goose chase and the twins have a classmate’s party tomorrow.

I order the coffee and wait.

At least now I know Dad isn’t hallucinating. He did once have a little sister. I’ve dipped into her life: her earliest years in a beautiful valley, the later ones on a hill amongst the strange people of Sorrow Spring.

I’ll never understand why Granny abandoned her and refused ever to say her name, even when dying. Being close to death has made Dad feel guilty, but not enough to tell the whole truth. I may never know what he’s holding back, but Aunt Rina has gone to great lengths not to be found. I have to respect that.

My drink arrives in a red cup decorated with snowflakes. Am I old and grouchy to wish for a plain one? Probably. I take my coffee and leave the café.

*

The day is brightening and the sun lights up the hills behind the town. The car is still wet from the earlier rain and this causes the flyer on the windscreen to rip as I pull it free.

I’m about to stuff it in my pocket when I realise it’s not a flyer. It’s a note.

‘Come to Brook Farm at 1p.m.’

I scan the High Street. No one’s about.

So I’m not imagining things. Someone has been following me – to the farm, to the pub and now to the solicitors.

First I’m warned to stay away, then someone wants to talk to me. I know I should go straight home. But … but …

Granny travelled around South America with a young child, speaking no Spanish and without a return ticket. Am I going to sneak back to Bristol with my tail between my legs because of some bitchy receptionist?

The blue john pendant lies cold against my skin. Blue john for bravery.

I turn the car towards Brook Farm. The place Dad calls Wroxwood.

Arson

The rain returns; harder this time, lashing down on the windscreen and flattening the grass verges. The downpour’s not enough to wipe clean the blackened skeleton of the farmhouse and its outbuildings. Knowing a man burnt to death here gives the charred walls a more sinister aspect. Arson – it’s obvious now, the reason why every structure was so thoroughly gutted. Each barn and stable was set alight separately.

Dad only knew Rina as a girl, his little sister. Has she become a grasping and ruthless woman, desperate for money? With Sun dead, she can collect her inheritance. She didn’t have to torch the place herself, others could have done her dirty work. Is this the version of his sister Dad wants to find?

I fire off a text to Rob, letting him know where I am, should anything happen. Holding the blue john stone firmly in my hand, I call out.

‘You wanted to speak to me.’

The bracken sways and I glimpse the same flash of blue and yellow anorak as before.

‘I just want to talk.’

I walk towards the trees, then stop dead as a figure emerges from the undergrowth.

The man is lean and tall with straggly grey hair and a beard down to his waist. He looks wild and I am about to run when I catch sight of his eyes. They are friendly and inquisitive, not deranged.

‘I knew who you were the minute I saw Lullaby’s necklace,’ he says. ‘You’re like her, you know. Not the face, just the way you stand. She was like that. Fearless.’

Fearless? It’s a good thing he can’t hear my heart hammering against my ribs.

‘You knew Lullaby?’ I ask.

‘I knew her very well. Her, Emesh and Rina. They lived here long ago, when Brook Farm was known as Wroxwood.’

‘I thought everyone left, except for Fletcher Sun.’

He grins. ‘Fletcher Sun. Not many people call me that these days. Not many people call me anything.’ He reaches forwards and shakes my hand.

‘But I thought …’

‘I died in the fire?’

‘If not you, then who?’

He grabs his beard and shakes his head.

‘Poor Barry. I was trying to help by giving him a roof over his head. He’d have been safer on the streets. Back in the eighties he had a family, a job, a house … Drink does that to you. I never touch the stuff myself.’ Given his appearance and his smell – Maureen’s right about one thing, he reeks – I would have put money on his being a drunk. But maybe, as the guys in the pub suggested last night, it’s all about cannabis – the wacky baccy.

‘You chose a beautiful spot, Mr Sun,’ I say.

‘I did. But the beauty’s gone. All things fade and spoil in the end.’ He sighs. ‘I loved Lullaby. But if I’d have known the people she was running from, I would have turned her away. Helping her destroyed everything. They wanted her back, you see. And then they wanted the money.’

‘Who?’

‘The Sorrow Spring Sistren.’

That horrible sibilance is like sharp metal pins on my eardrums.

‘I never understood all of it,’ he continues. ‘Why they needed her or how they found out she was here. We were all punished for taking her in. First a criminal gang, then the police. The Commune was scattered. I was on remand for months before they dropped the charges. But you know all of this.’

‘I know nothing. Granny never told me a thing. I hadn’t heard of Sorrow Spring until a few weeks ago, and I thought Dad was an only child.’

Fletcher looks towards the woods. When he turns back his eyes glisten with tears.

‘Poor Rina. We all let her down. I thought leaving everything to her would make amends. It’s only brought more trouble. And now Barry’s dead. What have I done?’

His distress appears genuine.

‘Mr Sun, I need you to tell me everything you know about my aunt. Why did Granny leave her in Sorrow Spring, all alone?’

‘Forget your aunt. Forget everything you’ve learnt.’

‘You left that note for me in the car park. You followed me to the inn. And now you say you want me to forget it.’

‘I had to warn you.’

‘Because you think my aunt’s dangerous?’

‘Not Rina. The Sistren. Rina was a delightful girl – funny, brave – just like Lullaby. What those people did to her I don’t know. But whatever’s going on down there, they’re in need of money and one thing I’m sure of.’ His tears spill over and run down his cheek. He wipes them away with a dirty sleeve. ‘I’m sure she’s dead.’

‘You can’t know that.’

‘I was quite happy for everyone to think I died in the fire and for Rina to get the money. I don’t need it. I have some cash put by and was going to go back to South America before next winter. Then she came here with Maureen from the solicitors.’

‘Aunt Rina?’

‘That’s the thing. This woman was calling herself Rina. I was hiding right over there.’ He points to one of the burnt-out buildings. ‘I listened to every word. She’d heard of my death and had come to claim her inheritance.’

‘So you do think my aunt had the farm torched.’

He shakes his head.

‘The woman who came here wasn’t Rina. A striking woman. Beautiful, even, if it weren’t for …’

And the second before he says it, I know what’s coming.

‘If it weren’t for the scar across her face?’ I say.

Fletcher starts in surprise.

‘I met her in Sorrow Spring,’ I say. ‘She claimed not to know my aunt.’

‘You went to Sorrow Spring? Are you insane? Surely Emesh told you to stay away. The whole place is infested with that damn cult. Even the police are in on it.’

‘A cult – it’s not just a crime ring?’

‘Christ knows what they are. Rina told me things once, terrible things. I didn’t believe them at the time. Now I’m not so sure.’

‘What things?’

He turns away again.

‘What things, Fletcher?’

Looking down at his shoes he asks, ‘Have you ever heard of the legend of St Faran?’

‘I’m not religious.’

‘Religion has nothing to do with it. Rina rang me once, she’d run away from Sorrow Spring and was begging to come back here. She told me something terrible had happened. A boy was killed as part of a ritual. I didn’t believe her then. I do now.’

I laugh in disbelief. ‘Come on. This isn’t the Stone Age.’

Fletcher looks serious. ‘Lullaby believed it. Enough to give up her daughter to keep Emesh safe.’

The idea is ridiculous. What’s not ridiculous is that Granny believed it. She was always into all sorts of new-age nonsense. All along I’ve not been able to think of a single reason why she would abandon her daughter. Now I have the answer. It also explains why Dad feels so guilty. His sister was given up for him.

‘You think it’s a fantasy,’ Fletcher says.

‘How could anyone possibly get away with it?’

‘I can’t answer that. But if it is a fantasy, it’s one three members of your family shared.’

‘Then why are you still here? It won’t be long before they realise you’re still alive. And whoever the arsonist is will be back.’

‘I know all the countryside around here. I can choose to be seen or not seen. And I’ll be abroad in a month or so. Don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself.’

An engine growls along the road at the top of the track. Fletcher jumps at the sound of it.

‘I need to go. Tell no one I’m here.’

‘I won’t but …’

Two bounds and all that’s visible is the yellow flash of his anorak. A couple of seconds later and he’s out of sight.

The white Transit van doesn’t stop. We are not being watched. I wait to see if Fletcher returns. He doesn’t, and I go back to the car.

*

Poor phone reception means it takes a while to download the search results for St Faran. Eventually they start appearing on my screen. I click the top one.

The first link contains an image of a boy kneeling next to a man carrying a broad-bladed axe. Underneath is the caption: ‘Taken from the stained-glass window in St Faran’s church, Sorrow Spring’.

I read the text.

Faran the Holy inherited the lands of Sorrow Hill at age seven, but his jealous sister asked her husband to kill the child so they could rule together. The child was led to a secluded ash grove there he was killed with a single blow of an axe. Where his head fell, a spring burst from the ground and granted long life and good health to all who drank from it.

What does this mean? Fletcher said Aunt Rina talked of a ritual in which a boy died. Was it a commemoration of this story? Did some terrible accident occur?

After I type in my next search, I realise how incredibly stupid I’ve been. All the time I searched for Prosperina Fuchsia Pine and got nothing. Typing in Sorrow Spring brings back pages of results, all telling me there’s something very wrong with that village. Listed as newspaper headlines and on different forums is death after death.

In the year we know Aunt Rina went to live at Laburnum Lodge, 1978, four people died. Emily Frain hanged herself in nearby Lapmore Woods, a popular suicide destination. And, more frighteningly, a triple murder occurred: twenty-one-year-old Jed Barrowcroft, his grandmother, Verity Vane, and the local vicar, the Reverend Ramsay Rivers. All this in a village with a population of less than two thousand people.

The next entry, from 1979, chills my blood. Steve Evans, a young police constable, was battered to death whilst investigating an attempted burglary. The perpetrators were never found. The name of the property he was protecting – Laburnum Lodge.

I look for the years before and afterwards.

A man called David Glebe had been visiting relatives. It was April, the roads were dry and free from leaves. Despite the good conditions, Glebe lost control of his car; it skidded off the road and hit a tree. He died before the ambulance arrived.

More deaths, mostly suicides and accidents. This can’t be just bad luck. Something has to be going on here. Why has no one looked into this? Isn’t it perfect material for an investigative true-crime podcast? Then I remember the shopkeeper’s words: This village is sick of people coming here and sticking their noses in our business. Were they all warned off?

Sun’s accusation that boys were killed doesn’t hold up. All of these people are over twenty. No boys were killed. And no girls.

But I’m at a dead end. Fletcher was my last hope.

I’m unsure what to do. If someone is confidently impersonating Aunt Rina for money, then she’s most likely dead. But if she is alive, she must be in Sorrow Spring. Is she in hiding or being held captive?

It’s then I receive a text from an unknown number.

If you want to know the truth, come to Laburnum Lodge tonight.

Perhaps I should be more cautious, but I’ve come this far and I have to know. Once again, I set my satnav coordinates for Sorrow Spring.

Dumb

Rob loses it when I tell him I’m going back to Sorrow Spring.

‘What the fuck, Cate? These people are arsonists and murderers, and you’re just going to rock up for a little chat? You have to be kidding me? Call the police.’

‘I spoke to the police, remember? They’re not interested.’

‘Come home. At least think it through before you rush off to the arse end of nowhere chasing a relative you don’t even know exists.’

‘She definitely existed once. I’ve proved that, at least.’

‘It’s dangerous.’

‘Rob, I’m confronting a middle-aged woman and a pensioner, not Al Capone.’

‘You’ve no idea who you’re confronting. Stay away from that place. What you’ve uncovered doesn’t prove anything about your so- called aunt. How can you trust this Fletcher bloke? Maybe he’s the arsonist. How do you know he’s not lying about the whole thing?’

‘There’s only one way to find out.’

‘Cate, please. Think of the twins.’

‘It’s only a small diversion on my way back.’

‘Are you listening to what I’m saying?’

I hold the phone away from me. I don’t like doing this to him.

‘Rob, I’m losing the signal.’

‘Cate … Cate.’

‘I can’t hear you.’

‘Cate.’

‘Talk soon.’

I kill the call and turn off the phone.

*

Four hours later I’m in Sorrow Spring. My bravado melts away the second I arrive. No rooks on the village signpost today, only an eerily empty road and a darkening sky. The bare, overhanging trees at Laburnum Lodge appear as a tunnel leading to the house. Emerging on the other side, the car headlights roll over its unlit windows. I turn off the engine. An uncanny stillness clings to the property. No twig cracks, no branch groans. The clunk of the car door and gravel crunching beneath my feet are the only sounds to intrude upon the unnatural hush.

I switch my phone back on. Just in case.

On the doorstep, I hesitate before pulling the bell rope, then brace against its clanging, which echoes back through the house. No one comes to the door and I haven’t the nerve to walk around the garden. God knows what lurks in those tall weeds once the sun goes down. But I won’t give in to the foreboding slithering in my guts. I am a rationalist, a scientist. I pull the rope again.

Nothing and no one.

It’s almost a relief.

I’m about to leave when a feathery breeze swishes through the branches, brushes my skin and blows the front door open an inch.

Why isn’t it locked?

I push it further and reach for the light switch. The electricity circuit must have tripped because it doesn’t work.

My phone torch will have to do. The narrow beam illuminates only small sections of the hall. From what I can see, there’s faded patterned wallpaper to one side and dark wooden panelling to the other. I trace the banisters up to the landing, which runs parallel to the front of the house, then run the light horizontally across. I jolt to a stop. The banisters are broken; the rail and supports splintered.

Something has smashed through them.

Slowly I lower the beam.

The light falls on shards of wood surrounding a heap of rags. From within folds of material, a pair of eyes bore into me and a tongue lolls from open jaws.

I jump back, expecting to be scolded for trespassing.

Only the mouth moves wordlessly as the eyelids flicker to stay open. As I steady the phone, I can see it is the old lady I met on my first visit to Laburnum Lodge. Her legs lie twisted backwards at a gruesome angle. Blood trickles from an ear and drips into puddles on the tiled floor.

Such a slight woman could not have broken these sturdy banisters in a fall. She must have been pushed. I quell the panic rising within me and try to focus. Yesterday, I let my dislike of Sorrow Spring and its inhabitants override my conscience. I ought to have rung Social Services. The old woman should not have been left alone. This time I will do the right thing.

My hands are shaking as I swipe my phone and begin to ring nine nine nine.

I don’t reach the final digit.

A fist smashes into my temple. I fly sideways and crash to the floor. My phone tumbles from my grasp. A second assailant stamps on it.

Boots pummel my ribs as I try to stand. Winded, I fall back to the ground. A man slams down on top of me, his knees pinning my shoulders to the floor.

‘You dumb bitch.’ Although I’ve only heard the voice once before, I recognise it – the village shopkeeper. ‘When someone tells you to stay away – listen.’

I try to scream. He punches me in the throat.

‘Tie her up,’ the second man says.

‘Please,’ I say. ‘I have children.’

‘Art, have you got your violin with you?’ the shopkeeper laughs.

‘All I want to do is find my aunt.’

‘Curiosity and the cat. Not a happy ending,’ the shopkeeper says.

‘Let me go. I won’t say anything to anyone,’ I say.

‘You’re not wrong about that.’

I try to wriggle from under him. He punches me again.

‘Not too many bruises, Milo,’ Art says.

‘Sorry. Forgot.’

‘Tie her up and get her to Lapmore.’

Not too many bruises – Lapmore Woods – a popular destination for suicides. I remember reading about it online. That is where the woman Emily Frain was found the same year as the massacre.

‘Please. Let me go. I won’t tell anyone you were here. I’ll say I found the old lady like that.’

Art snorts. ‘Not what the coroner will record, I’m afraid. You murdered the old woman for money, then hanged yourself out of guilt.’

‘You can’t get away with this – not in the twenty-first century.’

‘You won’t find many places more thoroughly up to date with modern ideas than Sorrow Spring. Whatever your father told you. How is he, by the way?’

‘You know him?’

‘Met him once, a long time ago. He came here looking for his sister – had the sense to leave. You should have done the same. This was your choice, Catherine, remember that.’

He pushes me onto my stomach and starts to bind my wrists.

Why was I so stupid, thinking I was being brave and adventurous when I was being rash and reckless? Rob’s about to become a widower. The twins will grow up motherless and there’s no Granny to step in.

‘This is all a misunderstanding. I never hurt anyone. I’m a mother. My children—’

The shopkeeper presses his knee into the base of my neck, so hard I’m sure it’s going to snap.

I’m not brave. I’m not a warrior. Warm wetness seeps into my jeans as I lose control of my bladder.

‘What do you want?’ I whine. ‘I’ll give you anything. Please just let me go.’

‘Christ, she’s got a gob on her,’ Art says.

‘I’d hang her just to shut her up,’ Milo says.

‘Listen to me, Cate. The Pines had this coming. Both you and the old woman after what happened to Jed. The Barrowcrofts never forget.’

Milo shifts his knee further up my neck and presses down, cutting off my windpipe. I gasp for air that won’t come.

Blackness rings my vision, flooding to the centre until it obliterates all light. Keeping the pressure on my neck, the shopkeeper manoeuvres himself so he can lean down close to my ear and say, ‘Night, night, you dumb bitch.’

My limbs go limp. The world drifts away.

Art gives a throaty laugh.

‘The problem with the Pines is they never know when they’re beat.’

A voice cuts through my dwindling consciousness.

‘I could say the same about the Barrowcrofts. Step away, Art.’

‘I’ve got my orders,’ he says.

‘Not from me. You need to step back. And you, Milo, get up.’

The pressure releases from my neck and I manage to pull air back into my lungs.

‘Look, I was told to do this,’ he says.

‘By me?’

‘No, but—’

‘Both of you will be dealt with later.’ Her tone is cold and authoritative. ‘Right now you can go. Get out.’

I roll onto my back, open my eyes and see the men retreat through the front door.

From out of the darkness, soft, quick footsteps run towards me; torchlight silhouettes, four women and two shotguns.

The women without the guns cut my ties and pull me to my feet. I’m trembling so much my legs give way. They catch me under my elbows. One runs her torch over me.

‘A few bruises. She’ll be fine.’

It doesn’t feel like I’ll be fine ever again. I’m still shaking. My throat feels like it’s stuffed with dry twigs. All I can manage is a croak.

‘The old woman.’

Another woman, I didn’t see at first, moves into the light. When she approaches, her face is younger than I expect. The stick must be for injury, not age. There’s a trace of Granny about her face, a short stubby nose and wide-set eyes. And she takes her time examining me. Her voice loses its harshness when she says, ‘I believe you’ve been looking for me, Catherine.’

1979

Your Aunt

Pain was pulsating through my body at excruciating levels. But it existed as a separate entity, an island far off shore. No, it wasn’t pain that caused me to wince, rather the acrid disinfectant fumes invading my nostrils and the squeak of rubber-soled shoes nearby.

I forced my eyes open. Harsh white light bounced off the laminate flooring and pale walls. Had Lullaby moved me from the kids’ dormitory in the barn to one of the farmhouse bedrooms? That’s what happened the last time I was ill – a nasty bout of tonsillitis. Only this was not the same room as before. That one had been cosy and comforting, with stripped wooden floorboards and oak furniture. This was like … like …

I pushed my arms down to try to raise my torso.

The rubber soles came squeaking towards the bed. A woman in a blue dress with a white pinafore peered over me. Her large brown eyes flicked up and down. In a churning accent that was both familiar and strange she said, ‘Ah, you’re awake, love. I’ll tell your aunt.’

She hurried off.

My aunt.

Fragmented images flitted across my mind: a man’s leering grin, blood spattering my face, hands around my neck, the rush of metal, the eruption of pain. Then more pain and even more. Followed by darkness.

Oh God. I was not safely tucked up in the farmhouse at Wroxwood. Angharad would not be running up and downstairs bringing me elderflower syrup, whilst Lullaby sneaked me lozenges from the local pharmacist.

Your aunt.

She was here.

I scanned the room: a metal-framed bed and metal-framed windows, ice frosting the glass. My last memory had been of a summer storm. It was winter now and this was not Laburnum Lodge.

More images: sirens screaming, flashing lights, needles, drips and more pain. And always with the old women, your aunt, peering over me, the scent of lavender mixing with the disinfectant.

Then one final image, more sickening than the rest.

St Faran’s Spring.

The Sistren advancing, no longer doddery old women, but voracious predators intent on their kill.

I raised my head half an inch.

‘Luke,’ I called.

No reply.

‘Luke.’

My head felt heavy. I flopped back onto the pillow and let tears stream down my cheeks.

Another sound. Hard-soled shoes this time. Their slap on the laminate accompanied by the waft of lavender.

No. No. No.

Aunt Agatha was standing over me. If I’d have had one ounce of strength, I would have leapt from my mattress, grabbed her by the throat and beaten her head on the floor until it spilt its flesh like a ripe watermelon.

But I had no strength, and she didn’t even register my look of loathing. She only patted a cushion on the orange plastic chair next to the bed and sat down.

‘You won’t be seeing that boy again,’ she said with a satisfied wriggle on the seat.

I closed my eyes. Luke and I were in the cool, dark of the church that day we discovered my name in the Sistren’s book. His face and hair dripping wet with the water from the font, droplets running down his chest.

I hugged myself.

‘Luke,’ I whispered.

‘For goodness’ sake, will you stop harping on about that boy?’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘It’s the same every time you wake up. Grizzling like a three-year-old. I’m sick to death of it.’

I’d woken up before?

‘I blame the medical staff,’ she huffed. ‘Hospitals – they’re hardly fit for purpose. No wonder so many people die in here.’

A hospital. Not Laburnum Lodge and not Sorrow Spring. That woman in the white was a nurse. I must be sicker than I knew.

‘Has Lullaby come to see me?’ I asked.

Aunt Agatha scoffed. ‘Your mother’s swanning around Europe with her fancy man. I don’t even know which country she’s in. And be honest, Rina, if she knew, do you think she’d come?’

‘Of course she’d come,’ I said.

Hadn’t she been kind at Wroxwood whenever I’d been sick, sitting with me and reading to me? Yes, she had been kind, very kind, before she abandoned me, leaving no address or means of contacting her. Tears welled up once more. Twisting my neck to hide my face sent a shot of pain down my spine and I cried out.

The nurse hurried back.

It was possible I wouldn’t get a second chance. How many times had I fallen asleep and forgotten? I had to risk it, even with Aunt Agatha there. As the nurse leant over me, I grasped her arm.

‘You have to call the police,’ I said. ‘Something terrible’s happened.’

She took my fingers and gently released their grip.

‘You’ve seen too much for a girl your age,’ she said. ‘But you’re safe here.’

‘No. No, I’m not.’

I looked towards Aunt Agatha, who had pulled an expression of fortitude and forbearance.

‘I’m afraid my niece is very confused.’

‘It’s not unusual after such severe trauma,’ the nurse said.

‘You don’t understand,’ I said.

The nurse held up a syringe.

‘Now this is just a little scratch.’

She took my arm and positioned it.

‘Call the police …’ The needle punctured my arm. ‘They killed Luke.’

Aunt Agatha’s patient expression started to waver.

‘Luke?’ The nurse wrinkled her forehead. ‘The boy in the papers?’

‘What papers?’ I asked.

‘You mustn’t become agitated. You need to rest,’ she said.

‘But Luke …’

‘Don’t worry. I’m sure your aunt will explain everything when you’re better.’

‘Please.’

She started to back away.

‘Once the painkillers kick in, you’ll feel calmer.’

Aunt Agatha stepped between the nurse and the bed.

‘Thank you for being so understanding.’

‘It’s our job. The doctor will be along later.’ She disappeared down the corridor.

When she was out of earshot, Aunt Agatha pulled her chair close and sat down.

‘Your loose tongue is putting everyone in danger.’

‘You should be in danger. Luke’s dead and you killed him.’

She jerked upright, blinked at me a couple of times, then started to laugh.

‘Killed him? Dead? Your precious boy isn’t dead.’

The drugs were creeping through my veins, the pain drifted away and the edges of the room were starting to blur. Aunt Agatha’s face contorted and her eyes turned to great, black caverns.

Had she really told me Luke wasn’t dead?

Her jaw unhooked like a snake, so her mouth stretched from the floor to the ceiling, the tongue flickering and tasting the air.

‘If that’s what you’re worried about, I can assure you he’s in perfect health,’ she hissed. ‘Luke Glebe is no use to us dead.’

Sweet Spot

The sequence of oblivion, realisation, horror, then a return to oblivion, repeated itself many times over the weeks and months I lay in hospital. The nurses came and went but their look of pity mixed with fraying patience remained the same. And Aunt Agatha’s triumphant sneer never failed to materialise, if my drug-fogged mind forgot what she had told me about Luke.

When first injected, the morphine left me in a blissful daze in which I returned to Wroxwood and wandered the Gossdale Valley with Emesh and Forest. As its effects subsided, the pain advanced. Creeping at first, then charging full tilt, crashing through my body and leaving me writhing in agony until my next shot. There was, however, a sweet spot between the daze and the agony, in which I searched for a meaning in Aunt Agatha’s words.

Luke Glebe is no use to us dead.

I should have been relieved to know he was still alive. And yet it only increased my anxiety. What had the Sistren done to him? If free, he would never leave me alone in a hospital bed with no one but the old woman for company. Something or someone was keeping him from me.

Using the scant facts available, I searched for an explanation. Luke’s name had been in the papers. Aunt Agatha’s presence at the hospital showed that she and the Sistren’s practices had remained undiscovered. The answer lay tantalisingly close but every time it came within touching distance the pain returned, halting my reasoning. Then its relief, the morphine, erased my faltering deductions, and I had to start afresh in my next lucid period.

If I mentioned Luke’s name, Aunt Agatha became angry. But she enjoyed using it to bait me.

‘I never did like that boy,’ she said one day. ‘Too much like his mother, Clara. She always had her head stuck in some book she considered highbrow. Thought herself too great and grand for Sorrow Spring. I read one once. I’ve never seen such trash. Language that would make a trooper blush being presented as great literature. Much good all that reading did for her. Oh, and talking of trash.’ She reached into her cloth bag and brought out my copy of The Midwich Cuckoos. ‘I found this under your mattress.’

Did she know it had been a birthday present from Luke? The two green eyes on the cover stared out at me. It must have been the drugs that made them scan the room with malevolent intent. Unnerved, I turned away.

‘Be like that,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘There’s a Bible in the bedside drawer. That’s far more fitting. You might learn something.’

She took out her knitting needles and a half-formed jumper.

I remembered what was written inside the cover of The Midwich Cuckoos: ‘To Rina, from Luke x’.

The only writing I had of his.

I put my pillow over my head and wished the world would disappear.

Lunch arrived. I ignored it and Aunt Agatha carried on knitting.

‘Oh dear, love. Having a bad day?’ the nurse said when she came to check me over and saw my plate untouched. She was the same nurse with the nice brown eyes who first attended me. ‘You have to eat,’ she said.

‘It’s not food she needs,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘Can’t you give her more of the other stuff?’

‘She’s not due another injection for an hour and a half. It’s hardly surprising she’s upset,’ the nurse said, and smiled at me. ‘You’ve been through so much, you poor thing.’

Aunt Agatha curled her lip in contempt. ‘Call me old-fashioned, but this modern trend for mollycoddling does more harm than good. We must learn to tread on rough paths strewn with stones and not expect others to smooth the way.’

‘I was on duty the night all those casualties came in from Sorrow Spring, Miss Pine. I’ve seen some terrible sights, industrial accidents, motorway pile-ups, but nothing like that. No child should have to see that.’

‘She’s hardly a child,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘In my day she’d have been out earning her living by now.’

The nurse looked about to respond, then wisely chose to say nothing. But she did give my hand a little squeeze as she left.

The gesture gave me courage.

‘If you don’t tell me what happened to Luke, I’ll go to the papers. I’ll only have to give them the name of the Starshine Children’s Home. I’m sure a clever journalist could piece together the rest.’

Aunt Agatha rested her knitting on her lap. Without bothering to look up she said, ‘Having seen where threats against the Sistren lead, I’m not sure if I should admire your bravery or scold your stupidity.’

‘Tell me what you’ve done.’

She stood up, went over and shut the door, then returned to her seat and resumed her knitting. After several minutes of clicking needles, she said, ‘You youngsters – always so cocksure.’ She remained, head bowed, concentrating on creating the jumper. ‘Do you think the Sistren have survived all these hundreds of years by chance? Was it good luck that, back when women were little more than chattels and our healers were being hanged for witchcraft, the Sistren ran this village, however it seemed to the outside world? It’s not chance, Rina. We use our power as we can and when things go awry, we fix them. That boy who was nearly our undoing – nearly your undoing – ended up saving us.’

I hardly dared to ask.

‘He saved you?’

‘Even in Sorrow Spring three dead bodies and a mutilation require some explanation,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘I may as well tell you, because you’ll find out soon enough. It turns out Luke Glebe had taken drugs. A practice he brought back with him from London. They addled his mind and sent him on a killing spree.’

‘Luke never took drugs,’ I shouted.

I pushed my arms down and willed my legs to stand. They would only twitch.

‘There’s going to be a trial, of course.’ She paused to adjust her work. ‘But given the overwhelming evidence and the number of eyewitnesses, there’ll be only one verdict. Unfortunately, the village of Sorrow Spring, which has been unknown for centuries, will be in the national newspapers again. Still, in a few months there’ll be another scandal somewhere else and we will be forgotten. Today’s news is tomorrow’s fish-and-chip paper, as they say.’

‘You can’t do this. Luke didn’t kill Jed or Verity.’

‘And what about Reverend Rivers? Luke may as well hang for a sheep as a lamb. Not that they hang people these days, more’s the pity.’

Luke was being blamed for everything. He would be found guilty of murder and not see the light of day until he was an old man.

‘Why him? Why not me?’ I asked.

A maddeningly superior smile spread across her face.

‘Oh, Rina, I always thought you were a clever girl. Haven’t you guessed yet?’

‘Guessed what?’

‘I need you alive and well and back in Sorrow Spring.’

‘You tried to kill me.’

‘Stop being so melodramatic.’

‘I can’t walk.’

‘Temporarily can’t walk. The doctors will say it’s surgery and physio, but that water you’ve been drinking is from the spring.’ I had already noticed the large jug next to my bed, which Aunt Agatha kept filled. ‘You’ll be up on your feet in no time. I’d never really harm you, Rina. You’re a Pine – flesh and blood. Besides, thou shalt not kill.’

She spoke without a flicker of conscience.

‘Thou shalt not kill,’ I said. ‘What about Peter, and Jimmy and all those other boys?

Aunt Agatha looked confused.

‘Those were sacrifices sanctioned by God, as shown to us through Osana.’

‘And Jacob?’

‘Charlotte’s child? We will reclaim him one day.’

Despite all I had witnessed, I found it impossible to fathom the depths of her madness and that she truly considered herself and the Sistren to be on some holy mission. Peter, Jacob, Luke – their lives meant nothing to her.

‘You can’t believe your God or any God wants people killed, Aunt Agatha. Fletcher said—’

‘Don’t talk to me about that degenerate. He’s as much to blame for how you turned out as your mother. You should have learnt your Bible. For the life of the flesh is in the blood: and I have given it to you upon the altar to make an atonement for your souls: for it is the blood that maketh an atonement for the soul. Leviticus. Blood is demanded.’ Her eyes blazed with righteous anger. ‘You want to know why you’re here and Luke’s locked up. I’ll tell you why, Prosperina Fuchsia Pine. Because it suits our purposes.’

‘What purposes?’

‘Eat your meal. It’s getting cold.’

I dashed the lunch from the tray. Peas scattered over the knitting and the plate smashed across the floor. Calmly, Aunt Agatha stood and shook the jumper clean. Then returned to her seat.

‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ she said in a voice of cold steel. ‘You need to eat. I can’t have you wasting away. We need you in tip- top health.’

‘What do you mean?’ An icy sickness gripped my stomach.

‘The Distaff line has to continue. You need to have babies and lots of them. Maybe with the shopkeeper’s boy – Milo, is it?’

‘I won’t.’

‘If you find men distasteful, there’s always these test-tube babies I keep reading about.’

‘Never. I’ll never go back to Sorrow Spring and I’m never having babies.’

Aunt Agatha raised an eyebrow and returned to her knitting.

‘Never is a long time, Rina.’

Dose

One hundred and sixty stitches and fifteen pints of blood had kept me alive, aided, Aunt Agatha claimed, by draughts of water from St Faran’s Spring. As my wounds started to heal, my morphine dose was gradually reduced, which meant that the sweet spots increased in length. Aunt Agatha had hinted at turmoil in Sorrow Spring and she could not always be at my side. One time I awakened from my daze to find myself alone with the nurse.

‘Your aunt’s not here yet,’ she told me. ‘I brought you some games. Miss Pine doesn’t approve but I think you’re old enough to make up your own mind.’

She carried a pack of cards and a battered wooden box with the word ‘Operation’ on it, which made me laugh.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘I know it can’t be much fun being stuck in here at your age. You should be out with your friends and meeting lads. I did suggest moving you onto the ward so you’d be with other youngsters, but your aunt insists you stay here. She must have some influence with Sister because normally you only get a room to yourself for a couple of days.’

The talk of friends and lads made me miserable. It must have shown on my face.

‘Ah, love, now don’t cry.’

She started to take my temperature and pulse.

‘Nurse,’ I said.

‘You can call me Jenny.’

‘Jenny, it’s true what I told you the first time. I’m frightened. You have to help me.’

‘Morphine plays tricks on your mind, makes you see all sorts.’

‘You don’t understand what happened to me. My aunt, she’s a terrible woman. Dangerous. Evil.’

Jenny looked like she was about to laugh but straightened her face.

‘Sometimes that generation can seem a little strict,’ Jenny said.

‘It’s much, much worse than that. Do you know what happened to him, Luke, the boy in the paper?’

She paused in writing down my numbers on the clipboard at the end of the bed.

‘You really shouldn’t upset yourself.’

She would never believe me. I wouldn’t have believed it myself. How could I persuade her?

I thought of the concerned face of the young policeman who had knocked on the door in Sorrow Spring. If there’s anything you want to tell me.

‘Speak to Constable Evans,’ I said. ‘He’ll tell you the truth.’

From down the corridor I could hear Aunt Agatha greeting one of the other nurses.

‘Please, please, do this for me. I’m in terrible danger.’

‘Your aunt …’

Aunt Agatha swept into the room before Jenny fastened the clipboard to the end of the bed, nodded hello and left.

‘You’re awake already?’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘Have they lowered your dose?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’ll speak to the doctor,’ she said. ‘What were you talking to the nurse about?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Just remember, Rina, if you want the whole truth to come out that will include what you did to Jed and Joy.’

Jed’s shocked face and blood-coated teeth rose before me. My determination to contact Constable Evans weakened.

‘I’ve done what I can for you. Got you your own room to rest and recuperate. But I get about as much gratitude for that as I do in coming here to see you every day,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘It’s not as if there’s nothing to do back in Sorrow Spring. The whole village is in uproar. We’ve had reporters and TV crews. Everything we despise. The Sistren … well, never mind that now, but it’s been touch and go, Rina, touch and go.’

‘Have they chosen another leader?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I am their only leader. With Verity dead and Joy in disgrace who else can steer them through this troubled time? But we survived the 1919 Spanish influenza and we’ll survive this.’

‘Pity.’

‘The doctor should never have lowered your dose.’

As she spoke, said doctor returned with Nurse Jenny.

I usually saw the doctor through the fog of morphine and whenever I had tried to speak, an indecipherable gurgle escaped my mouth and drool spilt down my chin. Like that brief moment alone with the nurse, it signalled that the timings of these lucid periods had changed.

He had gentle eyes and a grey beard. Aunt Agatha stood next to him, twisting the pewter ring, as he took the clipboard at the end of the bed.

‘You’re a little more awake today. Good. Good,’ the doctor said.

I glanced at Aunt Agatha.

He held his fingers to his lips as he perused my notes.

‘I’m going to have a little look at your wounds.’

Jenny pealed back the bedsheets and adjusted the dressings. A dank and musty smell escaped. I grimaced.

He spent some time looking at my injuries, then made notes on the clipboard.

‘Excellent. Healing well. No infection. How’s the pain?’

‘I think my niece is in a good deal of pain,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job, Doctor, but perhaps decreasing her dose was a mistake.’

‘Morphine is a highly addictive substance,’ the doctor said. ‘The young are particularly susceptible, Mrs Pine.’

Aunt Agatha didn’t correct him on her marital status.

‘I see,’ she said. ‘And now about the other matter. If we could …’ She moved to just outside the room and the doctor followed her. I watched them through the glass.

Nurse Jenny was redressing my wounds. I tried to keep my focus through the rising discomfort. Only snatches of Aunt Agatha’s discussion were audible.

‘Time will tell. But as for everything else, she’ll be as right as rain,’ the doctor said.

‘Rain nourishes the earth and brings forth green shoots,’ Aunt Agatha said.

I didn’t catch the rest because Nurse Jenny, who had finished with my dressings and had also been watching my aunt and the doctor, bent down close to me and said, ‘That policeman, Evans, did you say? Young chap?’

‘That’s him,’ I said, my jaw clenched. The pain was really starting to bite.

‘I remember him now. The night you arrived, I’ve never had one like it. Even with your injuries, you weren’t our main priority. The young man … I won’t upset you. Anyway, Constable Evans was here and he insisted on coming to see you. He’s not been back since and I didn’t think anything of it until you said about him. Is it important, what you want to say?’

‘Very important. But …’ Aunt Agatha’s conversation with the doctor seemed to be winding up. ‘Please can you get a letter to him? And to my friend Fletcher in Wroxwood? They’re the only ones who can help.’

Nurse Jenny also saw that Aunt Agatha and the doctor had finished. She gave a brief nod and returned to the dressings. When Aunt Agatha came back to the room, her face showed clear signs of distress. Usually, she smothered unpleasant emotions with sharp words or a flurry of activity. It was rare for her to show any feelings other than irritation and anger. She sat down on the orange chair, silent and contemplative.

‘Thank you, Jenny,’ I said when she finished with my dressings and pulled the cover over me.

‘It’s Jenny now, is it?’ Aunt Agatha said after she left. ‘Don’t think I didn’t see you talking while I was with the doctor. If anything happens …’ She stopped and sucked air in through her teeth. ‘If anything happens, on your head be it.’

*

Later that evening, after Aunt Agatha had left, Jenny returned with a pen and paper.

Sodom and Gomorrah

I had started to walk with the aid of sticks; small painful steps like treading on red-hot needles. The doctor said my progress was remarkable. Aunt Agatha smiled and nodded to the bottle of water she’d brought with her. The doctor looked confused. But the smile wasn’t for him.

‘You’ll be ready to go home next week. Be sure to keep up with your exercises and you’ll be as right as rain.’

Right as rain. The expression he had used before. Aunt Agatha’s smile disappeared.

‘You mustn’t worry, Mrs Pine,’ he said. ‘We don’t know yet.’

‘Know what?’ I asked.

The doctor studied his notes and avoided my eye.

‘Don’t worry, Rina. You’re young. Too young to worry about such things. Conception might still take place without any problems.’

‘Conception of what?’ I asked.

‘Ah. You need to have a little talk with your aunt. I have to continue on my rounds.’

‘What does he mean?’ I asked Aunt Agatha after he left.

‘As the doctor said, there’s nothing to worry about.’

‘You’re worried.’

‘Not at all,’ she said, with false cheer. ‘You’re coming home next week. We’ll have you up and back to your old self in no time.’

I let her ramble on about how things would change on my return. Every Sunday, I would be joining the ladies in the Prayer Room at the back of the Moot Hall. My place as her successor would be uncontested with the Vanes out of favour. Why argue? Jenny had sent the letters to PC Evans and Fletcher. Soon, Aunt Agatha and the rest of the Sistren would be under arrest and I would be travelling back to Wroxwood.

She caught me smiling to myself.

‘So you’ll be happy to come back?’

I shrugged.

‘Don’t take me for a fool, Rina.’

Her tone made me sit up.

‘I did warn you.’ She reached into her bag. ‘You’ve no one but yourself to blame. Although that filthy hippy undoubtedly had it coming anyway.’

‘What hippy?’

I knew exactly who she meant.

‘You did know the ward sister here is Mrs Cox’s niece?’

She removed a newspaper cutting from her bag.

‘Rightly that den of iniquity has been judged and found wanting,’ she said. ‘We will destroy this place, because the cry of them is waxen great before the face of the Lord. As with Sodom and Gomorrah, emissaries have been to put an end to their sin.’

I tried to remember what had happened at Sodom and Gomorrah.

Aunt Agatha handed me the paper.

In the early hours of Wednesday morning, police raided Brook Farm just outside the village of Gossdale and arrested members of the so- called Wroxwood Commune. Local residents have long suspected that the group’s leader, Fletcher Sun, is working with criminal gangs from the Manchester area in order to grow and distribute cannabis. Adult members of the group are now in police custody. Minors are being temporarily housed with nearby foster families.

Gossdale’s vicar, John Munford, has frequently expressed concerns about the welfare of the Wroxwood children.

‘They looked half starved. None of them attended school or came to church. I had words with Sun in the past. He chose to ignore them and I felt it my duty to inform the authorities.’

Social services are hoping to find permanent homes for these neglected youngsters.

Meanwhile, police are considering what charges to bring against Sun.

*

‘The vicar’s lying,’ I said.

‘He’s doing God’s work,’ Aunt Agatha said primly. ‘If I had my way, they’d lock up the lot of them and throw away the key.’

By now Forest would be with some horrid family who’d make him wear a uniform and go to school. And the rest – Fletcher, Angharad, Ravi – were they in prison? Selfishly I thought about what this meant for me.

‘It was very easy to contact the vicar of Gossdale,’ Aunt Agatha said. ‘Both you and Lily made a point of telling me how ill-disposed he was towards your commune. He didn’t take much persuading.’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘I did warn you, but you’ve insisted on being selfish, Rina. More selfish than you know. That poor young Jenny, who had such a promising career, has been moved to another hospital. And as for Constable Evans … If only that letter had been lost in the post. His poor parents.’

‘W-what have you done?’ I stuttered.

‘I didn’t do anything. You did this. I threw away the newspaper report about Constable Evans. It’s far too upsetting to carry around in my handbag.’

‘Tell me what you’ve done.’

With her mild expression she could be describing the events of a village fête.

‘Constable Evans kept asking questions and making a nuisance of himself. And then your letter … he was called out to a robbery at Laburnum Lodge. I was having drinks with Mrs Greening at the time. The burglars were still there when Evans arrived. Tragic, unnecessary and tragic. You see, he was battered to death. They had to use dental records to identify him – they certainly couldn’t allow his family to see his face like that. Can you imagine what he suffered? What his parents are suffering? And such a handsome young man … He could be anyone’s son, or brother. Imagine if something like that were to happen to someone close to you, Rina.’

The last sentence she laced with heavy significance.

The fight went out of me then. Trying to escape had destroyed Wroxwood, wrecked Jenny’s career and killed Constable Evans. Who was next, Lullaby, Emesh, Luke?

I had run out of options.

I would return to Laburnum Lodge.

And this time without even the faint hope of ever leaving.

Conception

Mr Murray, the shopkeeper, helped move me back to Laburnum Lodge. His son, Milo, assisted. After Aunt Agatha’s suggestion that he father my children, I could only look on him with disgust.

I refused to go into my old bedroom. Aunt Agatha assured me it had been cleaned. But the room would be forever imprinted with Jed, his blood, sweat and nicotine breath.

With much fuss about having to fetch fresh bedding, Aunt Agatha allowed me to move into Charlotte’s old room. I couldn’t manage the stairs without assistance, so I practised walking up and down the landing with my sticks. Two chairs were laid out for me, one halfway along and one at the end so I could rest. Soon I could do a whole circuit without stopping.

During this period, I alternated between anger and despair. This was my life now. I was to be stuck in Laburnum Lodge for ever, alone and friendless. Even when I could walk unaided, where would I go? How stupid Luke and I had been, not leaving when we could. Our lives should have been filled with endless possibilities, instead we were both confined to prison; mine no less real for lack of bars.

I heard nothing of him. Aunt Agatha kept the newspapers and radio from me and was careful to let nothing slip. To keep me occupied she supplied me with library books; mysteries and whodunnits. Once, I would have devoured them. Now my mind could fix on nothing but Luke. I had dark notions about the treatment of handsome young men thrown into the midst of hardened criminals.

Weeks passed. Aunt Agatha mounted the stairs, fed me, cleaned the room, spouted a few biblical quotes and left. All hope that somehow the Sistren would be brought to justice and I would be able to escape, was extinguished. The only people I heard coming to the house were the Sistren ladies, and occasionally the shopkeeper or his son.

Then Aunt Agatha made a mistake.

Not that either of us recognised it immediately. Reading one of my books I came across the word ‘iconoclast’. I didn’t know the meaning and so asked her. Rather than admit she didn’t know either, she brought me a dictionary; an old, cheap one with a peeling spine.

An ‘iconoclast’ is someone who destroys images or attacks deeply held beliefs.

I quite liked the idea of being an iconoclast.

Another word came to me. Conception. The doctor had told Aunt Agatha conception might still take place without any problems. She had refused to explain the word or why she was so upset, more visibly upset even than when Verity announced the smallpox outbreak.

I flicked back from I to C.

‘Conception: 1. notion, idea, concept. 2. fertilisation, inception of pregnancy.’

I let the information sink in.

Like the caterpillars on Aunt Agatha’s cabbages, consumed by the larvae of parasitic wasps, my body was to host young for the convenience of others.

This was to be achieved either with Milo, the thought of which made me nauseous, or with this new method, test-tube babies. I barely understood what a test-tube baby was. I pictured a tiny child thrust into a glass jar.

That was my fate. Unless …

Blanche told me once that knowing what someone feared gave you power over them. If conception failed, so did the Distaff line. Aunt Agatha’s greatest fear.

I raised my eyes to the window. Blurred streaks of overnight rain glittered in the mid-morning sun. High above, a black dot circled. It came closer and as my eyes began to focus, I saw it was a bird. Not just any bird but a rook – my rook, the one with the white feather. It fluttered against the window, circled back around and then peered in at me.

It cocked its head to one side, cawed and beat its wings, before taking off again.

I would not leave my fate in the hands of an insane, old woman who still lived in the Middle Ages.

Luke and I would be free.

If things go awry, we fix them, Aunt Agatha had said of the Sistren. Well, I was one of them, the last of the Distaff line.

And finally, I did something to make Aunt Agatha proud. I remembered I was a Pine.

Demands

Two days later, I heard the telephone ringing. Aunt Agatha rarely plugged it in. People who knew her came to the house. It was too far away to hear any conversation. I couldn’t even tell if she’d picked up. That evening, however, she was definitely agitated. I could tell from the way she trailed off halfway through reciting a biblical verse to stare into the middle distance and chew her lip. When a car passed along the road at the bottom of the drive, she raced to the window and squinted out, not moving until it had gone.

Something was stirring beyond the confines of Laburnum Lodge.

Constable Evans’s death had raised questions. There had been an inquiry, a loose thread in the investigation that led all the way back to Sorrow Spring.

*

The next day was one of those overcast summer days, when even high up in Sorrow Spring, the atmosphere was heavy and humid. No birds flew, not even my rook.

I had no clock in my room but my rumbling stomach told me Aunt Agatha was late with breakfast. And I was thirsty, having finished the glass of water next to the bed. I looked forward to breakfast. I was so bored and lonely that a slice of toast and Aunt Agatha’s biblical readings constituted entertainment.

I distracted myself by imagining what Forest would be up to. Maybe he had escaped his foster home and gone to sea and become a pirate, as he’d always planned, or he was on his way to becoming a rock star, his other career ambition. My daydreams were interrupted by a car racing up the drive. None of the Sistren drove in this manner. The brakes squealed to a halt outside and the doorbell clanged. I pulled myself to a seated position and strained to listen. Aunt Agatha and the visitor were speaking too softly for me to hear.

Then a shout.

‘Rina.’

Was I imagining it? It came again.

‘Rina.’

A hundred emotions cascaded over me, elation, hope – fear. It was Emesh. He had come to rescue me. The nightmare was over.

Heavy footsteps ascended the stairs, followed by a lighter tread. ‘She’s not here. She’s run off to London with some lad. You can’t just barge in. I’m calling the police.’

A door banged along the landing. The shout was closer this time.

‘Rina.’

My heart tugged towards him. He was so close – just the other side of the door. Only a few inches of wood stood between us. All I had to do was cry out. I filled my lungs and opened my mouth.

It took every fibre of strength and courage to close my mouth. I bit on my lip so hard, it bled.

Emesh’s next call came from another room further away and the next one from the floor above. I pulled the pillow over my head to block out his shouts. Eventually I did hear a sound: that of the front door slamming then a car engine revving up and gravel crunching under the tyres.

When the engine’s roar receded, I lifted the pillow.

I had sealed my fate now.

There was no going back.

I raised the water glass and smashed it on the bedhead.

*

Jubilation suffused Aunt Agatha’s face as she arrived breathless in my bedroom. Was age blunting her guile or maybe, with Verity dead, she had become less cautious – arrogant even? Or maybe she had simply forgotten that I was no longer the naïve child who had arrived the year before.

‘You know who that was?’

‘My brother, Emesh,’ I said coolly.

‘And you didn’t cry out.’ She looked pleased.

‘Why would I do that?’

She was still by the door and paused, disconcerted for a moment.

‘You mean you’re ….’ She clasped her hands together. ‘You’re starting to believe. You understand now.’

‘I understand.’

She came towards the bed. ‘Oh, Rina. I’m so happy.’

Perhaps it was the poor light with the curtains half drawn, or perhaps the years were finally weighing upon her and her eyesight was failing, but I think it was her mind racing to the future where her niece admired her, aspired to be like her, respected her opinion and lived in hope of emulating her aunt’s glittering success. A success encompassing the deaths of the vicar, a Sistren elder and countless young boys. But there was one death that couldn’t be allowed. One that would end all her scheming.

She was so blind to the obvious, it took her a moment to register what I held in my hand and even longer to compute its meaning.

I had only one thing to bargain with.

‘You value something that I do not,’ I said.

The gleeful expression drained from her face. She brought her hand to her heart.

‘You can’t mean …? Rina, no.’

I pointed the jagged shard of glass to my throat.

It was my turn to smile.

‘Without me, there is no Distaff line.’

‘This is insanity.’

I pushed the glass so it broke my skin.

‘What do you hope to achieve by this? I can get more books. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

I pressed harder. Blood trickled down my wrist and dripped onto the bedcover; scarlet polka-dots against pristine white cotton.

‘Rina, no. You can’t do this.’

‘I can and I will, Aunt Agatha. If you don’t do exactly what I tell you.’

Luke

August, and it was my first time in the garden that year. The morning was cool, yet the air carried a hint of the glaring heat to come. I had gained strength and, with the aid of sticks, could walk well and manage the stairs.

Aunt Agatha had purchased a Paris T-shirt and a black kohl pencil like those Charlotte lent me for my thirteenth birthday party. I wore both and chose to sit on one of the wrought-iron chairs either side of the patio table, a jug of iced lemonade placed at its centre. My heart hammered against my ribs and my hand was shaking too hard to pour. Aunt Agatha saw my agitation and poured for me. Her expression was calm and without any resentment. She had agreed to all my demands, meekly in the end.

The killings were to stop. The Oblation could only ever be ceremonial with a willing participant.

The Sistren must retract their version of events and use their influence with the police to have all charges against Luke dropped. Life without him was no life at all, my existence meaningless. Under such circumstances, self-destruction held no fear. I think I meant it when I said it. Aunt Agatha certainly believed me.

The lemonade was cool, sweet and soothing. Though I couldn’t help thinking a shot of Joy’s vodka would have been a useful addition.

‘You can leave me now,’ I said.

Aunt Agatha got up and returned to the house.

*

It didn’t seem possible that I would see Luke again. Our separation had been so long that he took on the stature of a mythic being, or one of the heartthrob pin-ups I’d seen in the Smash Hits magazines Jenny passed to me, before she was summarily dismissed.

Had Luke spent as much time thinking about me as I had him? If he had, would I match the image he held? For months I’d not been near a mirror and Aunt Agatha’s cedar chest of old smocks supplied me with dresses. That morning, wearing my new clothes, I had to look in the mirror. My hair was cut unevenly just below the ears, the kohl applied without Charlotte’s expertise, veered towards panda-eyes. The T-shirt was cool but I didn’t have the courage to lift it and look beneath. Running my hand over the mangled flesh of my abdomen, all lumps and bumps, was enough.

I sat angled towards the kitchen door, counting the seconds until he arrived. I should have guessed he’d come over the fields. The scuff of his shoes as he leapt the wall alerted me to his presence. I looked towards him, then away. He was too bright. It was like staring at the sun. He ran to the patio and stopped a few yards away from me.

I squinted up at him.

If he’d been in the army, I couldn’t have been more shocked by his appearance. He was taller, broader and his face more angular. A quality emphasised by his short-cropped hair. Despite the summer’s day, he was dressed in black flannel trousers and a black cotton polo-neck.

Neither of us spoke for several minutes, until finally I said, ‘I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.’

He didn’t reply and remained just standing and staring.

‘Was it terrible in prison? Did they hurt you?’ I asked.

It appeared to take some effort for him to respond.

‘I was protected. Knowing it was temporary made it easier.’

‘How could you know that?’

‘He told me that I would be set free and reunited with you.’

‘Who told you?’

He stepped forwards, knelt beside me and took my hand. It lay electric in mine. The thrill of his touch hadn’t gone, but something had changed.

‘The saint’s presence fills this village,’ he said. ‘Not just the spring. I think I always knew, but dismissed it as superstition and when I did sense him, I thought it was something frightening, something to be fought, when it’s the very opposite.’

Was this a joke or had he spotted Aunt Agatha spying on us and decided to play a part? I looked around. I couldn’t see her, but perhaps she was listening from one of the upstairs windows. I lowered my voice.

‘You don’t have to pretend.’

He smiled and gave a small shake of his head.

‘You really don’t feel it?’

I looked around again.

‘No, Luke. I feel nothing.’

He bit his lip.

‘Agatha told me you’re staying of your own free will. I thought you understood. I thought you must have seen what I saw that night at the Oblation.’

The world was tilting.

‘What did you see, Luke?’

‘Him. In the water, at the point of death, Faran spoke to me, told me I was his heir, and that Sorrow Spring was my destiny. It was he who gave me the strength to fight back. That saved my life. And yours.’

I withdrew my hand from his and placed it on my lap.

‘It’s not real, Luke. They put stuff in the drink. I saw stars falling from the sky that first time.’

‘It’s real, Rina. He’s real. As real as you sitting before me now. Whatever they put in my drink only enhanced what was already there. When you understand, you’ll forgive everything. I even forgive my father.’ He raised a hand. ‘Yes, I know who my real father was. The reverend told me the night of the Oblation, after he’d drugged my cocoa. He mistakenly believed he was the one Faran had chosen when he was only the instrument used to bring me to Sorrow Spring.’

‘You were drowning. Your brain tricked you.’

‘And in prison? There were no tricks there, when Faran came to my cell at night and whispered to me about my future here in Sorrow Spring.’

I shook my head as if to rid my mind of the words I was hearing.

‘Luke, don’t you remember what we talked about before and what they did to Peter?’

He didn’t waver.

‘What happened to Peter was wrong and unnecessary. I should have been taken to the first Oblation and Peter should still be alive. You see, the Oblation is a test to find the true heir. The boy who survives, who overcomes the executioner, is the chosen one.’

‘No, Luke.’

‘Yes, Rina. Faran told me.’

His reply was so free from any doubt, I knew he was lost to me and had no way of bringing him back.

‘It’s fate that I, the chosen one, and you, last of the Distaff, came here at the same time,’ he said. ‘Bad times are ahead. The smallpox outbreak was a warning. We must remain vigilant, because one day Sorrow Spring will act as a sort of ark, where the righteous will survive the rising waters of pestilence.’

I sat, stunned into silence.

‘Think about it, Rina. You should have died from your wounds, but the Sorrow Spring waters saved you.’

‘The doctors saved me and three people died that night.’ My head felt heavy and my wounds started to throb. ‘We’d planned to leave, Luke.’

He took the chair opposite and poured himself a drink. Taking a long draught, he leant back.

‘I had little choice of reading material in prison,’ he said. ‘But in every cell, there’s a Bible. I began reading it and it struck me how, hundreds of years later, I was reading the same words as Faran and Osana. To them this was not religion, but history. I laughed at people in Sorrow Spring being stuck in the past. Now I’ve realised what we need to do is meld the old world with the modern world. That’s our purpose here.’

‘You’re not making sense,’ I said.

‘I’ve been unhappy all my life, Rina, trying to get away from my father, then away from here. Always looking for something else. What if we were happy with what we have? Do you want to be like your mother, always on the move, a new man every week?’

At that moment, I could think of no greater bliss than living my mother’s life. But his zealous speech put me on my guard and I said, ‘I don’t have a choice. I have to stay here.’

He leant over and took my hand again.

‘I’ve shocked you – moved too fast. I forget, you’re still so young. When the time is right, you’ll know. We are destined to be in Sorrow Spring, to lead and continue the true line. The Vanes are gone. You are Agatha’s successor. No one can stand in our way.’

‘I traded my freedom for you, Luke. I agreed to stay so you could escape prison and they’d stop the killings.’

‘There’s no need for more deaths. And that other stuff … once you’re better, it’ll seem different. When you’ve seen what I’ve seen, you’ll know I’m right. Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it.’

All in black, with shorn hair and a resolute expression, he was the image of the Reverend Ramsay Rivers. They had killed Luke that night at the Oblation. The man before me was not the boy I knew.

‘We’ll be together, Rina, just as we planned.’

I should have been elated. We would be together, with no need to sneak around, and Joy gone from the picture. But my stomach sank when my heart should soar.

Luke belonged to Sorrow Spring now.

My only solace was gone.

I swore then that no child of mine would be born in Sorrow Spring.

2019

Safe

The hallway at Laburnum Lodge is undulating beneath flickering torch beams, the walls pulsate and two young women point guns towards the door. A soothing voice speaks to me.

‘Let’s get you somewhere safe, Cate.’

My oxygen-starved brain can’t keep up. I clutch my neck and look around for Art and the shopkeeper.

‘Those people …’

‘They won’t be back,’ the woman says.

‘They wanted to kill me.’

‘Come now.’

She reaches over and touches my arm. For a moment I’m with Granny again. The same shape face, but much darker colouring; once black hair, streaked grey. I want to hug her.

‘It is you, isn’t it? You’re Dad’s sister, Aunt Rina. You saved me.’

She gives the faintest nod.

‘You must go now. I’ll join you soon. Anna and Vita, take Cate home. Zelda, stay outside and make sure no one disturbs me.’

‘But, Aunt Rina …’

‘I’ll join you soon, Cate. Don’t worry, the girls will take care of you.’

Vita takes my arm and leads me to the car. Despite being assured my attackers are gone, Anna and Zelda keep their shotguns raised and are scanning the bushes. A 4x4 is waiting. They usher me inside and throw a blanket over my shoulders.

Vita jumps behind the wheel and sets off at a furious pace and I’m flung against the door as she swings onto the road at the end of the drive and hurtles through the village as if on a racetrack.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask. ‘Have you called the police? An ambulance. That woman on the floor …’

Anna retrieves a packet of fruit gums from the glove compartment.

‘Eat these, you need the sugar,’ she says.

‘But …’

‘Eat.’

The sweet sticks in my throat. She hands me a bottle of water and I’m able to swallow.

‘We’ll contact the authorities when we have you safe,’ she says.

‘Who were those men? Why did they want to kill me?’

‘Your aunt will explain.’

‘Why isn’t she with us?’

‘She has something to do.’

*

A couple of minutes later, we arrive at a rambling white building called the Vicarage. The young women help me out of the car and support me on the way to the house. A girl of about fourteen opens the door to us. None of them seems fazed about carrying shotguns in the dead of night to rescue a stranger. I’ve seen greater agitation on school sports day.

Anna and Vita take an arm each and lead me upstairs.

Without ceremony, I’m stripped and placed in a hot bath. As Anna lifts my clothes, I remember my sodden pants and jeans. I’m so ashamed. Anna and Vita are in their mid-twenties, tall and strong, with an icy composure. They wouldn’t lose control of their bodily functions when threatened. I wonder who they are. Surely not the sinister Sistren Fletcher described.

They leave me to bathe. With the warm water and waning adrenalin, I’m overcome with tiredness. Anna returns and wraps me up in a fluffy towel.

‘I need to ring my husband,’ I tell her. ‘He’ll be worried.’

‘We’ve talked to him. He knows you’re safe.’

That’s more than I know. And who are ‘we’? Why are they living together in this enormous house?

Anna leads me to a small but cosy bedroom. A nightdress is laid out on the bed.

‘Can I speak to my aunt?’ I ask.

‘You need rest.’

Her tone is gentle and firm. ‘I’ll be just across the landing. Call out if you need anything.’

She leaves the room. I pull the thick flannel nightie over my head. It’s way too big and belongs in a costume drama. But I appreciate the warmth as I sit on the bed and pull my knees up to my chin.

Anna and Vita are so calm and practical. They act as if nothing has happened. Only my bruises remind me this is real. A few weeks ago, I’d never heard of Prosperina Fuchsia Pine, Gossdale and Sorrow Spring. I wish it had stayed that way. It’s like a nightmare, only my fear won’t vanish at dawn. I was seconds from death. It would have been written off as suicide, another sad statistic. Rob a widower. Alice and Ben motherless.

They tell me I’m safe, but how safe can I be in a village where at least two men want me dead and the young women feel the need to carry shotguns?

Aunt Agatha

Art and Milo will pay for what they’ve done to Aunt Agatha and for what they tried to do to Cate. But it’s unfair to ask Anna and Zelda to take a life, when we came here to save one.

Just one.

The girls take charge of Cate while I stay hidden in the darkness. How can I face her? What have I to say? She doesn’t much resemble a Pine. But then, why should she? I don’t.

In the end I muster my courage, step forward and, as calmly as I can manage, say, ‘I believe you’ve been looking for me, Catherine.’

The poor girl is too stunned, battered and bruised to respond and Anna, Vita and Zelda lead her to the car.

I stay in the house. So little has changed since I first came here. The same wallpaper, the same grandfather clock ticking away at the foot of the stairs. I could almost believe Aunt Agatha is about to hurry me into the kitchen and sit me down for a bowl of soup, were she not lying broken and bloodied at my feet, her white hair sprinkled with dark splinters from the smashed banisters above.

The fall from the landing would have been enough to kill most women of her age outright.

Not Aunt Agatha.

Her eyelids flutter and her lips move.

‘Stay still. An ambulance is coming,’ I say.

We both know that’s a lie. Still, through shallow breaths, Aunt Agatha attempts to speak. I kneel down and lean towards her, so my ear nearly touches her mouth.

‘He knows,’ she rasps. ‘Can’t trust …’

Her eyes fall shut. Her breaths become intermittent. The gaps between inhalations lengthen, until they stop entirely. I think she’s dead, but she manages one last word.

‘Believe.’

And with that, Agatha Pine, longest serving leader of the Sorrow Spring Sistren, is dead. I brush thin strands of hair from her face. Death’s slackness has erased all the lines and wrinkles, and with blood darkening her silver locks, she looks almost young. Perhaps there is some virtue in the spring water after all.

Believe.

Is this, more than producing a successor, all she wanted from me? To believe in St Faran, the spring, the Sistren. Believe. The one command I could never obey. How much easier my life would have been if I’d only had faith or been able to hide my lack of it more successfully. Aunt Agatha never gave up hope of my having a Damascene moment, and Luke held on for many years, until it became obvious I’d not have children.

Then he chose his own path.

The grandfather clock chimes twelve and, for once, it’s accurate.

I pull Aunt Agatha’s hand from under her. It carries the pewter ring engraved with the heads of Osana and a rook. The same ring the leader of the Sistren has worn for over six hundred years.

I pluck it from her finger and place it on mine.

The Vicarage

My tiredness can’t mask my terror. It’s as if I’m still pinned down on the floor of Laburnum Lodge. The shopkeeper’s knee is on my neck – dumb bitch – my windpipe constricts – I’m asphyxiating. My heart’s hammering so hard against my chest, I don’t hear anyone on the landing until there’s a light rap at the door. It opens and my aunt enters.

She lumbers to the bed, puts a hot drink on the side and sits next to me. Seeing my obvious distress, she says nothing, only takes my hand and strokes it. The second she does, my panic drains away.

‘Did that old lady die?’ I ask.

‘There was nothing I could do for her, Cate,’ she says.

‘Did you see the banisters were broken? She was too tiny to fall through rails that thick. Someone must have pushed her.’

Aunt Rina nods.

‘Did you know her?’ I ask.

‘She was my aunt. Your great-aunt.’

This rings a bell. The letter sent from Laburnum Lodge in 1978.

‘No – she must have been ancient. It wasn’t Agatha, was it?’

‘How do you know that?’

Aunt Rina twiddles with a chunky pewter ring as I tell her about the letter I found in the jewellery box in Granny’s old room. She continues to twirl the ring for a few moments. And then asks, ‘Her old room. So she’s …?’

I feel terrible. She doesn’t even know.

‘I’m sorry, Aunt Rina. It was a blood clot. Five years ago.’

She stops turning the ring but shows no other sign of emotion.

‘I miss her so much,’ I say. ‘Did you know she brought me up after my mum died? She did everything for me.’

‘It sounds like she was a good mother to you.’

‘She was. I’m sorry. It must be hard to hear that after she abandoned you like she did. I don’t understand how she could do that.’

‘It was for the best. I needed to come here. A hothouse flower will not survive the frost.’

Is this aimed at me? She must think I’m weak. The girls around here know how to use shotguns and can drive at high speeds through dark country lanes. At the first sign of danger, I quite literally wet my pants.

‘It wasn’t always easy,’ I say. ‘Granny was lovely, but I did miss having a mother. You must understand that.’

‘I do. Still, I’m glad she was there for you and you were raised without fear hanging over you. To prepare for a night like tonight would have blighted your whole life.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s late, Cate. You’ve been through too much. Get some sleep and we’ll talk in the morning. I’ve brought you some cocoa.’

She hands me the mug. I take a sip. Although overly sweet, with a bitter aftertaste, its warmth is comforting.

Aunt Rina gets to her feet and is about to leave, but hesitates.

‘Did she … did Lullaby ever mention me?’

‘I never knew you existed until last month.’

Almost imperceptibly her brow contracts.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I don’t know how she could have done what she did to you.’

‘She had her reasons,’ Aunt Rina says. ‘Tell me, Cate, are you married? Do you have children?’

‘Alice and Ben.’

‘Alice and Ben,’ she repeats.

‘I have photographs on my phone. But that’s—’

‘I’ll have it mended.’

She moves towards the door.

‘Aunt Rina, I have so many questions. You know who those men are – the ones who tried to kill me. You have to phone the police. And I need to let Rob know I’m OK.’

Still facing away from me she says, ‘All that’s being taken care of. Drink your cocoa. We’ll talk in the morning.’

She leaves the room. Her heavy uneven tread stops outside the door and I catch the gasp of a suppressed sob.

Water

I wake up confused. Sleep came quickly after I drank the cocoa and it takes me a few moments to realise where I am – my aunt Rina’s house. The events that brought me here, finding the injured woman at Laburnum Lodge and an attempt on my life seem like a bad dream. I can pretend none of it happened until I get out of bed and go to the mirror. A cut to my temple, a bruised cheek and abrasions circling my throat. Suddenly I’m back in that house, the shopkeeper’s knee on my neck. I’m dizzy and nauseous. What am I doing in this place? I can’t stay here. I have to get away. I have to take action.

I stumble out onto the landing, struggling for air.

Anna and Zelda are standing outside the door. They must have been waiting, listening for any movement.

‘We washed your clothes,’ Anna says, and hands them to me in a neatly folded pile.

‘Drink some water.’ Zelda holds up a glass.

‘We’ll be here if you need anything,’ Anna says.

‘Thank you,’ I say weakly, and return to the bedroom. So much for taking action.

I hurry back across the cold floorboards, sit on the bed and drink the water. It’s refreshing and cleanses my mouth, despite the earthy flavour.

I need to think calmly and rationally. Rob must be worried. The first thing I have to do is get my phone back and call him. I pull on my clothes – the jeans and pants of shame – all of which are washed, dried and ironed. I’m glad to get out of the nightie, which makes me feel like the inmate in a nineteenth-century asylum. As does the way the girls talk to me, like some Victorian hysteric who mustn’t be startled by loud noises. I’m surprised I’m not offered smelling salts.

Who are Anna and Zelda, anyway? Aunt Rina’s daughters? Neither looks like her, and they don’t resemble each other. Like Dad, Aunt Rina was raised in a commune. He has distanced himself from his hippy past, insisting on calling me Catherine, a nice, sensible name rather than Aurora Foxglove, which was Granny’s preference. Even festivals, with their tie-dye and falafels, make him uncomfortable. But perhaps it’s different for Aunt Rina. Maybe the past, which Dad tries to forget, is what she is trying to recreate and, to her, being surrounded by people at all times is comforting. Or is it something more sinister? The Sistren. Mentioned in the letter Granny’s sister sent to her along with some sort of threat. Feared by Fletcher Sun. Who are they – some sort of cult? According to the docuseries I’ve watched, these are found in the backwaters of vast American states, not cosy villages in the English shires. And yet Sorrow Spring and its inhabitants are far from cosy. I felt it the first time I crossed the border into the village. And it did feel like a border.

Once I’m dressed, Anna leads me downstairs to a large room decorated with holly and ivy for Christmas. French doors overlook expansive decking and a wide lawn, blown over with the last of the autumn leaves. To the left stand three enormous greenhouses. Someone is quite the gardener.

Despite the chilly damp weather, a young, pregnant woman is wandering about. Small and slender, she’s unlike the other girls. Is this one of the refugees the woman mentioned in the shop?

Zelda brings in a tray of scrambled eggs and toast with a pot of tea.

‘Can I speak to my aunt?’

‘Soon,’ she says.

‘And I’d like to call my husband.’

‘Of course. I’ll get your phone after breakfast.’

I should demand to have it now. Only I don’t have the strength to argue, and the scrambled eggs look perfect and the toast oozes butter. Eating it might settle my stomach. Other than a fruit gum, the last solid food to pass my lips was a Ginsters Pasty on the motorway services yesterday.

After the eggs, I begin to perk up. As I’m pouring the tea, the door opens. I’m expecting Anna or Zelda and don’t look up until I hear a stick bang on the wooden floor.

Aunt Rina stands before me, her chin slightly raised, almost defiant. The hems of her trousers are damp and a pair of thick cotton gloves hang from her pocket.

‘It’s a bit cold for gardening,’ I say.

‘Just a little pruning,’ she says. ‘You slept well.’

A statement not a question.

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘Anna and Zelda have been looking after you?’

‘They’ve been very kind. They’re your daughters – all these girls?’

I’ve counted about eight so far. Aunt Rina’s forehead puckers.

‘I don’t have any children. I foster girls instead. Some of them choose to stay on.’

She sounds slightly ashamed. I think it’s noble, taking in other people’s kids. Bringing up your own is tough enough. She should be proud. They seem like nice girls, if a little odd.

‘And the pregnant girl outside?’ I ask.

‘That’s Bibi. She’s also staying with us temporarily.’

‘The woman in the shop said you take in refugee girls.’

‘Occasionally.’

‘Through the Church? I’m guessing your husband’s the vicar?’

She winces at my words.

‘He’s in import/export. The business was inherited from his father,’ she says. ‘The Church sold the Vicarage several years ago. We share a vicar with Rowlstone now. She has a house there.’

That doesn’t really explain what’s going on under this roof.

Aunt Rina looks out of the window towards the fields and church spire, poking up from a dip a mile or so away.

‘You didn’t come here to talk about my living arrangements, Cate,’ she says.

‘I came because Dad asked me to find you.’

She looks across the room at nothing in particular. ‘Tell me about my brother – is he dying?’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Why else would he contact me?’

The flat tone can’t hide her bitterness.

‘Dad had a stroke. He’s finding speech difficult and his mobility’s poor.’

She looks puzzled. ‘That’s not incurable.’

‘I’m sorry, Aunt Rina. Another stroke would be fatal and the doctors told us another’s coming.’

‘And that’s when he chose to contact me?’

‘Are you angry with him? If you’d wanted to, you could have found us easily enough. But you’ve hidden yourself away. Dad came here once, years ago, looking for you. He was told you’d run off to London with a boy. I searched for you online. There’s nothing. It’s like you don’t exist.’

‘I don’t exist. I never did.’

She’s so sad. Why has she chosen this life?

‘I know Granny didn’t register your birth, but a lawyer could have fixed that.’

‘Some things are too broken to be fixed.’ She looks down at her body.

‘Why did she do it? Why did Granny bring you here and leave you?’

‘I asked myself that when I first came. I hated her back then. I thought I’d never forgive her. Now I understand.’

‘Do you? Because I don’t.’

‘We, the Pines, are tied to this place, for better or worse – mostly worse.’

‘What do you mean? I’m not tied.’

‘We did our best for you. Emesh was selfish to send you here. After all that was done to protect you and keep you safe.’

My hand travels to my neck and my fingers brush the bruises that could have been something much grimmer.

‘Those men – it wasn’t a random attack. They knew who I was.’

‘Yes.’

‘And that made them want to kill me.’

Aunt Rina looks down, studying that chunky ring again.

‘I can’t give you the answers you want right now. I need to discuss things with Emesh first.’

‘That’s your solution? Talk to Dad. You want to keep me safe but you won’t let me go to the police. What’s wrong with you – with this place?’

She continues examining the ring and doesn’t answer me.

‘When I came before, people in the village pretended not to know you, Aunt Rina. The woman with the scar? The shopkeeper?’

‘So tell me, why did you come back after they told you I wasn’t here?’

‘Because I drove all the way to Gossdale and the old farm. Wroxwood, Dad called it. I was looking for anyone who knew about the commune. Fletcher Sun spoke to me.’

For the first time, she smiles.

‘Fletcher’s still alive?’

‘Just about.’

I tell her about the fire and the man call Barry, who burnt to death. With the aid of her stick, she lowers herself into a chair.

‘I thought … I mean, the fire was deliberate,’ I say. ‘Someone wanted Fletcher dead and you’re the sole beneficiary of his will. Did you send that woman? What about the text?’

Out loud, this sounds like an accusation. Aunt Rina doesn’t seem to notice.

‘What woman? What text?’ she asks.

‘I got a text telling me everything would be explained if I came to Laburnum Lodge last night.’

‘The girls have your phone. They’ll find out who sent it. Tell me about this woman, Cate.’

‘Not long after the fire, the receptionist from the solicitor’s office took a woman, calling herself Rina Pine, to look around Wroxwood. Fletcher saw her.’

‘Did he get a photo?’

‘No. But I do know who she is. There can’t be two people with a scar like that involved in all of this.’

Aunt Rina goes quiet.

‘Are you in danger?’ I ask. ‘We should have called the police last night.’

This makes her start.

‘You mustn’t contact the police, for your own safety. Promise me you won’t.’ She bangs her stick on the floor. The younger girl, the one who opened the door last night, comes running in. Aunt Rina whispers some instructions in her ear and she dashes off.

‘You need to go home, Cate. Get out of Sorrow Spring and say nothing of this to anyone except Emesh.’ With a sardonic smile she adds, ‘I can see so much of Lullaby in you. You’ll have no difficulty in keeping secrets.’

The girl returns with my phone. It’s actually a new handset with the same SIM.

‘Do you know who sent that text to me? The one telling me to go to Laburnum Lodge?’

The girl looks unsure what to say and turns to Aunt Rina for her cue.

‘Thank you, Lydia, that will be all,’ Aunt Rina says. ‘And put the water in Cate’s car.’

Lydia nods and leaves.

‘Don’t worry about the text, Cate. We’ll deal with that. The water is for Emesh. I’m surprised he still believes in such things. But it can’t do any harm,’ my aunt says. ‘I’m sending a crate. More will arrive in a few weeks.’

‘Is it the water from the legend?’

‘Isn’t that what Emesh wants – what started all of this?’

‘He wanted to find you. Can’t you speak to him, at least? I’ll get him on the phone.’

‘I’ll contact Emesh in my own time,’ she says. ‘It’s not going to be a five-minute conversation.’

I’m about to put the phone in my pocket when Aunt Rina says, ‘Wait. Can I see them before you go?’

‘Who?’

‘Your children. You must have photographs.’

Slightly reluctantly, I open the phone and scroll to the most recent pictures of Alice and Ben. They’re taken at a classmate’s birthday party. Ben is play-fighting with his best friend and Alice has chocolate cake smeared across her face. Aunt Rina studies them intently for several minutes until I have to reach over and take the phone back from her. I wonder if having no children of her own makes her overly interested in other people’s.

‘Keep them safe,’ she says.

‘I always do.’

‘You’ll be driving straight home?’

‘It’s less than two hours, if I put my foot down,’ I say.

‘Hmm.’ I think she’s about to say something else, but she just picks up her stick. ‘I’ll see you out.’

Now it’s time to go, I want to stay, which is insane. Last night I nearly lost my life. The natural reaction would be to flee and never come back. What is it keeping me here? The dreariness of my own life, school runs, packed lunches, team meetings? Perhaps a little of Granny’s adventurous spirit has seeped into my veins – something Dad always feared. Aunt Rina senses my reluctance.

‘Don’t worry, Cate. This is temporary. But for now, you must go.’

My car’s on the drive. Lydia hands me the keys.

‘The water’s in the boot,’ she says.

‘Give my love to Emesh.’ Anguish flashes across Aunt Rina’s face, then it’s gone. She clasps her stick in both hands. ‘Goodbye, Cate.’

I’m opening the driver’s side door when a man comes striding up the driveway. He’s tall, grey and, although hitting sixty, there’s something impressive and captivating about him. Is this Aunt Rina’s husband? I can see the attraction. I can also see that Aunt Rina stiffens at his approach.

He comes up to me and puts out his hand.

I jump back in shock.

The man has Dad’s eyes, dark and flecked with gold, the ones I wish I’d inherited instead of my mud-brown ones.

‘Who are you?’ I ask.

It comes out more rudely than I intend.

‘Luke Glebe,’ he says.

I can’t stop looking at his eyes.

‘Cate,’ I say.

‘Lovely to meet you, Cate.’

He glances at Aunt Rina. I turn to her too, looking for an explanation.

‘Unfortunately, Cate’s off now,’ she says.

‘Are you sure? I’m making lunch.’

Aunt Rina tenses. It’s clear she wants me gone. Who is this man with my father’s eyes and why do I recognise that name, Glebe?

‘Another time,’ I say. ‘Goodbye again. And thanks for the water.’

‘Water?’ Luke says.

‘It seems my dad believes in the legend,’ I say.

‘Legend?’ Anger flashes across his face, quickly replaced by his previous placid air. ‘Are you sure you can’t stay? I’ve made a very good Quiche Lorraine. My wife tells me I make the best pastry. It’s the cold hands, you know.’

‘That’s kind. Another time perhaps?’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’

He opens the car door for me. I get in and drive off.

In the rear-view mirror, I see Luke walk back into the house. Aunt Rina remains on the spot. Despite knowing she lives surrounded by others, there’s a loneliness to the woman leaning on her stick waving me goodbye.

Ark

I have been in Sorrow Spring for over forty years. Enough time to walk again unaided after my accident. Enough time for age to unpick the mended flesh and return me to using a stick. Enough time to know that love cannot conquer greed, envy and ambition. These lessons, although harsh, have not prepared me for the pain I feel watching Cate’s small car chug to the end of the drive, not knowing if or when I would see her again. Long after she disappears, I remain watching the empty gate, her face strange yet familiar, lingering in my mind.

In the end Anna runs out with a coat and tells me to get out of the cold.

*

Last night was the first time I’ve set foot in Laburnum Lodge in years. Too many painful memories impregnate the walls, the floors, its very stones. I’m exhausted but, as I need to stay alert, I go to the kitchen and make a tisane of rosemary and peppermint. Aunt Agatha passed on her knowledge of herbs and I have re-created her greenhouses at the Vicarage.

I sit down with my drink. I must concentrate. The future is rushing towards me faster than I can compute. If I’d received that letter Cate sent, none of this would be necessary. And if her husband hadn’t called the police and the deputy chief constable hadn’t phoned me – I can’t let myself go any further. The thought of what Art Barrowcroft and Milo Murray had planned for Cate makes me physically ill. I should have let Anna and Zelda shoot them both.

I finish my tea and think of a line from Luke’s favourite play. What’s done cannot be undone.

*

In the drawing room, Luke’s leaning back in an armchair. He must be planning to go out because he’s changed into black moleskin trousers, a matching polo neck and a formal jacket. It pains me to admit how handsome he still is, how the sight of him gives me the same butterflies as the adolescent girl he first met. Even in my youth I was nothing much to look at and now I’m grey and bent, few would believe us to be husband and wife. The term hardly seems applicable. He’s dressed up to go to meet Joy later.

He doesn’t acknowledge my entrance and remains, whisky in hand, engrossed in his iPad. I never got the hang of technology. Anna taught me how to use a mobile phone but the Internet is still something of a mystery.

‘We need to talk,’ I say. ‘It’s about Aunt Agatha.’

He raises a palm to me.

‘I’m reading,’ he says.

A cigarette smoulders in the ashtray. I go and stub it out, lean over and look at the article on his iPad. There’s been an Ebola outbreak in the Democratic Republic of Congo.

Once he would have discussed this with me. Sorrow Spring is hyper-vigilant to diseases, wherever they appear on the planet. Bubonic plague originated in China; distance is no guarantee of safety. In the early 2000s, SARS and MERS spread from the other side of the globe. The latter killed a man in Birmingham. It reminded those of us with long memories of the 1978 smallpox outbreak. Aunt Agatha came to me – It’s happening again. Joy began stirring up trouble from outside the village. Wouldn’t I relent? Aunt Agatha asked. I kept my nerve and held her to her promise. The Oblation remains ceremonial. Yet with every threat our pact is tested.

Luke tosses the iPad to the sofa next to him and gets up to refill his whisky from the decanter on the sideboard. He usually starts drinking in early afternoon, and although he never falls into drunkenness, he frequently hovers at its edge.

I go over and pick up the iPad. He’s closed the tab on the Democratic Republic of Congo. Instead, there’s a Facebook page – Catherine Pine-Hewson. Pictures of her and her children, Alice and Ben.

I turn to him. His look is both amused and bored.

‘I don’t think it’s Agatha we need to discuss, do you?’

He swirls the whisky around his glass and takes a sniff. To Luke, I am still a silly thirteen-year-old in the throes of her first crush. He’s not entirely wrong. The touch of his hand sends my heartbeat soaring as high as when we were teenagers kissing at the bottom of the Bomb Drop on a summer’s day.

‘I’m leader of the Sistren now, Luke. People answer to me. Art and Milo will be punished for what they did.’

He gives a careless shrug. ‘Don’t pretend you never thought about pushing the old bat through the banisters yourself. Christ, she was unbearable.’

‘I respected her as our leader.’

‘And you, Rina, do you think you’ll get that sort of respect – an outsider who doesn’t believe? Agatha protected you more than you know, and now she’s gone … well, people look for leaders who share their values.’

‘Like Joy Vane? She’s even more disliked than I am. You think because the Barrowcrofts favour her, others do.’

‘But she has her daughters. Is that why you did it? I know about Cate. You think you’ve been so clever but unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles.’

I swallow and try to stay calm.

‘It’s unlucky to quote Macbeth,’ I say.

‘Only for actors.’

‘Isn’t that what you are?’

‘We’re all playing a part, Rina.’

I have to distract him, keep him talking.

‘I could forgive you for sending Art and Milo to kill Aunt Agatha. But not for luring Cate back to Laburnum Lodge. And not for what you planned for Fletcher.’

‘It was more than just a plan.’ He puts down his drink so he can relish the moment. ‘I watched him burn, Rina. It was beautiful. He was spinning round, dancing like a dervish in the flames.’

‘You watched a vagrant called Barry burn to death. Fletcher was letting him stay in the barn over the winter.’

His veneer of cold detachment starts to crack.

‘Fletcher’s alive? Are you sure you want me to know that?’

‘I think you ought to.’

‘You’ve overplayed your hand, Rina. I was happy to wait for Agatha to die of natural causes, until Hope intercepted a letter from a woman called Cate Pine-Hewson, looking for her long-lost aunt. Well, it didn’t take long to put two and two together. Even after she came here, I would have let her go. But of course, being a Pine, she has to go nosing around in Wroxwood – asking too many questions – finding out about Sun’s will. She wouldn’t have let that go. Possibly she thought she would inherit if you were no longer around. Well, you see, I had to do something.’

His glass is nearly empty. He’s swaying slightly. I use my stick to stand up, then walk unaided to the sideboard, take his tumbler and top it up. My hand tightens around the glass as I pass it back.

‘I made Art and Milo tell Agatha before the end, about Cate, I mean,’ he says. ‘I wanted her to know what was about to happen. You have to laugh – all that effort to keep you here, when it was the Sistren’s hand that wrecked your womb and killed off the Distaff line. Agatha not accepting Joy’s daughters as Distaff was ridiculous.’

‘Your daughters.’

He looks amused.

‘I wondered if you’d worked it out.’

‘Do you really think I wouldn’t learn that you visit Joy in Bewdley or that she’s always sneaking back here. Being your daughters doesn’t make them members of the Distaff.’

‘Joy’s daughters are the natural successors. I am Faran’s heir and you couldn’t give me children. At least …’ He swirls the whisky around the glass and takes another swig. ‘You need to go quietly. You’ve had enough chances to demonstrate that you believe and each time you turn away. Cate won’t save you. Do you think the Sistren are ever going to accept you, the person who was responsible for ending the true Oblation? Someone who doesn’t even share their basic faith in the power of the spring. The Pines have had their day. You will not be on the ark that survives the coming plague. But you can live out the rest of your life in peace. If you go quietly.’

He turns to top up his glass. Does he think that because I can’t see his face, I won’t be able to tell that he’s lying? He’s not mentioned the money from Wroxwood, which he’ll need in order to keep bringing the birth mothers here. Even without money worries, the Vanes would never tolerate rivals. Sooner rather than later, like Aunt Agatha, I too will have an unfortunate accident. Cate will be more difficult. She’s not from the area and the Sistren’s influence wanes the further they travel from Sorrow Spring. But they managed to bribe the receptionist at Fletcher’s solicitor, and Bristol is much closer.

Luke lights another cigarette.

‘Ever since you came here, you’ve been planning to escape, Rina. And here I am, giving you every chance.’

I move to the window. Mid-afternoon so close to the Winter Solstice, it’s getting dark.

‘Your daughters with Joy will never lead the Sistren.’

‘Why cause yourself more pain, Rina? Just go.’

I watch the spire of St Faran’s church fall into shadow and rooks gather to roost in the conifers bordering the lawn.

‘It’s a pity you got to the old woman before me,’ I say. ‘I’d always hoped I’d get my revenge for being brought here as some sort of broodmare. But I’m not going to wait until I fall through some banisters and Cate has a freak car accident.’

‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Rina.’ Luke’s tone is that of a father scolding a sulky child.

‘And not only will your daughters never be classed as Distaff, they will not be allowed to step foot in the Sorrow Spring.’

‘What’s important is the future of the village. Your ego doesn’t come into it. We all have to make sacrifices.’

‘And what sacrifices have you made?’ I ask.

His smile is cruel and contemptuous. ‘I’ve lived with you for the past forty years, haven’t I?’

Although he isn’t telling me anything I don’t already know, this hurts.

‘Did you ever care for Joy or just her bloodline?’

‘They’re one and the same. Give it up, Rina. You can’t win.’

It’s my turn to smile. ‘I already have.’

Luke looks disconcerted, then leans on the sideboard and looks at the mantelpiece clock.

‘Is it that time already?’ he asks. ‘I must have low blood sugar – I haven’t eaten today. Ask one of the girls to bring me a sandwich.’

I call for Anna. She looks at Luke, nods and leaves the room.

Luke reaches for more whisky.

‘You’re delusional, Rina. It’s too late. Agatha’s succession was decided long ago. That you can’t see what’s happening right under your nose only proves you’re not fit to lead. Your sentimentality about the boys has weakened us.’

‘Us? You are not one of the Sistren.’

‘I’m more of a member than you’ll ever be, or ever have been. The Vanes and the Barrowcrofts know I’m Faran’s true heir. Step aside. Go quietly and no one needs to get hurt.’

It’s tempting. To leave and start over, even at my age. But I know Luke and I know Joy. If only Cate hadn’t come looking for me, Aunt Agatha could have lived out her natural life and I could have stepped aside. But Cate has come and I have no choice.

‘I can see what’s under my nose, Luke. Can you?’

Luke blinks a couple of times, places the glass to one side and brings his hand to his forehead. It’s sprinkled with sweat.

‘You should sit down,’ I say.

He rests his hand on the sideboard, wobbling and breathing rapidly.

‘I’m not well,’ he says. ‘Call one of the girls.’

I don’t move.

He lurches towards the nearest chair, using its back for balance. There’s a moment when he doesn’t understand what’s happening. His eyes blink in disbelief. Then he turns to look at his empty glass and the whisky decanter.

‘Rina?’ He reaches for his collar and tries to loosen it.

I go to him. He raises a hand to push me away.

‘You can’t do this. The girls will know.’

‘The girls already know. They know what will happen to their brothers and others like them, if you and Joy succeed and bring back the true Oblation. Did you never wonder what happened to all those spare girls?’

He splutters and falls onto all fours.

‘Anna, Zelda, Vita,’ I shout.

Luke twists his face up to mine.

‘Rina, please. There’s no need for this. I’ll give Joy up. Make things right for you – for Cate.’

What a cruel trick of nature that I still love him.

‘You must know the antidote,’ he says.

‘This is the antidote, Luke. You are the poison.’

Anna, Zelda and Vita arrive.

‘You’ve told the Sistren where to gather?’ I ask.

Zelda nods.

I kneel down next to Luke. He’s holding a hand in front of him, attempting to make his fingers work. They’re still twitching.

‘Please …’ he gasps.

If I could, I’d let him go. Forgive him. Leave Sorrow Spring and start a new life. The one we planned all those years ago when we were little more than children. But we can’t go back. The years cannot be erased. Only one path will take us to the future.

‘I’m sorry, Luke. I saved you once. I can’t do it again. This breaks my heart. But I have to offer up what I love most.’ I nestle my head against his neck, inhale his scent of tobacco and cinnamon. ‘We’re going to St Faran’s Spring. It’s like you told me. We all have to make sacrifices.’

Dislocation

My last night of good uninterrupted sleep was at Aunt Rina’s. Since then, whispered threats and splintered wood weave through my dreams. I see the old lady sprawled across the floor, broken, bloody and twisted. She’s desperately mouthing words, trying to tell me something – something important I’m unable to understand.

If Granny was still around, she’d know. And I think she’d be proud of how I tracked down her daughter and nearly died in the attempt. But I have no one to tell. Rob would freak and it would give Dad another stroke. All I can tell them is that I found Rina and she’s living with her husband, safe and well in Sorrow Spring. Even though safe is stretching the truth.

I continue to muddle along at work and play the part of wife and mother at home. I fool my colleagues and the twins. Not Rob. He wants to know what happened in Sorrow Spring. Miraculously, the bruises faded before I reached Bristol, so I had nothing to explain there. But he knows the wife who opens bottles of wine the moment the kids are in bed and wakes up screaming in the middle of the night, is not the woman she was a couple of weeks ago.

And just as I puzzle Rob, Dad puzzles me. Other than to confirm she’s still alive, he shows no curiosity towards his sister, asks nothing about her wellbeing or if she has a family. I mention her husband to see how Dad reacts. He doesn’t. And yet, those eyes – they must be related. Granny told me she married an optician who died two months before Dad was born – the only facts I have about her husband. It strikes me as odd that, like Aunt Rina, Granny kept no photograph of him. When I say this to Dad, he shrugs. I’ve always longed to know more about my mother. Doesn’t Dad want to know about his father? Apparently not. The only thing that interests him is the water Aunt Rina sent. His eyes glowed when I brought in the bottles from the car. Strange how he’s held onto the Sorrow Spring superstition about their supposed healing properties. And stranger still is how he’s improved since he started drinking it. His speech is clearer and some movement has returned to his right arm. Earlier this morning he was able to hold a pen. The placebo effect, I suppose, although that doesn’t explain the speedy healing of my wounds. Some of these old springs carry all sorts of minerals that are uncommon in the diet and so will aid your health. That’s science, not magic.

*

It’s late December, the dead days between Christmas and New Year. Rob has taken the twins out and I’m mooching aimlessly around the house when the doorbell rings. I’m not expecting a caller. I open the door to find Aunt Rina outside. Standing either side of her are Anna and Zelda. They position themselves at a slight angle, so they look like her bodyguards.

‘You should have told me you were coming,’ I say.

‘Didn’t Emesh mention it?’ Aunt Rina asks. ‘I hope we’re not inconveniencing you.’

‘Of course not. Come in.’

Why didn’t Dad tell me he’s been communicating with his sister and that she’d be coming today? The Twixtmas period is the perfect time for family visits and my wariness is mingled with pleasure at seeing my aunt again. I have so few blood relatives. Friends who had dozens of aunts, uncles, cousins and second cousins piling around their house for the holidays always made me jealous because I only ever had Dad and Granny.

‘Bring the water, girls,’ Aunt Rina says to Anna and Zelda.

They peel away from her and walk back down the drive.

Aunt Rina steps into the hall.

‘All of you squeeze in here? You, your husband, the children and Emesh?’

Rob and I are mortgaged up to our eyeballs to afford this place she considers so cramped. To someone whose life’s been spent at Wroxwood, Laburnum Lodge and the Vicarage, I guess it is. I view our garden through her eyes, just a few square metres with the climbing frame and slide taking up most of it. Comparing it to the beautiful lawns and greenhouses of the Vicarage makes me sigh.

Anna and Zelda come back, each carrying a crate of bottles, which they deposit in the kitchen before returning to the car. They refuse my offer of a cup of tea.

Though dressed all in black, Aunt Rina is less sombre than she was at the Vicarage and is walking well without her stick. She takes my hands and squeezes them hard.

‘Are you quite recovered?’ she asks.

I’m about to say yes when, from nowhere, tears flood my eyes and I’m unable to speak. I stand there shaking with sobs. I hate being so fragile in front of this woman. She raised girls to carry shotguns they’re not afraid to use. But if she does despise my weakness, it doesn’t show. She places a hand on my shoulder and leans her head towards mine, a gesture so warm and maternal it makes me cry even more.

‘Forgive me, Cate,’ she says. ‘That was insensitive. Of course you’re not recovered. I’m sorry you had to go through that. But it’s over now. You were very brave to come and find me.’

She’s being kind. I’m not brave. When faced with danger, I wet myself and begged for mercy. I rest my head on her shoulder and she pats my hair. When I stop crying, I find a tissue to wipe my face and Aunt Rina turns away from me to examine a photograph of Alice and Ben that is hanging on the wall.

‘They’re beautiful children,’ she says. ‘And they look like you.’

She bends forwards to study their faces. I set a little test.

‘I think Alice looks like me and Ben looks like Rob. It’s a shame they didn’t get Dad’s eyes, they’re so unusual. Your husband’s are similar to Dad’s. Have you ever noticed that?’

She turns to me, her face a mask of calm.

‘Luke died just before Christmas. A seizure.’

I’m such a bitch. She’s all in black and I didn’t ask.

‘Aunt Rina, I had no idea. I’m so sorry. You should have contacted us.’

‘That’s kind of you, but I have plenty of support.’

It may be her generation putting on a brave face but the loss of her husband doesn’t appear to have devastated her.

‘Even so, it must be hard after so long together.’

‘I’ll get by,’ she says. ‘Your husband’s in good health?’

‘As far as I know.’

‘And you’re happy with him? Happy here in this house in Bristol?’

I shrug.

The truth is I was happy until I went looking for her. Having nearly been murdered I should appreciate what I have: the kids, Rob and a safe and secure existence. But I don’t appreciate it. I’m restless and dissatisfied. It’s as if I left some part of me behind in Sorrow Spring and a sense of dislocation hovers over me.

‘Life has its ups and downs,’ I say blandly.

‘I understand.’ From her kind expression, I think she does. ‘We’ll talk properly another day. I’ll see Emesh now.’

We walk through the lounge to the dining room-cum-sickroom. I cry out in shock when we get there. Dad is out of bed and leaning on the doorframe. How has he managed that all by himself? I rush towards him.

‘What are you doing? You’ll fall and hurt yourself.’

He raises a hand. ‘Don’t fuss, Cate. I’m not meeting my little sister as an invalid. Get me a chair.’

He’s looking over my shoulder to Aunt Rina. They exchange smiles of recognition and warmth that make an only child like me jealous.

I bring the chair into the room and help him sit down. Aunt Rina follows me and perches on the bed.

‘Will you close the door, Cate?’ she asks. ‘I need to talk to Emesh in private.’

*

They’re holed up together for several hours. I phone Rob and tell him to take the twins for pizza after swimming and then maybe the cinema. They know nothing about their aunt and now is not the time to introduce them.

When Aunt Rina emerges, she’s smiling.

‘Everything OK?’ I ask.

‘It’s good to see Emesh is on the mend. He’ll be back to his old self in no time, I’m sure.’

‘The doctors say—’

‘Of course,’ Aunt Rina interrupts me. ‘Of course. You must follow the doctors’ advice.’

She’s humouring me. I’ll humour her.

‘He seems much better since he’s been drinking the water.’

She flushes with pleasure, then with careful composure says, ‘I know you think we’re an odd bunch, but remember, Lullaby believed it. And I myself … well, that’s a story for another time.’

‘Fletcher told me.’

A grim smile crosses her lips.

‘He can’t know the whole story,’ she says. ‘I have to go now, Cate. Emesh will explain the rest. I do hope you’ll understand and not judge me too harshly. I’ve always tried to act in your best interests.’

‘Why should I judge you?’

‘Speak to Emesh.’ She moves to the door. ‘Goodbye for now.’

I open it for her.

‘Goodbye, Aunt Rina.’

Anna and Zelda are still in the car. The engine isn’t on and it must have been freezing for them, sitting out there at this time of the year. It’s weird that girls unrelated to her should be so devoted. There’s no way I’d hang around in this cold, even if she is my aunt.

Emesh

I help Dad back into bed. He’s exhausted after getting up by himself. Was this a superhuman effort to appear well before his sister, or is he genuinely improving? At his insistence I pour him some more of the water.

‘You need to rest now, Dad,’ I say, and put the glass to one side.

‘No,’ he says.

‘You’re exhausted.’

‘I need to speak to you and if I don’t do it now, I’ll never have the courage.’

After all that’s happened, I don’t think my nerves can cope with more revelations.

‘It can wait,’ I say.

‘No, Cate, it can’t.’ He swallows. ‘Before I go on, I just want you to know that your grandmother did what she thought best and I … I tried, Cate, I really did.’

I sit next to him on the bed.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You can’t have a good opinion of Sorrow Spring.’

‘What does that matter?’

‘Rina has invited us to go and live there. You could have Laburnum Lodge. She’d pay to have it restored in any manner you see fit.’

‘I’m never going near that place again. You don’t know—’

‘I do know. Rina told me. We thought it might be a problem. So plan B is for you to live at the Vicarage. It’s already done up and Rina could move to the Lodge.’

‘We’re not moving to Sorrow Spring, Dad. Rob and I have jobs here. The kids are in school.’

‘But Rina’s right. This house is too small. And they have jobs and schools in Worcestershire. You probably wouldn’t have to work at all if you didn’t want to. Your aunt will be a wealthy woman once the sale of Wroxwood goes through. Wouldn’t it be great for the twins to have their own rooms and plenty of space to play outside? I could have a bungalow nearby so I wouldn’t be under your feet.’

The Vicarage would be a wonderful place to raise children, if it weren’t situated in that village. Dad reads my thoughts.

‘Sorrow Spring is changing. Rina’s seeing to that, and your position within the family would ensure you were treated with respect.’

‘My position within the family? We’re not the Windsors.’

‘No … not the Windsors.’

‘Why do you want to go, if what Fletcher says is true?’

‘Of course it’s not true. Fletcher’s great, but he did too much acid in the sixties. His mind’s shot. He should really be in a home, but Rina’s helping him get to Bolivia. That’s where he wants to see out his days. It wouldn’t be my choice.’

‘Your choice is Sorrow Spring.’

‘I’m sick of the city, Rina. When I was younger, I thought it would be cool and exciting. Now I’m old I find it noisy and dirty. I used to be angry with Lullaby for dragging me from pillar to post. But she did me a favour. It breaks my heart to watch Alice and Ben growing up so hemmed in – so stifled. My childhood was wonderful in ways I didn’t understand at the time.’

‘If you think country kids are all climbing trees and building dens, you’re wrong. I bet they’re glued to their phones and PlayStations like everyone else on the planet. What’s really going on? Why do you need courage to speak to me? Why is Aunt Rina worried I’ll judge her harshly?’

Dad closes his eyes.

‘I was against it,’ he says. ‘Not that I didn’t care. Of course I did. But it seemed too much of a responsibility. And the lies, Cate, so many lies. They don’t come naturally to me. It’s been hard.’

I grip the bedcovers.

‘What lies?’

‘That picture I told you was your mother. It isn’t her. I cut it out from a magazine and she didn’t die in a car accident.’

‘How did she die?’

Dad brings his good hand up to his face and brushes his eyes.

‘She brought you here when you were just a few days old and asked me to raise you. I didn’t know if I could manage alone. Lullaby came back from France to help.’

I hadn’t known my parents were separated before my birth. I thought Dad’s sadness came from her loss when maybe it was being stuck with me.

‘So I was never wanted by either of you?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Cate. I did come to love you, as much as any father would, but when you arrived … my name is on your birth certificate and Ayeesha Young is registered as your mother. She did, in fact, give birth to you.’

‘Where is she?’

‘The last I heard, she’d gone to live in America.’

‘My mother’s alive and in America?’

‘You’re not listening. Ayeesha gave birth to you but she’s not your mother and I’m not your father.’

‘Then why …?’

‘She longed for a child, but an accident meant she was never able to carry a baby to term, and if she’d had you there, you would have had no freedom, no life. You see, it was Rina who came here all those years ago. She found a surrogate to carry her biological child then demanded I took you in. Lullaby gave Rina away so that I could be free. She was sacrificed for my safety. She said I owed it to her to bring you up and keep you away from Sorrow Spring. That was the last time I saw or spoke to her until today.’

My sobs come in fitful gasps.

‘What are you telling me, Dad?’

‘You know what I’m telling you, sweetheart.’ He takes my chin and looks me in the eyes. ‘Rina’s not your aunt, she’s your mother.’

Practice

O what a tangled web we weave,

When first we practise to deceive!

That line always makes me laugh. I can’t separate it from that other axiom, ‘practice makes perfect’, and few people have practised more than I.

Did Luke betray me or did I betray him? Our deceit was so interwoven it’s impossible to tell. I do know it was inevitable. How many times did my young heart override the instincts telling me he was not to be trusted? Instincts that were right all along. He was too much like his father, his real father, the Reverend Ramsay Rivers. Charlotte told me, but I did not listen. Over the years, Luke would switch his efforts between me and Joy, depending on who was most useful to him. Only through daughters could he exert control over the Sistren and when I let him down – well, Joy was hardly unwilling.

My plan was a modification of the one Aunt Agatha hatched in 1978, the year of the first test-tube baby. Not actually conceived in a test tube, but a Petri dish. Later I learnt other phrases, such as ‘host surrogacy’: a woman carrying a child not genetically her own. It seemed fantastical that with my defective womb I could create offspring and without Luke’s knowledge. But science opened a door and I walked through it.

Aunt Agatha tried healing soups and teas. Thousands of pounds of the Sistren’s money was spent sending me to fertility clinics. And it worked. Only they never knew. A woman called Ayeesha Young agreed to bear Cate for me. She had just finished university and needed the money to start a new life in America. My old friend Forest, from the commune, agreed to co-parent. He was too easy-going to ask many questions. And while Luke’s daughters grew up in Bewdley with Joy Vane, Cate was raised in Bristol by Lullaby and Emesh.

I turned up on their doorstep and demanded they took her.

That was the last contact I had with my family until Cate turned up at Laburnum Lodge. No one would have known of her existence were it not for Emesh’s illness and his selfish desire for the spring water. Even then, this outcome could have been avoided if Cate’s letter hadn’t fallen into Luke’s hands. But it did and maybe it was for the best. We both must fulfil our destiny and lead the Sorrow Spring Sistren.

Sorrow Spring is renewed. Luke’s death gave it new life, because, despite his infidelity and betrayal, and despite the fact he never loved me, I remained devoted to him and so my offering was true. Like Osana, I sacrificed he who I loved most to ensure the survival of the village.

Leaving

To my surprise, Rob’s all for moving to Sorrow Spring. The Vicarage is at least five times the size of our house and he admitted to me we’ve money worries I know nothing about. Without telling me (or the bank) he got a high-interest loan to help put down the deposit for our house.

Once Fletcher has transferred the Wroxwood property, Rob will oversee its reconstruction and management. Until then he can put his feet up at the Vicarage and write the book he’s always planned.

I’ve secured a part-time job at a lab in Birmingham – three mornings a week will suit me fine. We don’t even need the money but I can’t sit around the house all day.

And Dad – I still find myself thinking of him as Dad – will not be getting a bungalow in the village. He’ll stay with us until Laburnum Lodge is restored. Then he’ll live with his sister.

All this has been decided within a couple of weeks. Alice and Ben are anxious about changing school, but if we’re going to move it’s better to do it while they’re young. On a trip to the Vicarage, they chose which rooms they were going to have and how they would be decorated. This has gone some way to bringing them round.

And as to the other matter, what shall I call her? I’ve decided on Rina, her first name, as Dad uses Lullaby for Granny. At least nothing’s changed in that respect other than she’s my maternal rather than my paternal grandmother.

I should be angry. I should be crying and storming at the lies and deceit. And I would do, only things make sense now. I still know nothing about the link between Dad and Luke Glebe, and now he’s dead I probably never will. When I say it makes sense, I mean I feel at peace. My life, which has been so average and ordinary, never suited me. I told myself I was ungrateful. Many would kill for the very steady safe world I took for granted. Now I know I am different. I am a Pine. Rina tells me this is important.

I don’t understand all of it yet. I know we must take part in the ceremony to mark St Faran’s Feast, which does sound a bit grisly, what with the pig’s blood. I’m sure I’ll get used to it. One day I will succeed Rina as head of the Sistren and Alice will be my successor.

The history of Sorrow Spring, how it survived the plague when the villages all around were wiped out, is fascinating. Rina says she’ll tell me her story bit by bit. I suspect there are parts I won’t like. But I’m tougher than I was this time last year and I can accept that things were very different in the past.

Overall, I’m looking forward to the move and to being in a place where I am both important and necessary. Is it so very vain of me to love the idea of one day leading the Sorrow Spring Sistren?

2020

Successor

The new year dawns with new hope. Cate is moving to Sorrow Spring. What could be more natural than a daughter coming to live close to her recently widowed mother? The Sistren have no choice but to accept her as my successor.

In emails from Bewdley, Joy rages that Cate’s conception and birth discount her claim. Her very existence is an insult to both Man and God. And although many members of the Sistren are wary of science, rumours of the Vanes’ involvement in Aunt Agatha’s death make them still warier of Joy and Hope. Both are in disgrace. And without Luke to back them, who is there to challenge my claim?

And so, after all the lies, struggles and betrayal, I have secured my birthright, to be passed on to Cate and to Alice after her.

I think Aunt Agatha would be proud of me.

The Old Ways

Something is happening that makes me regret my invitation to Cate to join me here in Sorrow Spring.

A theoretical threat is turning into a very real one.

Like bubonic plague, it originates in China. An unknown respiratory illness is killing people in the city of Wuhan, and despite a quarantine, it is spreading far beyond its borders. People say it’s too distant to affect us. Aunt Agatha taught me nowhere is too distant.

By the end of January, it reaches British shores.

*

Sunday, and it’s my first time leading the gathering at the Moot Hall. Christmas, Agatha’s and Luke’s deaths and funerals meant they were suspended until now. The Sistren is all a-gaggle when I arrive. How little the place has altered as daughters and granddaughters replace the elderly women of my memory with barely a change of cardigan. Mrs Anthony’s granddaughter has brought the rook pie. Mrs Cox’s daughter has the ewer with the water.

Anna and Zelda are not members of the Sistren, but they police our events, standing outside and insisting all phones and recording devices are confiscated. They’ve also been monitoring online activity relating to Sorrow Spring. An old woman falling down the stairs and a middle-aged man dying of a seizure aren’t news. And fringe websites that used to take an interest in the village’s unusually high death rate are fed titbits about other mysteries, which send them skittering off in different directions: a Satanic cult in Stoke- on-Trent, mutilated animal carcasses inside a Cornish stone circle. Their appetite may be voracious but their attention span is limited, something Anna and Zelda expertly exploit. And with the advent of this virus, their work is made easy. Conspiracy theories abound. No one has time to bother about a small, insignificant village in the English shires.

No one other than Joy Vane.

She storms into the Moot Hall waving a newspaper.

‘It’s 1978 all over again.’

‘Your ban from this Hall and this village is for life,’ I say.

‘Agatha’s dead and the ban died with her. Who’s going to throw me out?’

Anna and Zelda step forward. I raise my hand. I would rather confront Joy here and now than have her plotting behind my back.

She marches up to me and stands so close I can smell the coffee on her breath.

‘Your disgusting mockery of the true Oblation caused this, Rina. For decades we’ve been forbidden from following our ancient rite and then you kill your own husband in some sort of sick parody. It’s a profanity – a desecration. Do you think it’s coincidence this disease has appeared now? We are all being punished for your sin, Rina Pine.’

Hope and Mrs Cox nod their assent.

All the Sistren’s eyes are upon me.

It isn’t only my life that depends on the answer I give. Everyone knows about Cate and Alice. A return to their quiet life in Bristol is not an option. If I am deposed, all other rivals will be eliminated.

What would Aunt Agatha have done in my position? I take a deep breath.

‘Given your, er … close relationship with Luke, I’m surprised you’re not more upset, Joy.’

‘I’m devastated. It doesn’t mean I’m going to let you ruin everything.’

‘It was not the shedding of a boy’s blood that gave potency to the spring but Osana’s willingness to make a sacrifice. Luke’s death nearly destroyed me. But I offered up what I loved most, for the good of the village, and only I could do it. The Pines are the last true descendants of Osana.’

‘You murdered Luke,’ Joy says.

‘And Luke had Agatha murdered. Where was your outrage then? Our undisputed leader for decades, tossed to her death to satisfy your ambition.’

Murmurs of indignation.

‘It was only Luke’s claims of being Faran’s heir that drew you to him,’ I go on. ‘You were happy to sacrifice him once, forty years ago. Your relationship was for convenience, not love.’

Joy’s eyes bulge with anger.

‘If you’re right, why is this disease coming for us?’ she says. ‘People have died in the South and it’s moving closer.’

‘This is a test.’ I search the circle of women for support but see only anxious faces, desperate for reassurance. ‘Judge me by the outcome. Whatever happens, I promise you this: not a single person in Sorrow Spring will die. The water will be distributed to all residents. We will be protected against this disease.’

A ripple of applause from people who have more faith in the spring’s power than I do. I can’t dispute that Sorrow Spring has remained untouched by previous plagues. Cate explained that certain minerals in the water are beneficial to health. This makes more sense than its healing properties being down to the mystical powers of a boy who died centuries ago. Will these minerals be enough to counteract this virus? Is it possible that my sacrifice renewed the potency to the spring waters that kept Aunt Agatha in such good health well past her hundredth year?

Joy sweeps back her hair to make her scar visible.

‘We will judge you,’ she says. ‘And if one single person in Sorrow Spring dies, just one, we will have our answer.’

The Hall falls silent.

Mrs Cox’s daughter, Morgan, speaks.

‘Mum told me what used to happen, under the old ways,’ she says. ‘We can’t, Joy. It’s not right. Even if it does protect the village.’

The younger members of the Sistren nod. The older ones shake their heads.

‘And what will you say when people start dying? What if it was your child?’ Hope points at Morgan. ‘Or yours?’ pointing to Mrs Anthony’s granddaughter. ‘We’re in danger. If the Sistren cannot keep the village safe, what’s the point of us?’

‘But even if we wanted to—’ Morgan starts to say.

Joy interrupts her. ‘Fortunately, Luke prepared for this. We have options.’ She shoots me a venomous look. ‘Women were brought to Sorrow Spring to give birth, so that their children were never registered. No one’s going to look for someone who doesn’t exist.’

Behind her, Anna and Zelda stiffen.

‘You mean those refugee girls brought here to give birth?’ Morgan says. She looks to her mother, Mrs Cox. ‘You knew?’

‘It’s like Joy says, we need to have options.’

The younger women are aghast.

‘No, we can’t.’

The older ones are split.

‘No need … every need … virus … cure … ceremonial … parody.’

I take advantage of the hubbub to press home my point. ‘If you want to stick to the old ways, Joy, may I remind you that you and your daughters are not members of the Distaff.’

Even the older Sistren have to agree with this.

Joy’s lip curls into a sneer. ‘When the time comes, you’ll beg for my help.’ She thrusts an accusing finger in my face. ‘All of you will be crying out for the return of the Oblation. The true one that kept us safe for centuries until she came along.’

‘No one has the stomach for more death, Joy,’ I say.

‘Then they’re in for a rough ride. Have none of you watched the news? Bodies are piling up in Italy. Their morgues are overflowing. We’re next.’ She spun on her heels and strode towards the door. ‘One death, Rina. Just one death in this village and we’ll all know what needs to be done.’

As she’s leaving, the wind catches the door, flinging it back on its hinges with a bang. Cold air fills the Hall.

All the ladies continue to stare at me.

‘The waters will keep us safe,’ I tell them.

No one replies. Instead, they shuffle away, muttering to one another, ‘Just one death in Sorrow Spring, just one …’

*

I say goodbye to each of them as they leave. None of them can look me in the eye.

I’m about to shut the door when Morgan comes back.

‘Did you notice Mrs Greening wasn’t here today?’ she asks.

‘No.’

I was too distracted.

‘She has a cough,’ Morgan says.

I freeze. Coughing is one of the most prominent symptoms of this new plague.

‘That’s not unusual for this time of year.’ I’m trying to reassure myself as much as Morgan. ‘And Mrs Greening’s getting on a bit.’

‘Her temperature’s sky high. Hope heard about it and let Joy know. She told me outside. It’s the reason Joy came here today.’

My stomach starts churning.

‘What am I going to do?’

Morgan leads me to the nearest seat. The old Comprehensive History of the Saints stares down at me from the shelves opposite, the entry for St Faran still marked by the same purple ribbon, now tattered and faded.

Jealous of the respect and wealth Faran commanded, his elder sister, Osana, and her husband, Alfred, conspired to kill the boy, so that they may rule together.

Perhaps it’s the official version and not the Sistren’s alternative one that’s right after all.

‘I don’t care about myself, but Cate and Alice – I asked them to come here. You know what’ll happen to them if I fail.’

‘It doesn’t have to be that way,’ Morgan says. ‘Coming here and making a scene was all for show. Joy needs leverage to make a pact.’

‘What pact?’

‘She wants to return to the village, to live here permanently and rejoin the Sistren.’

I know that Joy sneaks back to see Hope now and then, and I have turned a blind eye to it. Having her as a permanent fixture in Sorrow Spring and attending meetings is a different matter. However, it would be a price worth paying if it ensures Cate and Alice’s safety.

‘That’s all she’s demanding?’ I ask.

‘And she wants to be your deputy. And …’

‘And what?’

‘I think you know, Mrs Glebe.’

I do know. The old ways must be revived and those poor boys born at the Vicarage will be made to return to the village. I close my eyes to try to hold back the images of grey robes, chanting and flashing steel.

Can I allow this to happen, after all I’ve done over the years to end the bloodshed?

What price must I pay to keep Cate and Alice safe?

Then my own words come back to haunt me.

We all have to make sacrifices.

Epilogue

By the time the Sistren come, your nervous system is already shutting down. You’re unable to fight as they bundle you in a car, carry you through the churchyard and lay you down next to St Faran’s Spring.

Rina leans over you. Tears fall from her cheeks to yours.

‘I’m sacrificing what I love most, Luke,’ she says.

And you believe her.

There are no robes or chanting this time. Instead the Sistren wear sweat pants and wrap dresses. They hold hands and watch you in grim silence. Who would suspect this band of greying, carelessly dressed women of anything beyond gossip and ill-humour? Their camouflage is so perfectly adapted to a village of no note, in a seldom visited corner of England, that the Sistren may well remain as unknown to the outside world in coming centuries as they have for the previous six.

Rina can congratulate herself. She has outwitted you. But she can’t outwit fate.

Whatever she thinks, it was fate that brought you here.

And you know now what every boy laid on the grass next to the spring must have realised in his final moments, that whilst to take a life is to be a god, to have your life taken is to be a saint.

We are all Saint Faran. Each and every Peter, James and William.

Are you to be the last — Faran’s true heir? A man, not a boy, slain at the hands of those who love you.

The question is, will you love them in return? Or will you transform Faran’s blessing to a curse and bring down pestilence, not healing.

You could do it, if you chose.

It’s within your gift, now you have become…

St Faran…

… Of Sorrow Spring.

Author’s Note

Lo, in the lyf of Seint Kenelm I rede,

That was Kenulphus sone, the noble kyng

Of Mercenrike, how Kenelm mette a thyng.

A lite er he was mordred, on a day,

His mordre in his avysioun he say.

The Nun’s Priest Tale from The Canterbury Tales by

Geoffrey Chaucer

Those of you familiar with Worcestershire or medieval hagiography may spot the similarities between the legend of Sorrow Spring’s St Faran and that of St Kenelm. Although Faran’s tale differs from Kenelm’s in many respects, Kenelm’s legend was the inspiration for this story. Both were young men, murdered by their sisters and their sisters’ lovers. Both Faran and Kenelm were decapitated in a quiet grove, where, in acknowledgement of their holiness, a spring burst from the earth, bringing forth healing waters.

It has been suggested that the veneration of St Kenelm’s well dates from pre-Christian times and that his legend was invented either to appease the sensibilities of the church or to cash in on the medieval appetite for pilgrimages. Certainly, the legend does not correspond with the historical facts. The real life Kenelm was King of Mercia and died, not as a child, but in adulthood and his supposedly wicked sister, Quendryda, was an abbess in Kent.

Whatever the truth, the church dedicated to him and its associated spring served as an important place of pilgrimage, and he was sufficiently well known to appear in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.

The Reformation brought an end to pilgrimages, and the village of Kenelmstowe was abandoned. Only the church remained. This was my local church growing up. We all knew about the legend of St Kenelm and the spring’s healing properties. Back then, however, the well was inaccessible.

Only several years after I left the area was the path cleared and the well restored. When I visited, I was amazed to see nearby trees hung with small pieces of cloth. This stems from the practice of healing ‘Clootie wells’. The cloth represents an ailment and so as the cloth decays, the illness passes and the afflicted, cured. I found it interesting that that in the 21st century people still hold to these ancient beliefs.

This book imagines other, less benign beliefs, surviving into the modern age.

A word on the smallpox outbreak mentioned in Sorrow Spring. This was a real event that took place in 1978. After it was thought the disease had been eradicated, Janet Parker contracted it at her place of work, the microbiology lab at Birmingham University. She became ill in August that year and died in September. Fear seized the city. However prompt action in vaccinating and quarantining those who had been in contact with Janet prevented the disease from spreading. Unfortunately, this didn’t mean Janet was the only victim. Her father, Frederick Witcomb, died of a heart attack whilst in quarantine, and the day after her death, Henry Bedson, the head of Birmingham Medical School microbiology department, slit his own throat.

A thorough account of the outbreak and its fallout can be read in The Last Days of Smallpox: Tragedy in Birmingham by Mark Pallen.

Finally, it should be noted that on 25 July 1978 Louise Brown was born, the first baby conceived via IVF. These so-called test tube babies were the subject of much discussion at the time.

Acknowledgements

Firstly, thanks to my editor, Kate Bradley, and my agent, Sandra Sawicka, for sharing my vision for this book and for all their hard work on my behalf.

Secondly, to those who helped me with the factual aspects of this book. Shazia Shah and Emma Donaldson for legal advice. Also, Ishani Kar-Purkayastha, her husband and father for their help with medical issues – especially the different practices in the seventies. Any errors made are entirely my own, coupled with a dash of dramatic licence.

Writing pals are a must, and I have to thank Erin Kelly, Paddy Magrane and Barbara Zuckriegl for their help and encouragement. A special shoutout to Syd Moore, an early reader and tireless cheerleader for my writing.

Behind every writer there’s a long suffering partner. Keith has not only been supportive of my efforts but has read the manuscript multiple times and given me clear and honest feedback.

Much love to my mother who has always been behind me, and to my father, to whom this book is dedicated. He instilled in me my love of books and some of my earliest memories are of him reading stories to me. Sorry you’ll not get to read this one, Dad.

Keep Reading

If you enjoyed Sorrow Spring, don’t miss Olivia’s gripping crime thriller, The Verdict…

Click here to buy now

And you’ll love Olivia’s twisty page-turner, Someone You Know…

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About the Author

In addition to writing novels, Olivia Isaac-Henry is a crime drama lover, and occasional keyboard player and backing vocalist in the band The Protagonist. She grew up in Worcestershire but now lives in London, where she loves the theatres, food markets and festivals.

Also by Olivia Isaac-Henry

Someone You Know

The Verdict

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