The
Darkest
Night

Victoria Hawthorne

Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Praise for The Darkest Night

About the Author

Dedication

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Part Two

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Part Three

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Acknowledgements

Authors’ Note

First published in Great Britain in 2024 by

Quercus Editions Ltd

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

An Hachette UK company

Copyright © 2024 Victoria Hawthorne

The moral right of Victoria Hawthorne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

EBOOK ISBN 978 1 52941 853 8

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

www.quercusbooks.co.uk

Praise for The Darkest Night

‘A deliciously twisty gothic mystery with plenty of heart’

Heather Darwent, author of The Things We Do To Our Friends

‘Full of mystery and intrigue . . . fiercely feminist and refreshingly representative’

Anita Frank, author of The Good Liars

‘A wonderfully twisting tale of family secrets, gothic mystery and intrigue’

Rebecca Netley, author of The Black Feathers

‘This wonderful book immediately grabs you by the heart’

Alison Stockham, author of The Silent Friend

‘Such a lovely, compelling book that keeps revealing twists you don’t see coming’

Emma Medrano, author of Nothing Serious

‘I loved it. A tale of women forged by the past, it’s dark, gripping, immersive and full of surprises’

Kate Kenzie, author of A Blend of Magic

‘A powerful tale . . . Flawlessly woven together. Atmospheric, evocative, powerful’

Barbara Havelocke, author of Estella’s Revenge

Victoria Hawthorne is the pseudonym of bestselling psychological suspense author Vikki Patis. She lives in Scotland with her wife, two wild golden retrievers, and an even wilder cat. The House at Helygen was her debut historical suspense novel.

For my nan, the woman I danced around the kitchen with,
peeling hard-boiled eggs while singing Babooshka.

‘When shall we three meet again?

In thunder, lightning, or in rain?’

‘When the hurly-burly’s done,

When the battle’s lost and won.’

‘That will be ere the set of sun.’

– William Shakespeare, Macbeth

Part One

One

AILSA

Now

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel as headlights flash past on the other side of the motorway. They are mesmeric, like flames in the darkness beckoning a moth. It has been a long drive, and the now-cold coffee does little to revive me. I drain the cup anyway. The sun has already set; the longest night has been and gone, but the Scottish winter clings to the darkness like the final leaves to fall after an autumn storm. I’m almost there.

I think of Gran and Pop waiting for me in the warmth of the kitchen, a stew bubbling away on the hob, freshly made bread cooling on the counter. I can almost smell the shortbreads carefully arranged on a plate and picture myself dusting the sugary crumbs from my lips. The sat nav tells me there’s still an hour to go; I should stop, pick up another coffee and a bunch of flowers for Gran. I remember Pop telling me that when they got married, he’d promised Gran she would always have flowers, and throughout more than five decades of marriage, he has never broken that promise. For the past thirty years, I have helped him keep it. From picking wildflowers as a toddler, petals crushed between my clumsy fingers, to sending bouquets filled with guilt for every event I was absent for over the past two years. At first it was exciting, telling them that I would be in Brussels for Christmas and Paris for Easter with my new boyfriend. A summer trip to Spain, Greece in October. They hid their disappointment well, buried beneath their happiness that I was out in the world, exploring, expanding, seeking a love like theirs. But then it all came crashing down, and I hid myself away, too ashamed to reach out. Now I have no choice. I need the comfort of my childhood home, and the two people who are my grandparents in name but so much more in reality. The people who I hope, so desperately, will still love me, despite what I have done.

I pull into a service station and park up, then sit for a moment, watching people go in and out of the building, which is lit up like a funfair. I stretch out my spine, rolling my shoulders backwards and forwards. I can feel a knot developing on my right shoulder blade, a familiar ache from hours spent leaning over a desk, marking papers. The air is cold when I open the door, a burst of laughter from a car a few rows along making me jump as I tuck my chin into my scarf and hurry towards the entrance. As I’m washing my hands in the bathroom, I glance up and find my own eyes in the mirror. Noting the dark circles beneath them and the yellowish tinge of my skin under the harsh lights, I look away.

Arms loaded with flowers, fresh coffee and a chocolate bar, I make my way to the car, hesitating before opening the door and laying the flowers down on the back seat. Back on the motorway, I turn the radio up loud and start to sing along with the Christmas songs I have always loved, my way of forcing the panic that has accompanied me on this journey back into its box. I can’t afford to freak out, so I bury myself in happy memories. Christmas was always a special time of year at home. Images of Pop lifting me to place the star atop the tree flash through my mind, of Gran patiently untangling the lights and wrapping them around the branches. I try to focus on what is to come, instead of what is following behind me.

I manage to avoid the traffic around Edinburgh and soon I’m on the Queensferry Bridge, the water dark and fathomless beneath me. I open the window and inhale the scent. It is only now that I feel like I can breathe. I’ve missed the sea after years of living on the outskirts of London, trying to get my fill from the rivers that wind through the Home Counties. But it isn’t the same. I can always hear the siren’s song of the sea, calling me home, and now I’m finally here. I take the coastal road into the town I once called home, memories flashing through my mind of summer days spent on the beach, fingers coated in sand, seashells clinking in pockets. The caravan park is silent as I drive through, just a few windows lit, and then I see it, the cemetery which looms above the house. And on the cliff between them, an iron ring, hammered into the rock hundreds of years ago. The ring they used to hang witches from, where they burned them alive.

I shiver, remembering the stories from my childhood. I used to dream of them, the women they burned on that hill, and now I am one of them. There’s no smoke without fire, one parent wrote on the post that marked the beginning of the end. The turn of the tide. They were right; I had been the one to light the fire that would consume me, though I didn’t know it then.

As I pull into the driveway, half-hidden by overgrown pine trees, I notice the ambulance, its flashing lights turning the world blue. I get out of the car and stare into the yawning mouth that is the front door of my childhood home, my mind frozen in fear and confusion. Then there is movement, a burst of sound as two paramedics rush out of the front door, a stretcher carried between them. Suddenly my limbs are no longer frozen. I run towards them, pulling up as I realise who is lying on the stretcher. Pop.

‘What happened?’ I gasp, and the paramedic’s head jerks up as if I have surprised him, materialised out of nowhere like a ghost out of the mist.

‘And you are?’ he asks in a thick local accent, though he isn’t anyone I recognise.

‘Ailsa Reid. I’m his granddaughter. This is Rupert Reid.’

The paramedics don’t stop moving as I speak, and I follow along beside them, peering down at Pop. His face is covered by an oxygen mask and his eyes are closed, and is that . . . blood?

‘What happened?’ I ask again.

‘We got a call about twenty minutes ago to say a man had suffered a blow to the head. No other information.’

‘A call? From who?’

The paramedics are lifting Pop into the back of the ambulance now. ‘They didnae leave their name.’

‘Where are you taking him? Can I come with you?’ I move towards the steps but then I remember Gran. She must have been the one to call them. ‘Is there anyone else in the house?’ I ask the paramedic, who is hooking Pop up to more machines. He glances at me with something like pity before he speaks.

‘No one else. We’re away to Kirkcaldy, you can meet us there.’ And then the doors are closing and Pop is gone.

I run into the house, switching on the lights to check each room. The sitting room at the front of the house is empty, as is the largely unused dining room. I check the downstairs toilet and even the cupboard under the stairs before going into the kitchen. I hit the light switch and it takes a few seconds for my brain to realise what I’m seeing. Blood on the tiles next to the sink, a puddle spreading across the floor towards me. So much blood. My hand moves to cover my mouth and I realise I am trembling. I force myself to look away.

The table is in disarray; the saltshaker has been smashed, granules and tiny shards of glass littering the surface. A mug is on its side, a pool of tea leaking from the mouth. There is no sign of Gran. I turn and run back through the hall, taking the stairs two at a time, and push open the door to my grandparents’ bedroom. The light is already on, the room as neat as it always is. No signs of bags being packed; I throw open the wardrobe to check for missing clothes, but it all seems to be there. I cross the room and inspect the dressing table. It looks like all of Gran’s toiletries are still there, the bottles of perfume neatly lined up. So where is she?

I check the other rooms, and when I get to my old bedroom, my eyes start to fill with tears. Someone has attacked Pop, and Gran is missing. Did they take her? Or did she . . .? Gran’s fuse has shortened quite dramatically of late, the frustration and fear since her dementia diagnosis balling up inside her and turning to fury, but could she really do something like this?

No. I sink down onto my old bed, my head in my hands as I try to regulate my breathing. Pop must have fallen, and Gran must have been out when it happened, at the shop getting something she’d forgotten, or maybe buying us a fish supper. She could return at any time, warm parcels in hand, a can of Pepsi bought specially for me, which Pop will try to take sneaky sips of. I should stay here, shouldn’t I? In case she comes back. We should go to the hospital together. But then who called the ambulance?

I lift my head, exhaling slowly as I open my eyes. The room has barely changed since I left, though there isn’t a speck of dust on the bedside table, and the floorboards have been swept and mopped. The bedding is fresh too; I can smell the lavender scent of Gran’s washing powder. She’ll be back soon. I should go downstairs and put the kitchen back together before she returns, but the thought of cleaning up Pop’s blood makes me feel nauseous. Should I call the police? I slide my phone out of my pocket then hesitate, the idea of heavy boots and buzzing radios and the cold metal of handcuffs making my head swim. She could be innocent. She could be guilty.

My eyes find the window and the dark outline of the church against the sky. I can just see the edge of it from here; I stand and peer out of the glass, craning my neck. Our nearest neighbours are a little way down the road, a cluster of mid-century buildings with paved driveways and neat hedges. So different to this house, which stands in the middle of the hill as if carved out of the cliff face. Some of our ancestors are buried in the graveyard above, visited by Gran every week, fresh flowers propped against the headstones. Alastair, Selina, Elspeth, Cordelia. So many names, so much history. Gran has carefully traced the family back through the centuries, printing page after page and sticking them in the book she’d creatively named The Reid Family.

I turn to the bookcase in the corner, running my eyes down the spines of beloved tales until I find it, nestled between my collection of Point Horror and a copy of The People of the Sea. I smile at the memory of Pop reading those folk stories to me, tucked up in bed or camped out under the stars. As I pull out the Reid book, something falls out, dropping to the floor. I reach down to pick it up, turning it over in my hands. It is smaller, A5 size, with thin pages. I flick through it, then almost drop it when I hear a door slam downstairs.

‘Gran?’ I call as I descend the stairs, almost tripping halfway down and only just catching myself on the banister.

‘Careful, hen,’ a voice says. ‘You’ll break yer neck.’ The woman steps into the light and I freeze. I haven’t seen her in years, and yet her features are burned into my mind so that I recognise her instantly. Rowan. My mother.

Two

AILSA

I stare at the outline of the woman framed in the doorway. My mother, though I do not call her that and she doesn’t call herself that either.

The sky behind her is leaden, thick clouds heavy with rain covering the stars, and the sea rages against the wall like a bear trying to escape its cage. The cliffs to the right loom over us as I take her in, this woman who gave birth to me thirty years ago, and who abandoned me less than a week later.

‘Ailsa,’ she says in her soft, breathy voice, and I feel something tighten inside me, my frayed nerves turning to something I am more familiar with: anger.

‘What are you doing here?’ The words are sharp and I see her flinch. We have never pretended to be mother and daughter, and I haven’t seen her since I moved to the outskirts of London and cut all contact with her for good.

‘What’s happened here, Ailsa?’ she asks. ‘Where’s your gran?’ She doesn’t call her ‘Mum’ either. I wonder when she stopped.

‘What are you doing here?’ I repeat, slowly, biting the words out. I feel my hands clench into fists by my side and I force myself to relax them.

‘I’m early,’ she says, cocking her head at me like an exotic bird, ‘but I’m here for the dinner.’

Christ. I’d forgotten all about the sodding dinner. This was to be Gran’s last birthday at home before she moved into a care home, and it dawns on me that she wanted everyone to be here, despite what had gone before. Uncle Doug will be on his way up soon, and I’ll have to explain it to him too. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath before speaking.

‘Something’s happened,’ I whisper. ‘Pop, he . . . He’s gone to hospital. He was attacked.’

Something flits across Rowan’s face. ‘Where’s your gran?’ she repeats.

‘I-I don’t know. She’s not here.’

‘What do you mean, she’s not here? Where is she then?’

My fingers tighten around the banister as I fight the urge to shout at Rowan, this so-called mother, this so-called daughter who has been neither to anyone. I can’t remember the last time she visited me here, and she has never been to my flat down south. ‘I never set foot in England if I can help it,’ she would say if I asked, which I wouldn’t.

‘Ailsa?’ Rowan takes a step forward, her hand reaching out then pausing before her fingers touch mine. ‘Let’s stay calm, aye? She has to be somewhere.’

‘She’s not in the house,’ I tell her, swallowing my irritation. ‘Upstairs is empty and the attic is locked. I don’t think she even knows where the key is.’

‘Let’s check the garden then.’ Rowan turns to the pegs behind the door, her hand hovering over a long navy-blue coat. ‘Is this hers?’

I stare at it as if I can’t quite believe it’s there, hanging on the peg like any normal day. But this is not a normal day. My grandfather has been attacked and is on his way to hospital. My grandmother is missing barely a week before Christmas, and she’s left her coat behind. I lift it up to discover her handbag nestled beneath it, her purse inside and, at a glance, nothing else is missing. I find her house keys and car keys in a side pocket, though she hasn’t driven for a few years. Panic flickers through me.

‘The garden,’ Rowan says softly, and I push past her, barely stopping to slip on my shoes before throwing the back door open and stalking into the garden. It is a long space with a small patio by the door and overgrown bushes along both sides. A rickety shed leans against the rear fence, and a pile of kindling is stacked up beside the log pile, waiting to be burned. A large outbuilding, which used to be a doctor’s surgery, sits crouched next to it, windows dark with grime.

The outside lights flicker on and illuminate the patio as I cup my hands around my mouth and call Gran’s name. A bird startles from a bush beside me and takes flight, wings flapping, to the woods beyond the back fence. I walk the length of the garden, taking out my phone and switching on the torch as the darkness grows thicker around me. I reach the gate and turn back, my eyes on the kirkyard above the house, the gravestones sticking out of the ground like rotten teeth. I suppress a shudder.

‘The gate is locked,’ Rowan says, fingering the sturdy bolt Pop installed a few years ago.

‘Fuck,’ I say. I know Gran couldn’t have gone through and reached over to lock it behind her; she’s barely five feet tall, and her hands are so arthritic she sometimes has trouble opening the milk, let alone wrestling with a metal lock. ‘Fuck.’

Rowan turns back to me. ‘I’m sure she’s fine, Ailsa,’ she says.

I glare at her. ‘Are you? And why would that be?’ She stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head. ‘She has dementia, Rowan. Sometimes she doesn’t even know her own bloody name. She’s out there, somewhere, by herself, with no coat and no keys, and no way of contacting anyone.’ I close my eyes and try to breathe. Panicking won’t get us anywhere. I need to calm down. I need to think. Where could she be?

I feel Rowan come up beside me, imagine her hand fluttering in the space between us, unsure. ‘I just want to help,’ she says, and I open my eyes. ‘Why don’t we pack a bag for him? You can take it with you, when you go to see him.’

‘Him,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘I suppose you don’t have a name for him, do you? Not even Dad?’

‘I called him Poppy once,’ she says in a small voice, and something about her demeanour makes me stop, water sprinkling over the flames of rage. She moves towards me and I let her take me by the arm and lead me back into the house. ‘Come on, we need to get you warmed up. You’re freezing.’

And at her words I begin to tremble, my teeth chattering. I allow her to guide me into a chair at the table and watch as she fills the kettle with water and opens a cupboard for mugs. She knows where everything is, but of course she does. Nothing has changed since she left.

While the kettle boils, Rowan takes out a tin and begins to roll herself a cigarette. As she brings the paper to her lips, I reach out and take two cigarettes from a pack on the side – dementia has erased Gran’s memory of giving up almost twenty years ago, an argument we decided we couldn’t win – and hold one out to her. She takes it tentatively, as if I might snatch it away again, and tucks it behind her ear while she makes the tea.

‘Sugar?’ she asks.

‘Two,’ I say. She stirs it in then places a mug in front of me, her own cupped between her fingers as she slides onto the chair opposite. We are both ignoring the blood in the corner, as if it might go away if we don’t look at it. She lights her cigarette, then holds the lighter out for me. I lean across the table and touch the end of the cigarette to the flame before sitting back. I hold the smoke in my lungs, fighting against the urge to cough, and stare up at the ceiling. There is a crack running along the middle, from the window to the light fitting, and I trace it with my eyes, wondering how long it’s been there.

‘Ailsa.’

I snap my gaze back to Rowan, suddenly annoyed with how my name sounds in her mouth. She hasn’t lost her accent, despite spending the past thirty years travelling the globe. The last I’d heard, she was living in Spain. I remember Pop once saying that she reminded him of his own mother, who had been born into a nomadic tribe in Australia. A wanderer, he’d called her. Deserter, I thought but didn’t say.

I exhale loudly, smoke pouring from my nostrils as I consider my words. ‘I don’t know what happened,’ I say eventually. ‘I turned up and the ambulance was already here.’

‘Was it his head? Did he have a fall?’

‘Yes. I don’t know.’ Out of the corner of my eye, I see her blow a curl out of her face. Her hair went from the same dark red as mine to grey when she was in her thirties, according to Gran’s photos. I touch a hand to my own hair, wondering if it will soon start to change.

Rowan finishes her cigarette and stubs it out in the ashtray on the table between us. My gaze is drawn to one of the butts lying at the bottom, a smear of pink lipstick on the edge. Gran’s lipstick, the only colour she wears. But she doesn’t often wear makeup. Was she expecting to go somewhere? And then it hits me, a wall of sadness and exhaustion that makes me feel as if all the air has left my lungs. She’d dressed up for me.

In a rush I get up and open the oven door, finding the pie I knew I’d find, being kept warm inside. In the fridge is a bottle of Pepsi, something Gran only ever buys when I’m in the house, and a lemon tart on the bottom shelf. She’d been preparing a welcome-home dinner for me. She’d baked a pie and put on her lipstick and, at some point, maybe, she’d bashed her husband over the head.

I sit back down with a thud, pushing the heels of my hands into my eyes to try to dispel the images flashing through my mind. If only she knew why I had really come. If only she knew what I was going to ask of her.

‘Maybe you should try to sleep,’ Rowan says, glancing up at the clock. It is gone midnight. ‘It’ll be too late for visitors now anyway.’

Exhaustion suddenly sweeps over me, weighing down my limbs. ‘I’ll go in the morning,’ I murmur, trying not to feel relieved. Then I remember I have to call Doug.

*

I find myself in their room the next morning. Gran’s bed creaks beneath my weight as I sit down, eyes bleary from a restless night. The house is silent; I picture Rowan asleep on the sofa downstairs, a threadbare blanket thrown over her. I run my fingers across the pillows, the scent of lavender and the purple shampoo Gran has used for years hitting my nose. I close my eyes and picture her, this woman who is both grandmother and mother to me. I know her face as well as I know my own. I could draw each intricate line, every wrinkle at the edge of her eyes and around her mouth. The dressing table is as tidy as ever, bottles of perfume dust-free and neatly arranged, what she calls her ‘lotions and potions’ stacked in one corner. A jewellery box, a small tub of hair pins. A place for everything and everything in its place. But she is not here, and neither is Pop.

I drop my head into my hands, guilt flooding through me. If I’d moved back as soon as we all realised the dementia was getting worse, I could’ve supported her better. They were so proud of me for qualifying as a teacher, for landing the perfect job, dating the perfect man. They kept the postcards I sent from our holidays pinned to the fridge beneath ancient magnets. They pushed me to go, to pursue my dreams, because that’s what good parents do, but I should have come home sooner. I should have been here for them like they have always been there for me. If I’d been here, maybe I would have seen that something was wrong long before something like this happened.

And maybe you would never have met Andy Wright, a voice inside my head says. I jump up, the thought sending shivers through me, the name a physical thing I feel the need to get away from.

Pulling a duffel bag out from under the bed, I move to Pop’s side and open the top drawer, where I know his mobile will be. He rarely switches the thing on, so it’s bound to have some charge. I slip it into a pocket along with the tub he uses to store his dentures overnight, then I move over to the drawers and stare down at his clothes neatly folded away, wondering where to start. How long will he be in hospital for? Is he even awake? After a few moments, I grab some socks and underwear, some T-shirts and a pair of jogging bottoms, and stuff them into the bag, throwing his slippers on top. In the bathroom, I find a new toothbrush in the cabinet and a half-empty travel-sized toothpaste underneath the sink, and an unopened bottle of shower gel. Lemon, his favourite. The lemon tart would have been a treat for him, too.

I pause at the top of the stairs, the bag slung over my shoulder, and feel my vision blur. Is this real? It can’t be real. It feels like a nightmare; I just need to wake up. I grab the banister with one hand and force myself to focus on the gallery wall, taking deep, shaky breaths. Gran has always been proud of her collection of family photographs, Pop dutifully hammering nails wherever she indicated. The wall above the stairs is full now, covered in dozens of photos, some black and white, some faded to a blurred sepia.

My gaze fixes on a woman in a black dress, a hat covering her head, her face turned to one side. She could be Gran’s grandmother, who died before Gran was born. I suddenly want to ask about her, about all of the women who went before. On the second row from the top, I see a faded photograph with the words Mum and me scribbled at the bottom in Gran’s handwriting. I haven’t seen this photo before. Carefully, I lift the frame from the wall and peer at the photo. Gran looks about seven or eight, wearing a dress that is slightly too big, her hair in long plaits. But it is the woman beside her who captures my attention. She is wearing a shirt dress that reaches her calves, a cardigan thrown over her shoulders. One arm is crossed over her chest, supporting the other arm which holds a cigarette to her lips. Her hair is in victory rolls and her feet are bare against the grass beneath her. Gran is smiling at the camera, but the woman, who must be her mother, is gazing off into the distance. I try to make out the background of the photo, and realise it was taken in the back garden. The old doctor’s surgery is there, its ivy-covered walls poking into the edge of the frame, and the woman is staring up at the hill behind the house. Witches’ Hill, where the Reid women were once burned alive.

I shudder. It feels like an omen.

The carpet is rough beneath my feet, the hard wood of the stairs digging into my spine as I sit down, exhausted. I place the frame face-down beside me and stare up at the wall. Another photo catches my eye: two women standing together, both with cropped curls and long skirts. A child stands between them, staring up at the taller woman. I take down the photo and pop open the back, squinting at the faded writing.

Cordelia and her mother, circa 1922.

Cordelia Reid. My great-grandmother. I replace the backing and hang the photo on the wall, trying to remember what Gran told me about her, my memories snagging. Based on the year, Cordelia is perhaps about eight or nine years old. The woman she is gazing up at must be her mother, Elspeth, but who is the other woman?

I run a finger over Cordelia’s face, remembering the story of how she died. In the sea, Gran said. Drowned. But I’d overheard her and Pop talking once, whispers drifting beneath the kitchen door, sentences half-formed. Father. Murdered. Is it written in her book? The lives and deaths of the Reid women, consigned to history in Gran’s neat handwriting.

Three

AILSA

There’s a loud rap on the front door and I look up to see Rowan coming out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel. She is frowning, and suddenly I can see Gran in her, that wrinkle in the middle of her brow I have also seen in the mirror. I wonder if Cordelia had it too.

‘It’s Doug,’ Rowan says, but doesn’t move to answer the door.

I stand up, brushing my hands against my jeans as I pad down the stairs. I pull open the door to find my uncle, newly bearded and looking surprisingly younger for it.

‘Ailsa,’ he says, pulling me into a hug that almost knocks the breath out of me. He has always been a fierce hugger, not one for your half-arsed, awkward, one-handed hugs. Doug gives his all when he folds you in his arms, and I feel myself relax into them, relieved that there is a grown-up here at last. ‘What happened?’ He looks up to see Rowan behind me, something flickering across his face. ‘Rowan,’ he says, the word loaded with decades of emotion.

‘Doug. Tea?’

‘Please.’

‘One sugar?’

‘I reckon I’m sweet enough.’ He winks as he says this, as if it is a private joke, but Rowan only lifts an eyebrow. ‘Just a splash of milk,’ he adds, glancing at me as if for support.

‘Aye, right then.’ I watch Rowan disappear into the kitchen, but I can still see the look on her face, as if she has left it behind to glare at us while she fills the kettle.

Doug throws an arm around my shoulders and directs me into the living room. He makes for Gran’s chair but I intercept him, claiming it as my own. He says nothing as he takes a seat on the sofa instead.

‘How are you holding up?’ he asks at the same time as I ask about his journey. He gives a huff of laughter. ‘No longer than yours, eh?’ Which isn’t true. He lives in Devon with his husband Lee, their two young sons and a completely bonkers Labrador. He was already halfway here when I called him last night. I pictured him in a hotel room at some nondescript motorway services, absorbing the news that his father was in hospital and his mother was missing. ‘How’s Dad?’

‘I haven’t been to see him yet,’ I tell him, folding my hands together as if in prayer.

His face remains impassive, but I can see the effort it takes for him to stay calm. Rowan is the passionate one, the fire that threatens to engulf with the slightest kindling. Doug is the long-suffering water bearer, wearily putting out the flames.

‘Oh,’ he says.

‘I don’t . . . I’m not sure I can . . .’ I trail off as Rowan enters, carrying three mugs of tea. Liquid sloshes over the side as she places them on the coffee table and I leap up, snatching tissues from the box on the windowsill and mopping up the mess.

Doug picks up his cup and cradles it in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘Well, I called the hospital on the way up. He’s stable, but they’re running tests and keeping him under observation.’ He takes a sip of tea. ‘What did the police say? About Mum?’ The word echoes between us, so easily spoken in a house where it has been forbidden, foreign, for so long. Rowan and I glance at one another as if we are co-conspirators, and Doug sighs. ‘You haven’t called them yet, have you?’

‘I’ll ring them in a bit,’ Rowan says, still standing. There is nowhere for her to sit, unless she takes Pop’s chair, which feels disrespectful, or the other side of the sofa, which would put her too near the brother she has never been close to in her life. So she hovers, another thing Reid women are good at.

Doug frowns. ‘Has anyone been out searching? It’s freezing out there.’

‘Och, it’s not too bad,’ Rowan says. ‘You’ve been down south too long.’

‘We checked the garden last night,’ I say, willing Doug to ignore the jibe. ‘It was too late to do anything really. I was going to go to the hospital this morning, but I just . . . I don’t want to.’ These last words are a breath, a confession whispered in a wooden box.

‘It’s hard,’ Doug says, reaching out to touch my hand. ‘I’ll go with you.’

‘Of course you will,’ Rowan mutters.

‘You can come.’ Doug turns to her and smiles brightly. ‘You always were Da’s favourite.’ Rowan makes a noise in the back of her throat but says nothing. ‘What brings you here anyway, Rowan?’

‘Same as you. The dinner.’

‘You were invited?’ Doug’s surprise does little to soften his words. ‘I mean, aye, of course you were invited.’

‘Lee couldn’t make it?’ I ask. Doug is the only one with a partner to bring, and I have just realised that he has come alone.

‘The twins are ill,’ he says, avoiding my gaze. ‘Chicken pox. His mum is with them.’

I look up to see Rowan’s expression mirroring my own thoughts. Trouble in paradise. Except I don’t feel the hint of glee I see in her eyes. Why is she so . . . I struggle to find the right word, my brain slow and sluggish. So Rowan. She’s never been what you would call warm. At the beginning, when she would visit, flying in from wherever at a moment’s notice, back bent under a rucksack bigger than her, I could almost see her as a fun older sister, someone who always brought gifts and stories. But that was only ever for the first day she was home. After that, the real Rowan would come out, the sharp glances and snide comments, the worst always reserved for Gran.

‘She might be the woman you dance around the kitchen with, singing “Babooshka” and peeling hard-boiled eggs,’ she hissed at me once, ‘but she was never that woman to me.’

I hated that she knew that, that she saw that memory of mine and Gran’s and sullied it, cracking it like eggshells and leaving the fragments scattered in her wake. Gran’s strained smile as she watched her daughter leave, a mixture of relief and regret, Pop watching it all from afar, blending into the background. He and Rowan had been close when she was young, I knew, but something had happened, a family secret explosive enough to tear us all apart. Or maybe it wasn’t a secret at all. Maybe it all stems from me, the child standing between them both.

Doug is older than Rowan, born eleven years earlier and remaining light years apart. Always a distance ahead, a generational gap almost, two roads running adjacent but in entirely different directions. By the time I was born, he was living in England, working for a big company in London. His little sister had fallen pregnant at fifteen and he’d had no idea until he came home one summer to find me in his father’s arms, Rowan already gone.

‘Where are you staying these days?’ he is asking her.

‘Over near Pitlochry.’

‘Oh, the Highlands. Nice.’

‘Mmm.’

Silence, then, ‘And you, Ailsa? Still in London?’

‘Nearby.’

‘Still teaching?’

The word slams into me like a physical force. I am engulfed by the memory of leaving my flat, the drive up the motorway, carefully sticking to the speed limit, heart pounding any time an emergency vehicle went past. The mess I’d tried to clean up, tea towels shoved into a bin bag and down the chute into the communal bin. No time to burn them. No time to do anything but run.

‘Ailsa?’

‘Oh, erm, yeah. Yeah, still teaching.’ The lie makes me wince.

Silence descends again as we drink our tea, the hot liquid not as comforting as it ought to be.

‘Right,’ Doug says, patting his thighs in that universally British way that means he’s preparing to leave.

‘Yeah,’ I say reluctantly. ‘We should go.’ I look at Rowan. ‘Are you coming?’

She hesitates, mouth moving as if chewing on the words she cannot say. ‘Aye,’ she replies eventually. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Are you going to call the police?’ Doug asks as we deposit our mugs in the kitchen. ‘Or should I . . .?’

‘I’ll do it.’

I wait in the hall while Rowan calls the police, and Doug goes upstairs to use the bathroom. He comes back down with Gran’s book in his hand. I must have left it on the stairs.

‘What’s this?’ he asks, opening the front cover and flipping through the pages.

‘It’s Gran’s book,’ I say, fighting the urge to snatch it off him. ‘I found it inside the Reid family history.’

‘The what?’

‘It’s not for the likes of you,’ Rowan says, coming up behind her brother and pinching the book from his fingers. ‘This one is for Reid women only.’

I open my mouth to retort, to say that it’s not for her either, but then she is holding the book out to me, her lips pressed together in a line. I take it silently, feeling as if a baton has just been passed.

Four

ELSPETH

1912

Elspeth does not look back as the train leaves the city she was born in. She takes out the cutting once more and runs a gloved thumb over the words she has read a hundred times since she spotted it in the newspaper.

WANTED: COMPANION FOR YOUNG LADY

Dr Reid of Fife is seeking a respectable female companion and lady’s maid for his daughter. Own room, excellent pay and working conditions. Duties also include some tutoring. Some medical knowledge desirous.

Elspeth closes her eyes, picturing the house she is travelling to. It will be grand, all red brick and dark panelling, heavy curtains on the windows and rugs thick and rich in colour underfoot. Servants will bustle through the house, sweeping fireplaces and dusting elaborate frames holding glorious artwork. The girl, Miss Reid, will be pretty as a picture, her feet encased in smart black shoes and her curls bouncing as she skips down the stairs to greet her new companion. She sees herself too, dress and hair neat, reaching out to take the girl’s hand and leading her out into the extensive gardens, smiling indulgently as the girl pauses to press a rose to her nose.

Her imaginings are cut short by a loud cough from her neighbour. Her eyes open to see the elderly woman press a handkerchief against her mouth, eyes closed as if in pain. She wonders where she is going, whether this is her first trip out of Edinburgh too. She considers engaging the woman in conversation, but instead turns her face to the window, watching as the landscape transforms from city to sea. The Firth of Forth glistens in the weak autumn light, the sky above a pale grey. ‘Face forwards,’ the governess used to hiss at Hazel in church, and Elspeth would watch out of the corner of her eye as her sister turned away from her friends in the pew behind them, cheeks burning at the reprimand.

Face forwards. Words Elspeth will take with her on her journey through life, borrowed advice she hopes to pass on to her new charge. Nerves flutter in her stomach as Fife grows closer on the horizon, the next chapter – almost within touching distance.

*

The house is not quite as grand as she had imagined, but it will do, Elspeth thinks, as she unlatches the gate and walks up the path to the front door. By doing so, she is cementing her place in the household; not for her the gloomy back entrance, scuttling unseen into the bowels of the house. She is not a maid here. She will not hide like an old ghost, fading into the wallpaper when someone enters the room. No, she is to be a companion, a governess, a friend.

Elspeth lifts the heavy knocker and taps it smartly against the black painted door, once, twice, three times. The door swings open to reveal a young maid, curls escaping their pins, cheeks flushed as if she has run from one end of the house to the other.

‘Yes?’

‘Elspeth Edwards. I am here to see Dr Reid.’

The maid looks her up and down, an expression Elspeth can’t read flitting across her face. ‘What is it regarding?’

‘The companion position,’ Elspeth says after a beat. ‘For Miss Reid?’

Something like relief replaces the maid’s expression. ‘Oh, yes. Please come in. Dr Reid is expecting you.’

Elspeth moves into a small porch and follows the maid across the gleaming white and green tiles and into the house. The hallway is dark, the lower half of the walls painted a deep blue, with several doors leading off it. The maid raps on the door next to the stairs and waits for a muffled invitation before turning the handle and stepping back. Taking a deep breath, Elspeth walks inside.

The room opens up before her; a heavy chandelier hanging from a decorative rose in the middle of the tall ceiling; a wide fireplace, unlit, half-hidden behind a grand wooden desk. And behind it stands Dr Alastair Reid.

‘Miss Edwards,’ he says, rising as the maid closes the door behind her. Dr Reid offers a hand and Elspeth takes it, smiling demurely as she sits down in the seat he indicates. ‘Thank you for coming. I trust the journey was not too difficult?’

‘Oh, no, sir,’ she says. ‘The train was quite comfortable.’

‘What did you think of the bridge?’ he asks, taking his seat opposite. ‘It is quite the marvel. I was there when they opened it, you know, all those years ago.’ Elspeth only smiles, knowing he does not truly wish to hear her thoughts. Dr Reid reaches for a small stack of papers on his desk. ‘I was very glad to receive your application,’ he says, selecting the top sheet and reading from it. ‘You mention that you nursed your father in his final days?’

She straightens her spine, readying herself to dive straight into the interview. ‘Yes, sir. He was unwell for quite a long time.’

‘I am sorry to hear it. May I ask . . .?’

‘Diphtheria. Caught from his visits to his parishioners.’

‘Ah yes, he was a vicar?’

Elspeth hesitates. ‘A minister, sir.’ Dr Reid only smiles. ‘He was a good man, sir. A kind father to my sister and me, especially after our mother died.’

‘I am glad to hear it. Your sister . . . You instructed her children for a time?’

‘Yes, sir. I was working as a maid when my sister died, a live-in position. I used to help with Sunday school when I was younger, teaching the local children to read, so I moved in to help with the children, until my brother-in-law remarried. They had five children – well, that is to say . . .’ Elspeth stumbles on her words, trying to remember the truths she must bend. ‘My sister died in childbed with the sixth not long after I arrived. The child lived.’

The memory of her sister’s filthy tenement makes her shiver. As the second daughter of a clergyman, Elspeth had been raised in relative comfort, her only glimpses of the dark Edinburgh underbelly caught during the visits to her father’s poor parishioners. When he died, she had been forced to get used to a different kind of life, but moving in with her sister had been a shock. She had been less of a governess to her nieces and nephews and more of an unpaid, unappreciated maid-of-all-work, scraping meals together from the pennies she earned taking in washing. This, above all else, had cemented her distaste for marriage. It was a life she would never have chosen for herself, and she would do everything in her power to avoid such a destiny.

Their father had never known how far his eldest daughter had fallen, and when Elspeth arrived with her two suitcases (one of which would be sold by Hazel’s husband before the week was out, contents and all), she was not surprised that her sister had kept the truth concealed. She had married Duncan against their father’s wishes and likely feared he would shut the door in her face had she asked for help. Although their father had generally been a good man, Elspeth cannot be sure if her sister would have been wrong. She does not want to recall that squalid place, alive only with mice and mould and despair, let alone speak of it to Dr Reid.

‘Then you found work in a shop?’ Dr Reid asks, jolting her out of her memories. He is consulting the paper in his hand, which Elspeth deduces must be her letter of application.

She nods. ‘I know it may seem odd, given my background, but I met a schoolfriend one day and she told me of the opportunities opening to young women. There was a reputable boarding house above the shop for the girls working there, and since I was in need of a new home as well as an occupation, it seemed like the perfect fit.’ Elspeth tries to read his face as he absorbs her carefully chosen words. She does not mention the nights she spent on her friend’s floor after Duncan announced his plan to remarry and threw her out. She does not mention the threadbare blanket covering her shivering body, hunger gnawing at her, hollowing her out. Her relief when she found her way to the boarding house, short-lived as it was.

‘And you enjoyed the work?’ he asks, shaking her from her memories.

‘Yes, sir, for the most part. It became known that I was good with children, so I would often entertain the little ones while their mothers or nursemaids shopped for them. The shop sells toys and games as well as clothing, and a confectionery counter opened not long after I started. Even the stubbornest child could be coaxed out of a bad mood with a lollipop.’ She smiles now, remembering. This part, at least, is not a lie, and it rolls off her tongue with ease. ‘I realised that I missed the closeness of working in a smaller environment. I missed really getting to know people, as I had my father’s parishioners and my sister’s children. Despite my grief at losing my sister, I enjoyed my time with her children, watching them learn and grow, just as I had enjoyed accompanying my father on his visits. That is what I am seeking now, sir. A position which allows me to get to know another, to be a friend as well as a teacher.’ She stops, heat rising to her cheeks at her candour as Dr Reid watches her thoughtfully.

‘You have seen much,’ he says, placing the letter down and linking his fingers together. ‘For someone so young, you have experienced more than many experience in a lifetime.’

Elspeth feels herself sag with relief. Her story has struck the right chord.

‘You have empathy, Miss Edwards. The ability to understand and care for those who have been given a different lot in life. That is very important, to me and to my daughter.’ His eyes flick to a frame on his desk, the photograph inside hidden from Elspeth’s view. ‘Your medical knowledge comes from nursing your father?’

‘Yes, sir. It is limited, I confess, to what he needed at the time.’

‘Which was?’

‘Pain relief, mostly. I learned the correct dosages and what type of medicine was required. But I am very interested in learning more. I read as many medical texts as I could, trying to understand his illness.’

Dr Reid nods. ‘That knowledge will be useful, as will your desire to learn more.’ He rises, surprising Elspeth who hurriedly gets to her feet. ‘I think it’s time you met my daughter, Miss Edwards.’ He strides out of the room, passing the stairs and crossing to the door opposite. ‘This is her bedroom,’ he says as Elspeth approaches. ‘She cannot manage the stairs, so she sleeps in here.’

He knocks on the door then pushes it open, holding out an arm to indicate Elspeth should enter first. The room is dark, heavy curtains drawn against the morning light. Elspeth blinks, struggling to adjust to the dimness as Dr Reid moves into the room and opens the curtains on the nearest window.

‘Darling?’ he says, and Elspeth sees something move in the bed on the opposite side. Still shrouded in gloom, Elspeth moves closer, trying to map out the room. She can see a large four-poster bed, far bigger than she would expect for a child. There is no evidence of toys, though now she can see a writing desk in the far corner and a bookshelf groaning with books.

‘Darling, this is Miss Edwards, your new companion,’ Dr Reid is saying to the shape in the bed. ‘Miss Edwards, please allow me to introduce my daughter, Selina Reid.’

As Elspeth reaches the bed, the darkness finally reveals what she is looking at. Not the child she had been expecting, five or six years old with pretty curls and a bright smile, but a young woman with matted hair and dark circles beneath her eyes. She shifts, looking up at Elspeth as if she is not really seeing her, before closing her eyes again. Surprise renders Elspeth speechless, the scent of sweat mingled with despair causing nausea to rise. The girl moans, flinging an arm up to cover her face, though Elspeth feels as if she is still watching her.

‘We’ll leave you to rest,’ Dr Reid says, leaning down to press his lips against his daughter’s forehead before leading Elspeth out of the room.

‘How old is Selina, sir?’ she asks when the door has closed behind them and she can finally breathe again.

‘She has just turned nineteen.’

Nineteen. Just four years younger than Elspeth herself. How is she to instruct a girl – a woman – who is her peer, rather than her charge?

‘I had thought . . . that is, I had expected a much younger child.’

Dr Reid frowns. ‘I appreciate your experience is with younger children,’ he says, his voice lowered, ‘but Selina has fallen quite behind in her studies and her socialisation. She was taken out of school too young. She is in pain, you see. Her hip . . . She was around five years old when the leg began to show weakness.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I myself believed it to be related to tuberculosis, but in truth we do not know the reason it troubles her.’

‘Can she walk?’

‘No. Her left leg is almost entirely useless. She has a chair, but I fear she lacks the confidence to use it since she was teased as a child. Children can be cruel,’ he adds, a tinge of anger in his voice.

She notes the emotion on his face, the pain in his eyes as he describes what his daughter has been through, and makes a decision. Selina may be nineteen, but it is clear to Elspeth that she is in great need of her help. Perhaps she could be useful here.

Five

ELSPETH

The next morning, the maid – who Elspeth has learned is called Bess – wakes her at eight o’clock with a cup of tea. The sky is light beyond the window, for which Elspeth is grateful, but she must prepare herself for the gruelling winter mornings to come, when the sky will be dark and the air beyond her bed bitterly cold. At least there is no need for such early starts here. She recalls those frozen mornings in her sister’s house, ice on the windows and her breath making ghosts in the air as she tried to rouse the children without disturbing their father, who was often sleeping off a heavy night of drinking. She may not have stayed long in that place, but part of what she had told Dr Reid was true. After Hazel died, Elspeth was left to take over the cooking, cleaning and caring for the children, and she had often wondered if that was what hell was like.

After visiting Selina the day before, Dr Reid had showed Elspeth around the house himself. A glass door leads out of his office into the garden, where a half-built, one-storey building sits crouched amongst the overgrown evergreens. It will be where he sees his patients, he explained, instead of his office in the main house. They will come and go through the rear gate, not having to enter the house at all, giving both the family and the patients an element of privacy. At the back of the house is a kitchen and a dining room, and upstairs are several bedrooms and the bathroom. Dr Reid spends most of his time in his office or out visiting patients, but Elspeth is free to use the drawing room, a small, cold room at the front of the house, when she is not working. It is more space than she has had in a long time. She looks around her bedroom in the faint light. It is bigger than the attic room she had shared with two other maids in that Edinburgh house, and comparison between this and the rooms in which Hazel, Duncan and the children had lived, eaten and slept would be impossible. It will do, she thinks, sipping her tea and grimacing at the lack of sugar.

She is the only member of staff to live in the house. Bess lives with her mother a few streets away, and a cook comes in every morning to prepare the meals for the day, making extra on Saturday to cover her day off on Sunday. Bess serves Selina’s meals in her bedroom, and Dr Reid often helps himself from the sideboard in the dining room, for he does not keep to a reliable schedule. It all feels so disjointed, so far away from the bustling house she had expected, but perhaps it is for the better. Perhaps she could feel at home here.

This house, for just the three of us, she thinks as she grudgingly pulls back the blankets and slides her legs out of bed, wincing as her feet touch the cold floorboards. She washes quickly with the water Bess brought with the tea, hastily putting on her dress and slipping her feet into her boots. There is neither a radiator nor a fire in this room, and Elspeth hopes she will be brought a hot brick at the very least when the weather grows colder.

She carefully pins up her hair, standing on tiptoes to see into the small mirror hanging on the wall, and dabs some lavender water at her wrists. She takes a deep breath, locking eyes with her reflection, before turning to the door that leads directly into Selina’s room.

‘Good morning, Miss Reid,’ she says brightly, striding across the room to pull open the curtains. An untouched cup of tea sits on the bedside table, but Selina is nowhere to be seen. Sighing, Elspeth gently tugs on the covers to reveal the young woman hunched beneath them, her eyes squeezed tight.

‘Good morning,’ Elspeth repeats, and the woman opens one eye. ‘How are you today?’

Selina frowns, as if she has not been asked this question in some time. ‘Tired,’ she mutters. ‘Close the curtains.’

‘It’s a lovely day,’ Elspeth says, ignoring her and turning towards the window. Leaves of fire are fluttering down to coat the grass in a blanket Elspeth wishes she could jump into, like she and Hazel did as girls. She turns back to Selina, pushing the memories away. ‘I thought we could get to know each other over breakfast. Shall we go into the dining room together?’

‘Bess brings mine in here,’ Selina says.

‘But I thought—’

‘But I thought,’ Selina mimics, and Elspeth’s smile falters. ‘I don’t want you here, Miss Edwards. Don’t you see?’ She sits up suddenly, her matted braid falling over one shoulder. ‘I don’t need you or anyone at all. So you may as well go away.’

‘Och, is that any way to speak to your new governess, Miss Selina?’ Bess interrupts, bustling in with a tray of toast and boiled eggs.

‘I’m not a child,’ Selina spits. ‘I don’t need a governess.’

‘Aye, well, you’ll be wanting a friend though?’ Bess says with a wink at Elspeth, lowering her voice. ‘Don’t mind our wee lassie, she’s often grumpy in the mornings. Why don’t you come and have your breakfast in the kitchen, hen? We can get to know each other.’

Elspeth glances at Selina, who is concentrating hard on cracking one of her eggs open, before sighing. ‘That would be lovely, Bess, thank you,’ she says, and follows the maid out of the room.

‘Don’t mind her,’ Bess says again as they walk down the hallway. ‘She’s been alone for so long, she’s forgotten how to be with people, you ken?’ Elspeth nods, swallowing down her embarrassment at being thrown out on her very first day. Bess gives her a knowing look. ‘You’ll be all right, hen. She’s a tough nut to crack but once you’re in, you’re in. I can tell you’re gonnae be firm friends.’

Elspeth wants to ask how she can tell, but Bess is pushing open the kitchen door to reveal the cook with a plate of bacon in one hand and a basket of sliced bread in the other.

‘You must be the new governess,’ the cook says in an English accent, handing her goods over to Bess and holding out a hand for Elspeth to shake. ‘They call me Berry.’

‘A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Berry,’ Elspeth says, shaking the woman’s hand.

‘No Mrs,’ Berry says with a smile. ‘Just Berry.’

Elspeth must look confused, for Bess chuckles as she bustles back into the kitchen, having deposited the food in the dining room. ‘We call her Berry because she’s from Glastonbury, but I didnae understand her accent to begin with.’

‘Aye, you still don’t,’ Berry says, laughing good-naturedly as she crosses the room to pour three cups of tea. ‘I came up from England when I was a girl, but the accent never left me. My ma was from Cornwall, so you’ll be getting a bit of that too.’ She waves a hand at the table at the end of the room. ‘Have a seat, maid. I hope you’re hungry, there’s plenty to go around.’

Elspeth hesitates as Bess ferries plates piled with food to the table. ‘I’ll help,’ she says, stepping forward to take the cups of tea from Berry. She doesn’t want these women to think she is acting above her station, that she expects to be waited on like Selina and Dr Reid. She considers her position again – not quite staff, not quite family. But she hopes she will be able to get closer to Selina in time. She bites her lip as they sit down to eat, anxiety gnawing at her.

‘Bess is right,’ Berry says as she butters a slice of toast. ‘Miss Selina can be a difficult one, but she’ll come around.’

‘How long have you been here?’ Elspeth asks the two women, wanting to change the subject.

‘I started here about fifteen years ago, when Miss Selina was still a wee girl,’ Bess says. ‘I wasn’t much older, mind. My parents moved down from Aberdeen, hence the accent. Berry came about, what was it, six years ago now?’

‘About that,’ Berry says around a mouthful. ‘Miss Selina was thirteen or so. I think those were her worst years.’

‘Aye,’ Bess says. ‘She’s much milder now.’ She winks at Elspeth, who smiles uncertainly. ‘Don’t worry, hen. You’ll find your way.’

Elspeth adds sugar to her tea and stirs, wondering if she has bitten off more than she can chew.

*

After breakfast, Elspeth goes back to Selina’s room to get her washed and dressed. A knot has tangled itself up in her stomach, pushing acid up the back of her throat as she dithers outside Selina’s bedroom door, straightening her dress and smoothing her hair. At last she knocks, pausing for a moment before pushing open the door. Selina is still in bed, the covers pulled up over her head to block out the sunlight streaming through the curtains. Elspeth hears the girl mumble from beneath the covers and smiles.

‘What was that, Miss Reid? I can’t hear you.’

Selina pulls the blankets down to reveal her face. ‘I said, close the curtains.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t do that. It’s time to get up.’

There is a pause before Selina speaks again, and this time her voice is small. ‘I can’t.’

Elspeth feels a rush of something – sympathy, perhaps, at the young woman’s plight. Stuck in bed since she was a child, unable to join in with her peers. In pain every moment of every day. It is no wonder she hides beneath the covers.

‘Well, that’s what I’m here for,’ she says gently, moving towards the bed. ‘We’ll get you washed and dressed, and you can tell me what you need.’

‘A new body,’ Selina mutters.

‘I haven’t seen this one yet, so I couldn’t possibly comment,’ Elspeth says lightly, and is gratified to see a quiver of a smile on the young woman’s lips. ‘Come on, the sun is shining and we should make the most of it.’

She watches as Selina struggles upright, pushing herself up with her arms to rest her back against the headboard. Her face is flushed, either from the effort or embarrassment, Elspeth cannot tell.

She turns away and moves towards the wardrobe. ‘What would you like to wear today?’ Opening the doors, she is surprised to find very little hanging in the space. Perhaps Dr Reid sees no point in buying a variety of dresses for a girl who does not go outside. Taking a deep breath, she forces herself to smile as she brings out a light green dress and holds it up before her. ‘This is a lovely colour; it would go so well with your hair.’

Selina is watching her like a mouse watches a cat, her forehead wrinkled in uncertainty. Elspeth lays the dress on the bed beside her and steps back.

‘What do you think?’ she asks. Selina shrugs. ‘I’ll go and ask Bess to fetch us some water, and then we’ll get ready. Can you get yourself to the edge of the bed? I’ll push the chair over to you and then we can explore the gardens.’

Selina’s expression hardens and she crosses her arms over her chest. ‘No.’

‘No?’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she says, sliding back down the bed until she is once more lying flat, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. ‘You can leave now, Miss Edwards.’

Elspeth looks at her, weighing up her options. She suspects a large part of Selina’s refusal comes from stubbornness rather than inability, but she doesn’t want to push too hard.

One step at a time, she reminds herself silently as she leaves the room.

Six

ELSPETH

The cries begin around midnight, seeping under the door like haar. At first, Elspeth thinks she is back at her sister’s house, the children crying in their sleep, the sound filling the too-small rooms. The moon is bright beyond her window as she sits up, sleep still threatening to drag her back down. The cries turn to moans, then ragged half-words. She slips out of bed, padding silently towards the door between her room and Selina’s. The hinges move soundlessly as she opens it, or perhaps any noise is drowned out by Selina’s whimpers. She crosses the room, reaching out for the lamp on the bedside table, almost knocking over the glass of water.

‘Miss Reid?’ she whispers, noticing that the girl’s face is drenched in tears and sweat, salt upon salt. She places a hand on her shoulder and gently shakes. ‘Miss Reid, wake up.’ The girl stirs, head moving from side to side as if in agony. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘It always hurts,’ comes the reply, sharp like a shard of glass. Selina’s eyes open, fixing upon Elspeth’s. ‘Medicine,’ she croaks, and Elspeth moves towards the chest of drawers, searching in the dim light for the right vial. Dr Reid had warned her of this, of sleep disturbed by pain, relieved only by another dose. She finds the bottle and a spoon and takes it over to the bed.

‘Do you need a drink of water?’ she asks after Selina has swallowed the medicine. ‘Is there anything else I can do?’

But Selina is asleep, or at least feigning, and so Elspeth creeps from the room, arms prickling in the cold air.

*

Elspeth starts as the bedroom door opens the next morning, Bess framed in the doorway.

‘Morning, hen,’ the maid says quietly. ‘You look how I feel. Late night?’

‘Selina woke up crying,’ she says, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. ‘Does she always do that?’

‘If she does, she will have been left to cry alone.’ Bess purses her lips as she places Elspeth’s cup of tea on the bedside table. ‘I’m sure she’ll be glad to have you now.’

Elspeth says nothing. So far, the girl has shown nothing but contempt towards her new companion, but Bess’s words spark a new image in her mind. She pictures Selina lying in the darkness, her medicine out of reach, her cries unanswered by her father, either asleep or working, too far away to hear. It is a sad image, one which shines a different light on Selina, but she knows better than to show the girl sympathy. Pity is the last thing she needs.

Elspeth decides to collect Selina’s breakfast before waking her, letting her sleep after the interrupted night. Berry plates up scrambled egg and toast for two, adding a few rashers of bacon. Elspeth has never eaten so well. As she nibbles on a slice of bacon in the kitchen, stretching out the time until she goes to wake Selina, she sees three men enter through the back gate.

‘They’re back,’ Berry says in a sing-song voice, and Bess rushes over towards the window, jostling Elspeth out of the way. ‘Our Bess is sweet on one of the builders,’ Berry explains with a wink.

‘He’s sweet on me, you mean,’ Bess says, running a hand over her hair. ‘He gave me a flower last week.’

Elspeth smiles. ‘That’s nice. Which one is he?’

Bess points at the younger-looking man, who is carrying a large sack which looks heavier than he is. He is too far away for Elspeth to make him out properly, but she nods and makes the right noises until he glances up at the window, and Bess ducks down with a squeak. Elspeth laughs, the women’s joviality too contagious to resist.

*

When she opens the curtains and places the tray down on the desk, she sees that Selina is already awake.

‘I hope you’re hungry, Miss Reid,’ she says. ‘I brought breakfast.’

‘Medicine,’ Selina croaks, her face creased in pain.

As she measures out the dose, Elspeth pauses. ‘Do you know the dosage you require?’ she asks, watching Selina swallow it down. The girl nods. ‘Why don’t we store the medicine in here, then?’ She indicates the top drawer of the bedside table. ‘So you can access it when you need it.’

‘Papa likes to keep track,’ Selina says, uncertainty flickering in her eyes.

Elspeth nods. It would not do for her charge to overdose in the middle of the night. She goes back to the medicine chest, shifting bottles and paraphernalia around until she finds what she’s looking for. She holds up a dark blue bottle, with notches in the side to indicate tablespoons.

‘I’ll fill this every morning with the day’s doses, including one for the night. That way you will know how much you can take.’

Selina watches her with an almost wary expression, and Elspeth wonders if she has always been treated like a child. She is nineteen, only a few years younger than Elspeth herself, and yet her circumstances have left her in a kind of limbo, a grey space between girl and woman.

‘What do you think?’ she prompts and, after a beat, Selina nods.

Elspeth nods back, a warm feeling spreading through her as Selina shuffles herself to an upright position and reaches out for a plate. Elspeth is suddenly certain that this is the right path to take. Not to treat her as the child she had expected, but the young woman she has found.

After breakfast, she fills the washbowl with warm water from the adjacent bathroom. Selina will not accept any help in washing herself, and Elspeth is inclined to encourage her to do as much as she can by herself. While Selina washes, she turns to peruse the bookshelves, pleased to find a broad range of reading material. She may have missed out on formal education, but Selina is clearly well-read. Elspeth’s teaching plans suddenly seem useless, inappropriate. She will need to think again.

‘How many of these haven’t you read?’ she asks, glancing at Selina, who is pulling on her dress.

‘None. I’ve read them all hundreds of times.’

‘Have you asked your father for new books?’

‘I used to.’ Elspeth turns at the tone of Selina’s voice. She sighs before continuing. ‘I don’t know what to ask for these days. But sometimes he brings me something he thinks I’d like.’

‘And what type of books are those?’ Selina looks away as if embarrassed. Elspeth smiles. ‘There is no book on earth you should feel ashamed about enjoying. Reading is not only a pleasant way to pass time, but it is also a privilege.’

‘A privilege?’

‘Not everyone can read. Not everyone has the time or the desire.’

‘I certainly have the time,’ Selina mumbles.

‘Which is a privilege.’

Selina’s expression darkens. ‘Being trapped in a bed is a privilege?’

Elspeth moves over to the bed, sitting down next to the girl. ‘That’s not quite what I meant,’ she says gently. ‘But everyone’s circumstances are different. A farmhand might wish for some time in bed with a book. A working mother might hope to send her children to a good school.’ She reaches out as if to take Selina’s hand, pauses. ‘Time is on your side, Miss Reid. And so am I.’

*

The sun warms Elspeth’s face as she steps out into the garden, which is sheltered from the sea breeze by the cliffs surrounding the back of the house. On one side is a small copse, branches overhanging the black railings at the edge of the property. The builders are at the far end of the garden, eating sandwiches and drinking tea in the sun. Elspeth avoids them, ducking behind a tree and peering at the new surgery. The structure is almost built, with a window on the side facing the house, and another two on the front with a door set between them. It is quite large, almost the size of a cottage, and she wonders how busy it will get once Dr Reid is open for business. She has not seen any patients arrive at the house yet. Perhaps he is doing more house calls until the building is ready.

She pauses at the kitchen garden by the back door, inspecting the bushes she imagines blooming with colour and fragrance in the summer months. She wonders if Selina could be persuaded to show her around the garden, perhaps even name the herbs and plants. Could this be the way to coax her outside? The path is steady enough, weaving its way from the rear of the house towards Dr Reid’s surgery and the gate beyond. Selina could explore the garden almost in its entirety, if she would only use her chair.

Elspeth closes her eyes for a moment, enjoying the quiet. If she listens carefully, she can hear the sea crashing against the rocks, a seabird’s song carrying on the breeze. Has Selina ever been down to the water? She tries to picture a young Selina, the age she had expected her to be, hair in plaits, toes wiggling in the sand as she picks seashells to show her father. But the image wavers, disappearing into the air as Elspeth opens her eyes. She gasps, finding herself almost face to face with Dr Reid.

‘Oh, sir, you startled me,’ she breathes.

‘My apologies, Miss Edwards. I was just speaking to the builders before heading in for luncheon. Would you care to join me?’

‘O-of course,’ she stammers, surprised. She has seen little of her employer since her arrival, for he leaves early in the morning and often does not arrive home until late, or else he is busy in his office.

Elspeth smiles politely as he opens the door to the kitchen and ushers her inside, where he greets Berry, who is stirring a pot of soup, before opening the door to the dining room. She has not yet eaten in here, preferring to take most of her meals in the kitchen with Berry and Bess. She enjoys the company of the other women, more so than she had expected, for she is not someone who makes friends easily. She had shared a room with two other maids in the first house she had worked in, and then boarded with several girls when she lived in the rooms above the shop, but she had often felt like an outsider, too slow to pick up on their jokes, too quiet. She stayed in with a book while they went out in the evening, listened to them tiptoe back inside in the wee small hours, whispered giggles cut short in the fear of waking the housemistress.

Berry gives her a wink now, and Elspeth tries to relax as she follows Dr Reid into the dining room. This household is somewhat unorthodox, true, but Elspeth does not see the point in following certain rules just for the sake of it. Dr Reid has so far proven himself to be a warm, if somewhat distant, employer, and she needs to take advantage of his limited attention so she can try to better understand his daughter.

When they are seated, Berry brings in two bowls of soup and a platter of bread with a dish of butter. They eat in silence for a few moments, the air filled with the sound of their spoons clattering against the china, before Elspeth speaks.

‘The building looks as if it is going well, sir.’

‘Yes, they are making good progress.’

‘When do you intend to open?’

‘Within the month, I should think. I have everything already on order, and the chaps outside are almost finished.’

‘What made you want to build a surgery here, sir?’

Something flickers across Dr Reid’s eyes before he answers. ‘I seem to have outgrown my office, and it is less than ideal to have patients coming and going through the house. I looked at renting rooms in town, but I thought it would be best if I was close by, for Selina’s sake.’

Elspeth nods, though she cannot shake the strange feeling that there is more to it. ‘Sir, I wonder if I might ask you a question.’

‘Please,’ Dr Reid says, dabbing at his lips with a napkin.

‘Might you explain more about Selina’s illness? She . . . she does not speak much about it, and I wish to understand her better.’

Dr Reid clears his throat before speaking. ‘Her left leg is very weak. She cannot put any weight on it at all, and she experiences severe pain in her hip. The symptoms started when she was about five and, like I said, I attributed it to tuberculosis, which she contracted the year before, but I cannot be certain of the cause. There have been recent studies which I have followed with great interest, but I fear Selina is now too old to benefit from their findings.

‘One thing I have considered, though again I cannot be certain, is the circumstance of her birth. That is, both the midwife and I failed to turn her in time, and her left leg became stuck during the process. I was forced to make an incision to free her.’ He speaks as if reporting on a patient, and not his own wife and daughter. ‘My wife did not live,’ he adds, answering Elspeth’s unasked question. She considers the sad parallel between Selina and Hazel’s youngest child.

‘Was Selina’s hip damaged during the birth?’ she asks after a moment.

‘I suspect so. It was a very long, difficult delivery, and I was glad of the support of the midwife and her expertise, which is far greater than mine.’ His lips twitch. ‘You look surprised, Miss Edwards.’

She looks away. Not for the first time, she has failed to remember that her emotions are often reflected in her expression. ‘My apologies, sir.’

‘No need. We men like to think we are the stronger sex, but in the area of childbirth, I believe women to be the experts.’ He dabs at his mouth again and takes a sip of water. ‘I recently read a publication by a German midwife, published two hundred years ago, which details the kind of birth precisely like Selina’s. I only wish I had read it earlier. Perhaps I could have acted differently.’

‘Does Selina know about this?’

‘Oh yes, she knows. When she was small, she showed a keen interest in medicine. She had a nursemaid, of course, but after she recovered from tuberculosis, she spent much of her time with me, even accompanying me during appointments, until the pain in her hip became too much. She did use her chair for a few years, but the other children were cruel to her and so she gave up.’ He shakes his head. ‘This . . . melancholia followed. I engaged a governess for a while, but Selina was not interested. She is a clever girl. For a time, I hoped she would follow in my footsteps.’

This time, Elspeth tries to hide her surprise. ‘To study medicine, you mean? You would support that?’ She drops her gaze, her cheeks reddening at her outburst. ‘I mean, sir . . .’

Dr Reid waves a hand. ‘If that is what she wants. I could use her assistance in my work, and it would be easy enough for her to help in the new surgery. But she must first leave her bed, of course.’

‘She seems to be in a great deal of pain, sir. She wakes often, crying in the night.’

Dr Reid tilts his head. ‘Make no mistake, Miss Edwards, my daughter’s pain levels are extremely high. These new studies have discussed how the disorder comes about, and if it is the same as what Selina has gone through, I am amazed she has any spirit left in her at all.’

‘So you do not believe it is the pain alone which keeps her in bed?’

‘No. The pain is bad, but I think her biggest obstacle is herself.’ Selina frowns, and Dr Reid gives a small smile. ‘That is to say, I believe she is depressed, and it is the depression which is stopping her from attempting to get better.’

‘You believe she will get better then, sir?’

‘I believe she could. With these new studies have come suggestions for treatment. Like I said, she is too old to truly benefit, for this condition of which they speak is often caught when a child is much younger, about four or five years of age.’

‘The same age Selina was,’ Elspeth murmurs, almost to herself.

‘Precisely, Miss Edwards. Selina was five when she started to show symptoms. If only we had known then . . .’ He is silent for a moment, lost in his own thoughts, before shaking himself and continuing. ‘But I hope we can benefit somewhat from these new findings. The treatments seem to vary, and I am loath to put her through an operation, especially as we are not sure what the cause of her condition is, but I am drawn to the practice of physiotherapy. Have you heard of it?’ Elspeth shakes her head. ‘It is believed to have originated with Hippocrates himself, so it is not a new invention, but I have been reading about the Central Institute of Gymnastics in Sweden. I have a pamphlet for you.’

Dr Reid stands suddenly, striding from the room before Elspeth can react. He comes back with a folded sheet of paper in his hand, which she takes. ‘If you can get her to do some of these exercises, I truly believe she might see some progress.’

He looks so sincere, his brow creased with concern and what appears to be guilt, that Elspeth feels a tug inside her.

‘I believe so too, sir,’ she says, and in that moment, she really does.

Seven

ELSPETH

It takes almost a month for Elspeth to convince Selina to get into the chair, but first, she focuses on ascertaining Selina’s level of education. It becomes clear that, although the years spent in bed may have meant she missed out on going to school, she has very little need of a governess. Elspeth begins with reading a few chapters of a book, then asking Selina to read the same chapters for them to discuss. The first time, Elspeth returns to the room to find the book on the floor and Selina hidden beneath the blankets.

‘I don’t like Jane Austen,’ comes her muffled voice, and Elspeth smiles.

‘What would you recommend then?’ She moves over to the shelves, peering at the titles. ‘Or perhaps you would prefer something from your father’s shelves?’ Selina’s eyes appear above the blanket. ‘Would you like to go and have a look?’

‘How?’

Elspeth inclines her head towards the chair, but Selina shakes her head.

‘I haven’t used the chair in years,’ she says in a small voice. ‘I don’t know if I can.’

Elspeth tries to conceal her surprise at the raw expression on Selina’s face. ‘Well, we could always give it a try. If you can’t do it today, you can’t do it today.’

Selina is quiet for a few moments.

‘It doesn’t mean you won’t be able to do it tomorrow,’ Elspeth adds, ‘or next week, or the week after. But you’ll never know if you don’t try.’

‘All right,’ Selina says, sitting up slowly. ‘I’ll try.’

Elspeth manoeuvres the chair over to the bed, suddenly realising that she herself isn’t sure of the best way to get Selina into it. ‘Like this?’ she asks, pushing the back of the chair against the mattress. ‘Or to the side?’

Selina looks up, her eyes wide, making her look younger than her years. ‘Perhaps to the side? I used to . . . I could slide into it, before. Over the armrest.’

Elspeth inspects the set-up. It is a shame the armrest does not move, she thinks, watching Selina ready herself. She holds her breath, dreading the failure of this exercise. The last thing she wants is to knock Selina’s confidence even further. Selina’s arms shake as she prepares to lift herself off the mattress, but then her body sags.

‘I can’t do it,’ she murmurs, her head dropping so her chin almost touches her chest.

‘No matter,’ Elspeth says quickly, moving the chair away. ‘We’ll try again another time. Now, let me go and find a book.’

Her heart pounds as she goes into Dr Reid’s office. She reads the titles from the spines of the books lining the walls, whispering the words aloud to try to calm herself. Despite the disappointment, she feels buoyed, determined that Selina will succeed in getting into the chair. Through her father’s work, Elspeth met many people with differing abilities, and very few of them could have ever dreamed of affording a chair like the one Selina has. With their faces in her mind, she refuses to give up. She knows she still needs to tread carefully, but Dr Reid’s words also filled her with confidence. If Selina knew she could study medicine and become a nurse in her father’s surgery, surely it would encourage her to work at her own recovery? Now Selina is managing her own pain through careful dosing, she is more alert, with a brightness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

All she needs is a new routine, Elspeth tells herself as they read silently together, Selina propped up in bed, Elspeth in a chair by the window. She has grown so used to this one, she is anxious to change anything. We just need to start slow.

She remembers when her mother died, and Hazel had stayed in bed for a month, staring silently out of the window and refusing to eat. Though she was the younger sister, it had been down to Elspeth to bring Hazel back to life. She’d started small; bringing Hazel’s favourite food to her bedroom, encouraging her to sit by the fire while she read to her, then out in the garden to pick apples for the cook to make a crumble. Change is hard, and Elspeth knows Selina might feel daunted by the task, but she has a friend now, a champion.

*

The next day, after a morning of reading, Elspeth decides to broach the subject of the chair again.

‘I was reading a paper last night,’ she says, aiming for a breezy tone. ‘Your father very generously shared his reading material with me. I thought it would interest you.’

Selina looks up. ‘Why would it interest me?’

‘Your father mentioned that you wanted to become a doctor. Is that still true?’

Now Selina snorts. ‘Oh yes, because I could practise from my bed. How would that look? “Come on in, Mrs Smith, lie down next to me and tell me what the problem is.” ’

Elspeth hides a smile. ‘You could practise from a chair instead.’ She gets up, pretending to tidy the room. She has noticed that Selina tends to open up when she is not being observed, when she does not feel pressured to give an answer. ‘The paper I was reading last night was about Swedish gymnastics. Have you heard of it?’

‘Gymnastics?’

‘Yes. Medical gymnastics, in particular. Physiotherapy. I was reading about these exercises which are supposed to assist with certain ailments and I thought . . . well, I wondered if you might like to give them a try?’ Elspeth avoids looking at Selina as she says this, unsure of how she will react. She focuses on tidying the bookcase in the silence that follows.

‘All right,’ Selina says eventually. ‘But I’d like to read the paper first, Miss Edwards, if you please.’

*

Sunday might be a day of rest, but Elspeth chooses to wake at the same time, preparing a simple breakfast of toast and fruit for herself and Selina and loading it up on a tray to take through. The actions remind her of her time as a maid, the constant ache in her feet and back, the exhaustion that never seemed to lift, and she is suddenly aware of how her life has changed. She has always considered the idea of fate, wondering if God truly has mapped out her life. If so, she was always destined to come here. She and Selina were destined to meet. It is God’s will, and so she must trust it entirely.

She enters Selina’s bedroom to find her sitting on the edge of the bed. The girl looks up with a mixture of triumph and wariness.

‘Well,’ Elspeth says, unable to hide her smile. ‘Good morning to you.’

‘Good morning, Miss Edwards,’ Selina replies, her voice oddly formal in a way which tells Elspeth not to make a fuss. ‘Might you assist me in bringing the chair closer?’

‘Of course.’ She crosses the room and manoeuvres the chair into position so Selina can grab hold of it. Arms shaking slightly, Selina attempts to push herself off the bed and into the chair, but it wobbles and she falls back onto the mattress. ‘Here,’ Elspeth says gently, taking hold of the handles. ‘I’ll hold it steady.’

Selina is breathing hard, her cheeks red, and for a moment Elspeth is concerned she will give up again, but then the young woman shuffles forward again, body tensed as she prepares herself. Selina pushes herself off the bed and, pivoting her body, lands in the chair with a slight thump. She laughs, the noise surprising them both, and it is a moment until Elspeth joins in.

‘I’ll work on becoming more graceful,’ Selina says, still grinning. A light sheen of sweat has broken out across her forehead, but Elspeth decides not to mention it. She will get used to the exertion in time, once her body grows stronger.

‘Where to, then?’ Elspeth asks.

‘I think I will go and look at my father’s books. I have almost finished Frankenstein.’

‘Already? But we only started yesterday.’

‘I have little else to do, Miss Edwards.’ Selina’s eyes are shining in a way Elspeth has never seen before, and she can’t help but smile. She follows her to the door, holding it open while Selina tries to steer the chair through the gap, which is just wide enough. She wonders how she will manage the steps down to the kitchen, then decides to worry about that another day. For now, she will enjoy the sight of Selina wheeling herself up to her father’s bookshelves, out of bed for the first time in years.

Selina soon tires, though she seems reluctant to return to bed.

‘You mustn’t tax yourself,’ Elspeth says gently, holding the chair steady for Selina as she prepares to move onto the mattress. ‘We will keep practising, but we must go slow. You don’t want to hurt yourself.’

‘Yes, Miss,’ Selina says, a smile playing on her lips, which Elspeth returns. The young woman’s personality is starting to come through – the other side of her, the one which is not weighed down by melancholy – and Elspeth can see glimpses of the daughter Dr Reid loves, and the woman she is going to become.

Eight

AILSA

Now

The radio is turned down low, the words of a half-remembered song drifting through the otherwise silent car. I am in the front, Rowan sitting behind me, while Doug drives the familiar roads towards the hospital. Rowan lights a cigarette without asking, and I see Doug’s mouth twitch, but he says nothing. The car is pristine, with no signs of his two boys. No crisp packets littering the floor, no unpleasant scents or stains on the seats. I think of the last time I saw them, these distant cousins of mine, when Doug and Lee came up to London for a few days during the school holidays. We met in King’s Cross, that central hub that is always teeming with life, my train getting in slightly later than theirs. They’d managed to nab a table in a coffee shop, and proceeded to feed eclairs to the wriggling boys while the parents tried in vain to drink coffees and wolf down their own pastries.

Although I’m a teacher, I’ve never been a natural around small children. There’s a reason I went straight into secondary school teaching. The boys must have been about five or six then, with an endless supply of energy and a disinterest in anything that didn’t move as fast as they did. Doug looked exhausted, and there seemed to be a slight tension between him and Lee, but they loosened up once we were on the Tube and the boys were sufficiently distracted. Why they chose to go to the Natural History Museum, I don’t know. The boys took no interest in the exhibits, choosing instead to run around, yelling at the tops of their lungs. It was almost funny, until they knocked into a woman in a wheelchair and fell into her lap. Lee frogmarched the boys out while Doug apologised to the woman, who was a very understanding mother of young boys herself, and it was as we were leaving that I saw him. He didn’t see me; he quickly disappeared behind an exhibit, but not before I saw his face, and the person he was with.

The first emotion I’d felt was embarrassment. I still don’t understand why, but something made me turn away and move faster towards the exit, as if I had been the one to be caught out. As if I was the teacher in my late thirties on a day out with a teenage girl who was my student. As if I had lied to my partner about where I’d be that day.

I should have done something then. Maybe things would have been different if I had. Or maybe things would have unfolded in exactly the same way, regardless of when I spoke up. Because it wasn’t clear, then, what he was doing. I had nothing concrete to take to anyone and, back then, I still loved him. I still believed that he was good.

Doug pulls into a parking space and turns off the engine. He turns as if to say something, then changes his mind and gets out of the car. The air is full of these unspoken words, each of us clouded by our own thoughts. The daylight is fading, the sun losing her grip on the sky as night comes in to smother her.

‘Do you know where he is?’ Doug asks as we walk towards the hospital.

I shake my head. ‘We could ask at reception?’ We stop at the desk, then follow the receptionist’s directions towards the lifts. ‘Do you remember that trip to London?’ I ask Doug, surprising us both.

He turns to me, frowning slightly. ‘Which trip?’

‘The museum. Natural History.’ I appear to be unable to speak in sentences. I clear my throat. ‘We met in King’s Cross, then went to the Natural History Museum.’ He is still frowning. ‘We went for pizza after. The boys threw garlic bread at each another until we were thrown out.’ I smile, despite myself. I’d almost forgotten that part.

Doug shakes himself, like a dog with something in its ear. ‘I don’t remember.’

The lift door opens and we step inside, squeezing in front of the people already inside, waiting to continue their journey upwards. Rowan is chewing gum, loudly, like a teenager. It grates on me, but I say nothing as the floors tick past.

‘Here we are,’ Doug says unnecessarily as we step out of the lift on the right floor. We find the ward and there he is, Pop, looking tiny in a hospital bed, a faded green blanket tucked under his chin. His eyes are closed, his face grey, and I am seized with a sudden fear until he moves his head towards us, as if he has sensed our presence. He opens his eyes as I reach his side, my hand fumbling for his.

‘My little grub,’ he says, before turning to Doug and Rowan. ‘Well, I never thought I’d see the day. If this is what it takes to get you three in a room together, I’d have got myself knocked over the head sooner.’

I give a puff of laughter through my tears. ‘For fuck’s sake, Pop.’

‘Shh. That wee nurse over there will kick you out if she hears that kind of language.’ He nods towards a petite woman with a fashionable blunt bob. She gives us a wink as she passes, and I can tell Pop has charmed her as he does everyone.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,’ I say. ‘I was . . . Gran is . . .’

‘Is she all right?’ His eyes are full of concern as he looks at me. I glance up at Doug, wondering what to say, when Rowan speaks.

‘She’s missing, Da.’

‘Da, is it now?’ Doug mutters, and Rowan shoots him a look before continuing.

‘She’s not been seen since . . .’ She gestures towards Pop’s bandaged head.

‘What happened?’ I ask, but Pop is struggling to sit up, reaching for the cannula in his hand. ‘Pop, stop it. Lie down, you’re not well.’

‘She’s missing? Your gran is missing and you didn’t think to tell me sooner?’ His voice is high, strained, his chest moving up and down as if it is taking a great effort for him to speak.

‘Now, now, what’s this then?’ The nurse is suddenly beside me, gently moving me out of the way as she pushes my grandfather back down. ‘Your stay isn’t over yet, Rupert. You’ve booked for a few more nights.’

‘I have to go home,’ he protests, but he lets her tuck him back in, like a child at bedtime. ‘My wife . . .’

The nurse gives us a look, as if trying to see which one of us he means, before turning back to him. ‘All right, Rupert. I’m sure she’s fine, whatever it is. But you need to rest.’

His eyes are closing as she speaks, as if she has hypnotised him. As his breathing slows, she motions for us to follow her across the ward. She looks at us each in turn again, fixing her gaze upon us as if she can see into our souls.

‘Your . . . Rupert has concussion. He’s to stay a while, at least overnight, while we wait for some test results. The doctor is concerned there might be some bleeding on the brain.’

I absorb this information, thinking of the blood in the kitchen Rowan cleaned up after I went to bed.

‘Do you know how he was injured?’ the nurse is asking.

Doug shakes his head. ‘No. Ailsa came home to find him already in the ambulance and my mum – Rupert’s wife – gone.’

‘Gone?’ The nurse scrutinises me and I try not to quiver beneath her gaze. ‘What do you mean, gone?’

‘She’s missing,’ Rowan says.

‘Do the police know?’

‘Of course,’ Doug says, after a nod from Rowan. ‘We just wanted to see him. Is he going to be all right?’

The nurse folds her arms over her chest. ‘He’s sustained a serious head injury. Two, actually – one on the back and another on the front.’ I picture Pop being hit from behind, falling to smash his forehead on the kitchen table. I shudder. ‘He lost a fair bit of blood, and like I said, we’re running some tests to check for any internal damage. It’s lucky the paramedics found him when they did.’

‘Can we go and sit with him for a while?’ Doug asks.

‘Aye, just don’t go upsetting him again. He needs to rest.’ The nurse gives us all another look before striding off.

‘She’s a wee bit full of herself,’ Rowan says, not quietly enough. Doug glares at her, and I put myself between them.

‘Come on, let’s go and get a drink,’ I say, taking Doug’s arm. ‘Do you want a coffee?’

Rowan shakes her head. ‘Just some water.’

I lead Doug down towards the vending machines, fumbling in my pockets for my card until I realise they’re cash only.

‘Fucking hell,’ I mutter, and Doug gives a small smile.

‘You millennials, trying to make us live in a cashless society.’

‘Do you have any coins?’

‘Me? I don’t carry cash. I’m like the queen.’

‘Don’t you mean the king?’ Doug wiggles his eyebrows at me. I smile then too, despite myself, despite where we are and what has brought us here, as I move over to the water cooler. ‘Do you really not remember that London trip?’ I ask, handing him an overfull cup.

Doug sighs. ‘Aye, I do. I just . . . Look don’t tell your – don’t tell Rowan, but Lee and I are . . . We’re separating.’

I turn too fast, spilling water over my sleeve. ‘What? Shit. What happened?’

‘He says I’m not “emotionally available”. That I’m too busy with work. I travel a lot, you know, but I thought I’d struck a balance.’ He sighs again, wiping a hand over his face. ‘It’s all just so . . . straight, you know?’ A laugh bursts from my lips before I can stop it. He chuckles too, shaking his head. ‘He says he feels like a housewife, left at home with the kids, and I get it. I suppose I have been distancing myself. The boys are . . . They’re fucking hard work, Ailsa.’ His shoulders slump, as if he has just confessed a great sin and now he can be absolved. I reach out and squeeze his arm.

‘Of course they are. They’re, what, eight years old? They’ve been hard work since they could walk.’

‘I don’t always like them,’ he whispers, eyes darting around as if checking for witnesses. ‘That’s an awful thing to say, isn’t it? I love them, of course I love them, but sometimes I just . . . I’d rather not be around them, you know? Oh God. I’m a terrible father.’ He leans his head back against the vending machine, closing his eyes. ‘Lee is right. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.’

I glance behind him, where Rowan is sitting beside her father, her eyes resting on his face, her lips moving as if in prayer. I suddenly wish she were here, to give her brother the blunt, matter-of-fact response she’s so good at, and what I think he needs right now. But I’m the one he is confessing to.

‘Do you remember when I was a teenager?’

He groans. ‘How could I forget? You were a brat.’

I elbow him. ‘I was a brat. I was awful. I hated everyone and everything, except black eyeliner and My Chemical Romance. Gran was at the end of her tether with me.’

‘Mum? No way. She always had your back.’

‘Not then. She’d had enough, and I don’t blame her. I was . . . I was cruel, at times. Difficult, often just for the sake of it. If she said the sky was blue, I would’ve argued that it was green.’ I shake my head, remembering. ‘She can never know, so don’t bloody tell her, but I heard her talking to Pop one night. She said something about wishing Rowan had never left me with them.’

Doug’s mouth falls open. ‘No. She didn’t say that.’

‘She did. And like I said, I don’t blame her. I did then, though. She was the stricter one, the one who enforced all the rules, so it was her who ended up on the receiving end of my rebellion. But it was more than that. I think I took all my anger out on her, the anger that should’ve been directed at Rowan. Gran was the easier target, because she was there.’

I take a sip of water, my mouth suddenly dry. ‘After that, Pop started taking me out every weekend. We’d go to the beach, or the city, or even further afield, a weekend camping in the Highlands. And every time we picked up something for Gran. A bunch of flowers from the florist, her favourite chocolates, or even an oddly shaped leaf. He wanted to give Gran a break, but he also wanted her to know that we hadn’t forgotten about her. That he wasn’t revelling in his role as the favourite parent, doing the fun things with me while she was left at home, or that I was being rewarded for treating her badly. He was centring her as he always did. I knew – and I think you must have too – that they were number one for each other. We all came a very close second, but they were together, you know? A unit. Pop made it clear that I could either join the unit or stand outside of it. Either way, he would love me, but I would never come between him and Gran.’

Doug is frowning as he listens, and I start to wonder if I’m making any sense when he speaks. ‘So, what you’re saying is that you always knew they had a relationship separate to yourself?’

I nod. ‘Didn’t you? When you were growing up?’

‘Yeah, I did, now you mention it. I was never a brat like you,’ he adds, poking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, ‘but I knew there was no playing one off against the other. Any request was met with “Have you asked your mother?” or “Have you asked your father?” ’

I smile, remembering a version of those words being said to me. Have you asked your gran? Have you asked your pop?

‘They always told each other everything. At least, they seemed to. Pop even knew when I started my period. He was the one who took me to the shop, showed me the different options. There were no secrets in that house, but in a good way. I always felt as if I had the full support of them both, even if I didn’t always realise it at the time.’

Doug is shaking his head. ‘Communication. That’s what has held my parents together for so long, and that’s what Lee and I have lost. It seems so obvious now.’ He nudges me with his shoulder. ‘Maybe you should be a therapist or something.’

I snort. ‘Me? I have no idea what I’m talking about half the time.’ We start to move back towards Pop, who is still sleeping. He looks so small, so vulnerable, that I just want to wrap him up in a blanket and hold him tight, like he did with me when I was young. ‘I just had the best teachers in the world.’

*

The police are waiting for us when we get home, their car parked on the road outside the house. Two uniformed officers get out as soon as Doug swings into the drive. I pause, fingers gripping the handle, while he gets out to greet them.

‘Ailsa?’ Rowan says from the back seat, one leg out of the door. ‘Are you coming?’

Doug is at the front door now, fumbling with keys. The police are turning towards us, still in the car, the faintest prickle of suspicion running up the backs of their necks. I feel it in their gaze as they watch us, frozen, wondering why we haven’t joined them yet.

‘Coming,’ I whisper, and get out.

Doug leads us into the kitchen. We follow like schoolchildren, one by one, never breaking formation until we reach the table. The officers sit down, while Rowan makes for the kettle and I hover, unsure, until Doug pulls out a chair for me.

‘I’m Douglas Reid,’ he says, sitting down beside me. ‘This is my niece, Ailsa, and my sister, Rowan. She’s the one who called you.’

The male officer takes notes while the female officer nods at us all in turn. ‘I’m PC Patel, this is PC Harmon. We understand your mother is missing?’

She has an English accent, Midlands, maybe Birmingham. I try to focus on that instead of the panic rising inside me, the memory of the last time I spoke to the police.

‘Your grandmother?’ she amends, looking at me. I nod. ‘And it was you who found your grandfather, Ailsa?’

I nod again, then clear my throat, realising they might think me mute. ‘Yes, when I arrived yesterday evening.’

‘And what did you find when you got here?’

‘The paramedics were already here. They were wheeling my grandfather out to the ambulance. Gran wasn’t here.’ I feel the weight of it hit me again and close my eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. ‘Rowan turned up shortly after.’

‘Were you all here for a particular reason?’ PC Harmon asks, pen poised above his notepad. He has a familiar Scottish burr. A local, then. I peer more closely at him, wondering if we knew each other once upon a time, but his face doesn’t ring a bell. The scent of his aftershave hits my nostrils and I sniff, fighting the urge to sneeze.

‘It’s her birthday tomorrow,’ Rowan says, placing mugs of tea on the table before pulling out her tobacco tin and rolling a cigarette.

‘It’s supposed to be . . . Gran has dementia,’ I explain, wrapping my fingers around the mug in front of me. ‘It’s getting to the point that she needs twenty-four-hour care, and Pop can’t keep up. He’s in his eighties himself.’ The officers nod as if they actually understand the gravity of the situation, the heartbreaking decision to tear a loved one from the only home they’ve ever known. ‘She’s due to move into a care home soon. It’s been difficult, but Gran knew it was the right thing for her.’

‘And you’ve tried looking for her?’ PC Harmon asks. ‘Searched the house? I know it sounds silly, but people are often found on or near the property they’re missing from. Children in particular, they like to hide. So—’

‘She’s a seventy-seven-year-old woman,’ Rowan says, her voice thick with smoke and scorn. ‘She’s no a child.’

‘Aye,’ he says, in a way that feels similar to someone trying to soothe a horse. ‘We’ve just got to cover all bases, Mrs Reid.’

‘I’m no Mrs Reid,’ Rowan spits, flicking the cigarette butt into the garden. ‘Never have been, never will be. Do you have any questions for me, young man?’

The officer looks at his colleague before answering. ‘Not right now,’ he says, and Rowan nods before striding out of the back door and closing it behind her. The officers look at me as if for an explanation. I say nothing.

‘Families, eh?’ PC Patel says, attempting a smile. I force myself to return it. Rowan and I went out looking this morning before Doug arrived, a fruitless task which only served to make this feel more real. We asked in the shops that were open, but nobody had seen Gran for a few days. I left my mobile number with them, scribbled on scraps of paper I imagine were thrown straight into the bin. This is a small town, but I have been gone for too long and some of the faces have changed.

On the beach, Rowan walked beside me in silence, long hair held back in a low ponytail while mine whipped into my face. I felt a sudden fury, a long-buried desire to tear into her, to release all the words which have been building up inside me, ever since she left me. She looked at me as if she could read my thoughts, a flicker of her own fury in her eyes which silenced me. I remembered asking Gran why Rowan hated me when I was younger.

‘She doesn’t hate you, mo chridhe,’ she would say. My heart.

‘But why does she look at me like that?’ I would ask. I could hear the echo of my childish voice as Rowan gazed at me with the same expression on her face. But it wasn’t hatred, I realised then, as a flock of birds flew overhead. It was fear.

‘In answer to your question,’ I say, swallowing down the emotion bubbling up in my throat. ‘Rowan and I checked the house and garden, and then we went out looking for her this morning. We went to some of the shops and the beach. Gran likes to fish for sea glass down there. It’s something we used to do when I was young.’ Memories of blue-green glass worn smooth between fingers and waves alike slip through my mind.

‘Have you called any of her friends?’ PC Patel asks.

I hesitate. ‘I . . . I don’t think she has many friends. She knows a lot of people, she’s lived here all her life, but there’s no one she’s particularly close to.’

I frown at my own words, only just realising the truth of them. How did someone live in the same town, the same house, for over seventy years and have no close friends? But there has always been something which sets us apart. The house stands beneath the town, in the space between the shore and the cemetery, between life and death. Mingled with stories of fear and fire and fury, of women chained to rock, ashes blown across the ocean.

I am torn from my thoughts by the officers standing, and realise that I have missed part of the conversation.

‘We’ll be in touch, Ms Reid,’ PC Harmon says, a look in his eye which lends a darker meaning to his words. As if it is a threat.

I avert my gaze as I see them out, closing the door behind them and hurrying to the window to watch them go. They pause by my car, still parked out on the road, before getting into their own and driving away. I let out a breath. Tomorrow is Gran’s birthday. I had planned to take Pop to the supermarket today, a list of ingredients clutched in his fingers. Gran has always done most of the cooking, though when Pop retired he would often be found at the kitchen table, chopping vegetables or rolling out pastry, ready for when Gran needed to start cooking. But on her birthday, Gran would always be ushered into the sitting room with a book, and Pop and I would take over.

I picture him hunched over the table after Gran had gone to bed, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth as he scribbled his list. Had he already written it? Is it with him now, crumpled up in a pocket, forgotten in the chaos? The thought of that hurts. I close my eyes, try to breathe through the pain. The police are involved now. They’ll find her. But if she did this, if it was her who attacked Pop and left him for dead, I can only pray we find her first.

Nine

ELSPETH

When she enters Selina’s room in the morning, Elspeth finds her hiding beneath the covers, her back towards the door.

‘Good morning,’ she says, moving to open the curtains, then stops suddenly when Selina’s voice rings out.

‘Leave them.’

Elspeth frowns, trying to ignore the disappointment rising inside her. Yesterday, she had felt she was making some progress with Selina. She had been hoping they would start the exercises today, perhaps even visit Dr Reid with Selina in the chair. I am expecting too much of her, she tells herself, though that does not feel quite right. She thinks back to the time she spent with her father and his parishioners, when she taught some of the children to read and write. Let yourself be guided by them, he told her gently, when she became frustrated at a lack of progress or whenever a child stopped coming to her lessons. We can only encourage and support.

She straightens, watching the unmoving shape of Selina’s body beneath the sheets. All she can do is encourage and support, and, as she realised during her time with her sister’s children, make it fun. Selina is no child, but Elspeth has seen glimpses of her sense of humour beneath the armour she wears. She just needs to tease it out.

‘Well, I’ll just open these curtains, as I shall need some light to see by, else I’ll wind up breaking my neck.’ Selina shuffles, as if turning over, though her face remains hidden. ‘Let’s see . . . this trunk needs to move, I think.’ Elspeth bends down to grasp the handle, and lets out an involuntary grunt when she realises how heavy it is. ‘Good grief, what do you have in here?’

‘A dead body,’ Selina says, and Elspeth smiles. At least I have her attention now.

‘I think I’ll ask Bess to help. One moment.’

When she returns with the maid in tow, she is gratified to see Selina sitting up in bed. She ignores her scowl and moves to stand beside the trunk.

‘It’s this one here, Bess. Would you mind helping me lift it? Just to the wall there. I’m afraid my upper body strength is not what it used to be.’

Bess eyes her curiously before moving to stand beside the trunk. ‘Aye, hen, no bother.’ She lifts her end easily, and together the two women shove it against the wall. ‘What’s all this in aid of?’

Elspeth tries to conceal her heavy breathing. ‘I intend to use this floor space for exercise,’ she says, and Bess’s curiosity turns to confusion.

‘Exercise? What type of exercise?’

‘Medical gymnastics, to be specific. Selina and I have been reading about them, and I feel they will be beneficial to her. To me, too,’ she adds, ‘since my physical fitness is clearly in need of some improvement.’

‘Won’t the floor be too hard, Miss Edwards?’ Bess asks. She smiles then, her eyes twinkling. ‘But I’ve had an idea. Leave it with me.’ With that she is gone.

‘It wouldn’t have worked anyway, Miss,’ Selina says, now sitting upright, her back against the headboard. ‘I couldn’t get down to the floor from the bed. Nor from the chair, I suspect. And Bess is right; it would be too uncomfortable to lie on the floor for too long. I should know.’ Her eyes are clouded, as if lost in a memory she would rather forget.

Elspeth sighs, her earlier enthusiasm evaporating. ‘You are right, of course. I just thought . . . Never mind. Shall I close the curtains again?’

*

Elspeth is eating dinner in the kitchen when Bess bustles in, her eyes bright with excitement. She waves a sheet of paper in the air.

‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ Berry asks from her place at the stove.

‘A drawing. Well, an attempt. When you told me what you intended to do, Elspeth, I wondered how Miss Selina would get down off her bed, let alone back up. And then I remembered this.’ Bess lays the paper on the table before Elspeth, taking a seat beside her. ‘It’s something my brother made for his wee boys. He’s a carpenter, and really quite clever.’ She points at the crude drawing of what looks like two beds.

Elspeth looks, not understanding. ‘But we want her to get out of bed, not make her a second one.’

‘Aye, but this one tucks beneath the other when not in use. See?’ She indicates the side of her plate, sliding her knife beneath the edge. ‘Like so. At night, the bed comes out, and during the day, the bed goes back, leaving them enough space to play and move around.’

Elspeth nods. ‘It’s very clever, but how does that help Selina?’

‘Well, you said she got from her bed to the chair yesterday, yes? What if we made another bed for her to do these exercises on? The mattress could be about the same height as the chair, so she should be able to get onto it easy enough.’

Elspeth tries to picture it, moving Selina around in her mind like a doll. Bed, mattress, chair. Could it be that simple?

‘I should find Dr Reid,’ she says after a moment. ‘Perhaps he has something that could help.’

She manages to catch him after dinner, quickly explaining Bess’s idea. He frowns as she speaks, her excitement ebbing away when he asks her to meet him in his office in the morning. He appears distracted, as if he is not truly hearing her words, and so she says nothing to Selina, not wanting to get her hopes up.

The next morning, she dresses quickly, tidying her hair and pulling on her boots. The sun has not yet risen, the nights growing longer as each day passes, and the house is cold when she opens her bedroom door and steps into the hallway. Dr Reid’s office door is ajar, a light shining on his desk, so she raps lightly on the door and goes inside.

‘Dr Reid?’ she calls quietly, but the room is empty. It is really quite large, taking up the entire west side of the ground floor. At one end is his desk, which is set before the floor-to-ceiling shelves rammed with books, overlooking the back garden. She spots some glass cabinets along the rear wall, on the other side of the fireplace, which are usually covered by a partition. As she moves closer, she sees that inside are rows of jars, with strange objects floating in fluid. Squinting in the dim light, Elspeth thinks she can just about make out the shape of one of them, her eyes widening as it comes into focus.

A door slams and she jumps, turning guiltily away from the cabinet and towards the doorway.

‘Ah, Miss Edwards, you’re here,’ Dr Reid says as he closes the outer door behind him. He is fully dressed, a scarf wound around his neck, his hands encased in gloves, and Elspeth wonders where he could have been at this hour. ‘Apologies, I was, uh, held up.’ He clears his throat, eyes flicking towards the glass cabinets in the room behind her.

‘I just got here, sir,’ she lies. ‘I must have been only a moment ahead of you.’

He smiles, seemingly convinced, as he moves towards his desk and turns off the lamp. ‘In here,’ he says, indicating the space beyond the archway on the other side of the room. ‘This is where I currently examine my patients.’

Elspeth follows him across the room, only now noticing the railings connected to the ceiling, long curtains hanging from them and tied neatly against the wall. There are two beds, with cupboards along the back wall.

‘I sometimes perform small operations in here,’ he explains as he opens another curtain, revealing a third bed tucked into the corner. ‘I have been hoping to have this one mended. See here, it is lower than the others? It is quite old, and there is something wrong with the mechanism, I believe.’ He fiddles with something outside of Elspeth’s sight, metal clanking against metal. Dr Reid straightens. ‘Unfortunately my skills do not extend to fixing such things. But I thought you could make use of it, Miss Edwards?’

Elspeth moves closer, measuring the height of the bed against her body. It is just above her knee, lower than Selina’s bed which sits at her hip.

‘Can these move, sir?’ she asks, running a hand over the metal rails. He demonstrates how to lower the rails and Elspeth steps back, considering.

‘The bed won’t go high enough for my use – I often see pregnant women who would struggle to get up from this height – but could it work for your purposes?’

The objects floating in the jar flash through her mind at his words. She turns away, pretending to examine the mechanism.

‘Yes, sir,’ she says once she has recovered herself. ‘I believe it will.’

‘Capital!’ He claps his hands together, making her jump. He is suddenly more jovial, his eyes shining in the same way Selina’s did when she first got into the chair. ‘Would you be so good as to assist me in manoeuvring it into Selina’s bedroom, Miss Edwards? It is not heavy, but it is cumbersome and the wheels can be rather sticky.’

Together they move the bed through the doorway, passing through the office and out into the hallway. The house is freezing at this time in the morning, Dr Reid’s breath making ghosts in the air between them as he pulls the bed across the hall. Elspeth studies the back of his head, the dark hair curling at the nape of his neck so like Selina’s. He cannot be very old, forty or forty-five at most, so he must have married young. Her own father had been older, almost fifty when Elspeth was born, though her mother had been younger. She had given birth to two girls in quick succession – Hazel first, then Elspeth three years later – and then died when the girls were eight and eleven. How old had she been? Thirty, thirty-five?

So young, she thinks now, considering her own years, though she hopes her mother’s short life had been happy. She knows her father was a kind man with endless patience and generosity, and she hopes he was also a good husband to her mother. He never raised a hand to any of them, never stumbled home drunk in the middle of the night, or lost money at the gambling tables. Even though he disapproved of Duncan, he never tried to coerce Hazel into breaking off the match. And yet, for all his kindness, Elspeth wonders if he could have done more to prepare his daughters for the world. Hazel, dead from too many births, her children left to grow up motherless and, for the most part, fatherless. And Elspeth, who had taken advantage of their father’s leniency and grabbed education with both hands, absorbing as much as she possibly could, had still found herself in poverty when he died, at the mercy of other, less kind men. He had expected his daughters to marry, to move the burden of their care over to their husbands, but Elspeth has never been drawn to marriage. She has spent her life seeing what it does to women – black eyes, swollen bellies, bare feet – and has always wanted something, if not more, then different. A different path. A life which leads somewhere unknown, new and diverging. The image of being her own woman, on her own path, has always enticed her far more than any man.

‘Here we are,’ Dr Reid says, pausing at Selina’s bedroom door. ‘Is Selina awake?’

‘She was still asleep when I left, sir.’

‘Excellent, we can surprise her together.’ He raps on the door and pushes it open, putting his head into the gap. ‘Selina? Selina, are you awake? We have a surprise for you.’ Elspeth hears a groan, and Dr Reid turns to flash her a grin. ‘You’re going to love what Miss Edwards has got for you.’

They push the bed into the dark room, Elspeth breaking off to open the curtains, dust motes sparkling in the weak morning light, as Dr Reid sets it up next to Selina’s bed.

‘What is that?’ she asks, her voice thick with sleep.

‘A bed!’ Dr Reid exclaims, and Elspeth almost laughs at his childlike excitement. She wonders how often he has the opportunity to feel this way. He is a busy man, as attentive to his patients as her own father had been to his parishioners, but it must be a lonely life at times.

‘I already have a bed, Papa,’ Selina says, one eyebrow lifted. ‘See? I am in it.’

He chuckles. ‘I’ll leave Miss Edwards to explain. I’m afraid I have patients to see.’ He bends to drop a kiss on his daughter’s forehead, who frowns in response, then he strides from the room, still smiling.

‘What have you been cooking up?’ Selina demands, pushing herself up on her elbows. ‘Conspiring with my father behind my back?’

‘Hardly,’ Elspeth says with a tut. ‘This is a good thing, trust me.’ Selina makes a noise in the back of her throat, which Elspeth chooses to ignore. ‘I thought we might try again today. This bed, do you think you might be able to get down onto it?’

Selina is still frowning. ‘Why?’

‘Well, it is higher than the floor, see? I was hoping you could do your exercises on it. And then we can push it underneath your bed when it isn’t in use.’

‘My hip hurts. I’m not doing the exercises.’ Selina throws herself back onto the pillow and closes her eyes. ‘I’m just going to be stuck in bed forever.’

Elspeth purses her lips, wondering how best to tackle this sudden, though not entirely unexpected, change of heart. She suddenly realises her error; she has made it about all or nothing, being able to use the chair or being in bed. Elspeth might be able to empathise with Selina, but she has placed her own expectations on the young woman. Selina’s body is different, and while being able to use the chair means she will be able to do more, she may still need periods of bed rest. She needs to find the right balance, to encourage Selina in the right way without making her feel as if she is failing when she needs to rest.

‘You’re not stuck in bed,’ she says after a moment. ‘Your bed is just like your chair. It’s an aid. Your chair is what gets you around, and your bed the place where you give your body the rest it needs.’

Selina opens one eye. ‘I’m still not doing the exercises.’

Elspeth blows out a breath. ‘Well, I’m doing them,’ she says, lifting her skirts and climbing onto Selina’s bed. The girl opens both eyes and watches her with an open mouth as Elspeth lies down beside her. ‘I’m rather bored, you see, and this looks like fun.’

Elspeth shifts herself to the edge of the bed and, sending up a quick prayer, rolls off onto the mattress. She laughs as it bounces slightly beneath her. ‘Now, tell me the first exercise.’ She can no longer see Selina, but she can hear the rustle of paper being picked up. After a pause, Selina begins to read aloud.

‘Lie on your back and roll your hips up until your legs are in the air. Support your hips on your hands. Bend the right knee and extend the leg up and over, toes pointed towards the wall. Repeat with the left leg.’

Elspeth follows the instructions, wobbling slightly as her skirt rides up and she hastily reaches down to flatten it against her thighs. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Selina’s head pop up over the edge of the bed.

‘Am I doing it right?’ Elspeth asks, surprised to find her breathing is slightly laboured.

‘I think so. How does it feel?’

‘It’s harder than it looks, that’s for certain!’ Elspeth says with a laugh. She drops her legs to the mattress, feeling a slight burn in her thighs and stomach. ‘What’s next?’

Selina hesitates. ‘You have to lie on your side, legs out straight.’

Elspeth moves into position, facing Selina, grateful that the mattress is firm beneath her, supporting her weight.

‘Lift the top leg up and down. Like this.’ Selina puts her hands together, opening and closing them like a jaw. ‘Then repeat on the other side.’ She watches Elspeth for a moment, her mouth moving as if words are filling up inside her, fighting to come out.

‘All right. Like this?’ Elspeth lifts her right leg, laughing when her skirt stops it dead only a few centimetres in the air. ‘My attire doesn’t quite work for this one,’ she says, sitting up. ‘Perhaps we’ll need to buy something more suitable.’

Selina glances up at the wardrobe. ‘I might have something. Can you . . .?’ She’s still subdued, but there is an excitement in her eyes now. Selina is often made of sharp edges, her gaze narrowed like pinpricks, her words knives in the dark, but now she seems almost soft. I can work better with this, Elspeth thinks as she gets up from the bed and crosses the room to open the wardrobe. She riffles through, standing to the side so Selina can see.

‘There! That should work.’

Elspeth plucks a long skirt from the hanger, turning with a bemused smile.

‘Don’t laugh yet, Miss Edwards,’ Selina says, returning her smile. ‘Pass it here, I will demonstrate.’ Elspeth hands the garment to the girl, who has moved over to the edge of the bed, feet resting on the lower mattress. Fingers disappearing into the fabric, she appears to unhook something, and Elspeth’s eyes widen as it opens out. ‘It’s an apron skirt,’ Selina explains. ‘My mother used to wear it when she went riding. Or so my father says.’

‘How very daring,’ Elspeth says with a laugh, ‘for a Victorian woman.’

‘We Reids aren’t quite like everyone else,’ Selina says, her cheeks flushing with colour. ‘You’ll soon discover that for yourself.’

Ten

ELSPETH

From that day, Elspeth’s routine changes. Bess no longer wakes her with a cup of tea, but simply knocks on both her and Selina’s bedroom doors with a cheery ‘Good morning, ladies!’ Elspeth dresses in one room while Selina wriggles into the apron skirt in the other. Elspeth collects a teapot from the kitchen and they drink a cup of tea together before Selina manoeuvres herself onto the exercise mattress Elspeth has dragged out from under the bed. She goes through the exercises, legs circling in the air, toes pointed, until she tires. At first, Selina can only manage a few minutes but, day by day, her strength increases. Five repetitions turn to ten, then to fifteen and twenty. Within the month, Selina can do thirty repetitions of each exercise, and has even added in five sit-ups at the beginning and end of the session.

While Selina exercises, Elspeth talks. She is surprised to find that she feels comfortable enough to tell the truth, or at least, more of the truth than she has allowed herself to speak of before. She tells Selina of her sister, her guilt when she thinks of the children living in that filthy tenement flat, her hope that their new stepmother is kind and loving. She tells her of her mother, the vague memories she has of brushing her long red hair, the scent of lavender on her pillow. She tells her of her job at the department store, the different people she would encounter every day. Selina particularly enjoys hearing about the apartment above the shop and the things the young women would get up to, all under the nose of the housemistress.

‘How exciting!’ she breathes as Elspeth tells her about the time she inadvertently walked in on a Suffragette meeting in the kitchen.

‘I was terrified!’ Elspeth confesses. ‘I was certain the housemistress was going to walk in at any moment. I went directly to my room and hid until they all left.’

‘But don’t you believe in votes for women, Miss?’ Selina has taken to calling her Miss, a title which feels like an endearment in her mouth.

‘Well, I suppose I do,’ Elspeth says after a moment. She realises that she has never truly considered it, and suddenly feels ashamed.

‘My father supports it,’ Selina says, shifting into a new position so she is facing Elspeth. ‘He told me all about the woman who was arrested earlier this year in Glasgow. Not that he recommends smashing windows, but he did say it’s rather fitting for their slogan. Deeds not words, you know. Papa has family in that area, near Glasgow.’

‘Does he?’

‘Oh, yes, but they don’t speak. His father was a brute, from what I can gather. Apparently I have some cousins I’ve never met.’

‘Would you like to meet them?’

Selina considers this. ‘Perhaps. There must be some nice ones, surely. But it would have been better when I was younger, you know. To have some family around.’ Sorrow flits across her face, and Elspeth feels a pang of sympathy.

‘Was it lonely, growing up an only child?’ she asks.

‘Sometimes. I always enjoyed reading, so I was rarely bored. My governess and I would often sit in the parlour with a book after dinner, while Papa was in his study. Then he would join us, usually reading some papers or a medical journal, until it was time for me to go to bed.’

‘A household of readers,’ Elspeth says with a smile. ‘The only thing my father read was the Bible.’

Selina chuckles. ‘But he allowed you to read what you wanted?’

‘Mostly, yes. He was a gentle man, who just wanted what was best for us. He always encouraged education, even though we were girls.’

‘There you go again, Miss,’ Selina says, her eyes twinkling. ‘The Suffragettes would be disappointed in you.’

Elspeth snorts with laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth. She wonders where this Selina has been hiding for all these years, buried beneath the pain and the darkness. Dr Reid had mentioned that the depression seemed to start when Selina was around thirteen, a difficult age for anyone. A well-read girl she might be, but she had still been a child without a mother or anyone around her to feel she could turn to. Even approaching a father like Alastair Reid must have been daunting at times.

‘Selina,’ Elspeth says, putting her empty cup down. ‘Are you ready to try the chair today? I thought we might go into the garden. I’ve been dying to see your father’s surgery now it’s finished.’ Although Selina has been practising getting in and out of the chair, they still have not left the room since their excursion to Dr Reid’s office. But over the past few days, Elspeth has sensed a shift, a marked difference in Selina that suggests she might be ready for the next step.

Selina glances up at the window, an unreadable expression on her face, and for a moment, Elspeth wonders if she has pushed too hard.

‘Miss, you read my mind,’ she says eventually, and Elspeth exhales with relief. She watches as Selina braces herself on the edge of the bed, preparing to move across to the chair. Just as Elspeth opens her mouth to suggest they try later, after Selina has rested, the younger woman has moved, swinging herself almost expertly into the chair. It wobbles slightly and she laughs, her eyes sparkling when she looks up at Elspeth.

‘Right then,’ Elspeth says with a smile. ‘Shall we go?’

The air is cold, the skies above leaden as Elspeth pushes Selina outside. The weather is turning, autumn sliding into winter in a flurry of fallen leaves. She wonders if it will snow soon.

They pause outside the new surgery, Selina wheeling herself close to the window and peering through. Dr Reid has been seeing patients here for a few weeks now, but Elspeth and Selina have yet to go inside. Elspeth reaches out almost absentmindedly and is surprised when the doorknob turns beneath her hand. Selina flashes her a look, a grin spreading across her face.

‘I don’t think we should,’ Elspeth begins, but Selina is already manoeuvring herself into position, and Elspeth has no choice but to open the door for her. And besides, she too is curious.

‘Papa?’ Selina calls, her voice echoing in the empty rooms. She wheels herself through the first room, which is mostly empty. Next is what looks like a small replica of Dr Reid’s study, with a desk and glass cabinets lining the walls. Elspeth wanders over to them, squinting in the dim light. What a strange collection he has, she thinks, trying to make out the shapes. A crash makes her jump, and she hurries through to the next room where Selina is staring down at the floor with dismay, where the contents of a metal tray are scattered across the floor.

‘I bumped into it,’ she says, gesturing towards the sideboard. ‘I can’t . . .’

‘It’s all right,’ Elspeth says quickly, crouching down to pick up the instruments and placing them back on the tray. ‘No harm done.’

‘We should tell Papa, so he can sterilise them again.’

Elspeth pauses, tray suspended in the air above the sideboard. ‘But then he will know we’ve been in here.’

Selina purses her lips. ‘He won’t mind, but even if he does, it’s better than him using dirty instruments on a patient.’

‘Very well,’ Elspeth says. ‘I will leave your father a note, in case we don’t see him in time.’ She hurries through to Dr Reid’s office, opening the drawers in search of paper. For a second, she wonders what he would say if he found her like this, rifling through his desk like a thief. He is an understanding employer, but even he will have his limits. Finding a scrap of paper, she takes a pencil and goes back to where Selina has her head inside a cupboard.

‘Anything interesting?’ Elspeth says, giggling when Selina jumps and hits her head. ‘Are you all right?’

‘No thanks to you,’ Selina says with a scowl, but her eyes are glittering with suppressed mirth. ‘Here, I’ll write the note. It’s better if it comes from me.’

Elspeth watches as Selina wheels herself across the room with apparent ease. She moves with fluidity, a gracefulness in her limbs that Elspeth hadn’t noticed before. She passes the pencil and paper over, and feels a spark of electricity as their fingers touch. She snatches her hand back, aware of the heat rising to her cheeks, but Selina is smiling.

‘Careful, Miss. You’ll set me on fire.’

Eleven

ELSPETH

The day before Hogmanay, Berry arrives back from visiting her sister in England. She brings with her colder weather, sharp winds and icy mornings. Selina has been using the chair for almost a month now, has perfected the art of getting into and out of it by herself, and has even been out to the local library, accompanied by Elspeth, to collect the books she will need for her studies. But when Elspeth pushes open the door between their rooms, she is surprised to find Selina still in bed.

‘Good morning,’ Elspeth says warily, reminded of those early days when the room was shrouded in gloom. ‘Are you well?’

Selina rubs a hand over her face. ‘The pain is worse today. I think snow is on the way.’

Elspeth already knows that the weather can affect Selina’s hip. Wet weather makes it ache, as if the joint itself has been weighed down with water, and now winter is closing in around them, she worries how much the dip in temperature will affect Selina’s progress.

‘Have you taken your medicine?’ she asks as she opens the curtains. There is frost on the window, and the grass outside looks frozen. ‘Perhaps another half dose?’

She has spoken with Dr Reid on multiple occasions about Selina’s medication, for at times the exercises have left Selina in more pain. It is a balancing act, getting the dose right to dull the pain while leaving her conscious enough to continue with her new routine, but Dr Reid seems to trust Selina knows what is best for herself.

‘Yes, I think I will,’ Selina says, rolling over to take the medicine out of the drawer. She is still adept at doing things lying down, so Elspeth does not move to help her. Instead she moves over to the wardrobe and begins to take down clothes for Selina to wear.

‘Not that,’ she says, as Elspeth pulls out the apron skirt. ‘I’m not doing my exercises this morning.’ Elspeth frowns and opens her mouth to speak, but Selina waves a hand. ‘We’re going out.’

‘Out?’ Elspeth blinks in surprise. ‘Where are we going?’

Selina smiles, taps the side of her nose. ‘You’ll see. Come on, we’d better get to it.’ She heaves herself to the end of the bed, pausing to take a deep breath before shifting onto the chair. It is a manoeuvre Elspeth has watched dozens of times, and every time she holds her breath at the same time, the two women exhaling in unison.

‘Do we have time for breakfast?’ Elspeth asks as they head into the kitchen. She had spoken to Bess about Selina navigating the steps down to the kitchen in her chair, and the maid had asked her brother to create a small ramp the same width as the wheels.

‘Only if we’re quick.’

‘I wish you’d tell me where we’re going. I don’t like secrets.’

‘It’s a surprise, silly. Not a secret.’

Elspeth ponders on the difference as Selina greets Berry. Selina glances back when she realises Elspeth hasn’t followed her across the room, that sly smile still on her face.

‘What’s going on?’ Elspeth turns to Berry, who is busying herself making the tea. ‘We shouldn’t be skipping your exercises for no good reason.’

‘Och, I think she’s got a good reason for it,’ Bess says, coming in behind and flashing Selina a smile. ‘No need to look so worried, Elspeth. When’s the last time you took a day off?’

A day off? Elspeth thinks, taken aback. She attends church every Sunday – alone, for neither Selina nor Dr Reid are particularly devout – and she remembers working at the shop, having Sundays and every other Tuesday off. How did she spend them? Reading, she supposes, washing and mending her clothes. Walking around the Royal Botanic Garden or the castle, even venturing up to Arthur’s Seat on occasion. There were so many things to do in Edinburgh, but no day felt more important than the next. No one day was special, worth remembering.

‘Is today a day off then?’ she asks, nabbing a slice of toast from Selina’s plate. ‘Perhaps you will wait on me hand and foot?’

Selina laughs, buttering another slice for herself. ‘Perhaps I will.’

They wrap up warm, stuffing feet into boots and fingers into gloves before leaving the house. The sky is grey, low-hanging clouds heavy with the threat of snow. They walk along the seafront, pausing to look out across the ocean. Waves crash against the rocks, spraying salt into the air.

‘Have I ever told you about the witches?’ Selina says, her gaze fixed on the ocean.

A chill runs through Elspeth and she tucks her hands into her pockets, hunches her shoulders about her ears. ‘No.’

‘There’s a story, in our family, that years and years ago, two Reid women were burned to death. Up there.’ She turns to point towards the cemetery, standing proud against the skyline. ‘The iron ring is still there, fused to stone. It’s where they chained them, where they burned them.’

The words ring inside Elspeth’s head. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘How old are you, Elspeth?’

‘Twenty-three. No, I—’

‘It’s your birthday today, isn’t it?’ Selina turns to smile at her, and it is like the sun coming out. ‘Your twenty-fourth birthday. Had you forgotten?’

In truth, Elspeth had. She had never put much stock in birthdays, for they were rarely celebrated when she was growing up. A sweetmeat, maybe, some freshly baked shortbread, or a pie from a seller in the street. Hazel loved those, the heat of them held between her hands, the rich flavour filling the air as they ate, pastry flakes falling to the tablecloth. Her father had been kind, but he had not always been present. His flock had needed him more than his own daughters, or so he had believed, and the December days often bled into one another.

‘Yes,’ she whispers, an embarrassed smile creeping over her face. ‘Yes, I suppose I had forgotten.’

‘Fortunately, I had not,’ Selina says, returning the smile.

‘But why . . . Why did you mention the witches?’

The smile drops from Selina’s face. ‘I don’t . . . Do you ever want to marry, Elspeth?’

The question takes her aback, but her answer is quick. ‘No. That is . . . No, I have never met a man I would wish to marry.’

‘That’s not quite what I asked.’ The smile is back, brief, like a lightbulb flickering. ‘I do not wish to marry at all.’ This is said with such conviction that Elspeth does not think to question it. Selina may be nineteen, but she has had a lot of time to think about life and what she wants from it.

‘I do not wish to be a mother,’ she adds in a whisper. Elspeth watches her in silence, Selina’s eyes locked on the ocean.

‘The Reid women, the witches,’ Selina says after a moment, ‘were mother and daughter. They say they accused one another, and both were burned. Their ashes would have blown down here, out into the sea. Their bones lie beneath our feet.’ She drops a foot from the footrest and taps the ground. ‘They say there is a curse on Reid women and their daughters. They say that Reid mothers and daughters can never live happily together, that they are destined to hate one another, to hurt one another.’

A chill passes over Elspeth. She thinks of Selina’s mother dying in childbirth, and wonders if it is significant. She shakes herself, a voice inside her head chiding her for her superstition.

‘I don’t believe in curses,’ she says, keeping her voice light.

‘Me neither.’ Selina grins, and the mood lifts. ‘And if I never have children, it will die with me regardless.’

‘How do you feel about dogs?’ Elspeth asks as they continue their walk into town. Selina scrunches up her nose. ‘Cats, then?’

‘Oh yes, I could have a cat. A wee familiar.’ She laughs, imitating a cackle, and Elspeth joins in. ‘I don’t like anything in a cage though. Birds are meant to fly. Rabbits are meant to dig holes in the garden.’

‘I’d quite like a dog,’ Elspeth muses. ‘A big one, like a retriever. Something intelligent.’

‘Something to fetch your slippers?’

‘Precisely.’

‘That sounds rather nice, actually.’

Selina leads the way as the path narrows along the high street. Although Dr Reid is well known, Selina is a new sight for the locals, and she is slowly getting used to having so many people greeting her. But she is a natural, her winning smile full of confidence, the right name always tripping off her tongue. She is making up for lost time, after all.

‘Here we are, the first leg of our journey,’ she says, stopping at a clothes shop. There is a step outside the door, and Elspeth carefully lifts the chair with practised ease. An older woman makes her way over, and Selina smiles up at her. ‘Hello, Mrs Thomson.’

The woman lowers her upper body, placing her hands on her knees and smiling in a way that reminds Elspeth of a schoolteacher, bending to speak to the children. ‘Hello Miss Reid, how are we today?’

Selina glances at Elspeth before speaking. ‘Well, thank you. I’m here to collect my order.’

‘Of course, Miss Reid. This way, please.’

Elspeth follows Selina across the shop floor, admiring the fabrics as they head towards the counter. ‘When did you place an order? What have you bought?’ she asks quietly, and Selina taps the side of her nose.

Mrs Thomson pulls a parcel out from underneath, placing it on top with a smile. Selina’s own smile is frozen, and it takes a moment for Elspeth to realise that she cannot reach it.

‘I’ll take that,’ she says lightly, stepping forward and picking up the parcel. ‘Thank you, Mrs Thomson.’

‘Is that everything?’ the older woman asks, directing the question at Elspeth.

‘Perhaps you should ask Miss Reid, as it is her errand,’ she says before she can stop herself. She sees Selina turn her face away and knows she is holding in a laugh. ‘That is to say . . . yes, I believe that is everything.’

Elspeth can feel her cheeks burning as they exit the shop. The door has barely closed behind them when Selina begins to laugh.

‘Her face!’ she gasps, a hand over her mouth. She moves her hands to her knees and mimics Mrs Thomson’s smile. ‘Hello Miss Reid, how are we today?’ The voice she puts on makes Elspeth almost double over with laughter. ‘Condescending old—’

‘Miss Reid?’ Selina’s words are cut off by a voice behind them. A young man stands in the road, a basket in his hands.

‘Oh, George, hello.’ Elspeth watches as Selina tries to straighten out her features, and is almost set off into a fit of giggles again. ‘Is that mine?’

‘Yes, Miss Reid. Pa told me to come and give it you, save you the journey.’ The young man’s cheeks redden. ‘I mean, not that you’re not capable, he didn’t mean that, Miss.’

‘It’s all right,’ Selina says, giving him a warm smile. ‘I know what you meant, and I appreciate it. Please tell your father.’

‘I will, Miss, thank you.’ George hands her the basket then dashes off in the direction of the bakery.

‘Two very different experiences,’ Selina muses, placing the basket on her lap.

‘What did the boy mean?’ Elspeth asks.

‘There are three steps up to the bakery, and the door is quite narrow. I didn’t realise until I was sitting in front of it the other day, trying to get in. The baker was being considerate, sending his boy out to meet me. Mrs Thomson, on the other hand . . .’

‘I was quite rude to her, wasn’t I?’ Elspeth bites her lip, and Selina laughs again.

‘Yes, but she deserved it. The world isn’t built for people like me, but things will never change if everyone acts like she does. I am not a child, nor an imbecile. One of my legs simply doesn’t work.’

Elspeth smiles. ‘A very different tune to when we first met.’

‘Oh, I was a brat then.’

‘Then?’

Selina pretends to swat her, accidentally knocking into the basket on her lap. She grabs it before its contents spill out. ‘That was a close one. You almost ruined your own surprise.’

‘I almost ruined it? You are the one who decided to choose violence.’

Selina’s eyes glitter as she smiles. ‘Always. Come, we have one more place to go.’

‘When did you visit the bakery?’ Elspeth asks, trying to remember a time when they were not together.

‘When you were at church one morning. Don’t worry, Bess came with me.’

Elspeth raises an eyebrow. ‘I’m more concerned about how good you are at keeping a secret from me.’ Selina only laughs. ‘Shall I carry the basket?’ Elspeth offers as they continue on. ‘I could pop the parcel inside.’

‘Do you think I was born yesterday? No peeking, Miss Edwards. Good things come to those who wait.’ Elspeth tuts, following Selina down the road. ‘And don’t think I won’t know if you peek. I’ve got eyes in the back of my head.’

‘You sound like my mother.’

‘Do I?’

‘Well, no. But you sound like someone’s mother.’

Selina glances back with a grin. ‘And I didn’t even need to have children. Wait here, if you please.’

She leaves Elspeth outside the florist’s. Elspeth bends to examine the display in the window, weighing the parcel in her hands, wondering what is contained inside.

‘Now I know your favourite flowers are sunflowers,’ Selina says when she comes back out, the florist trailing her. ‘But it is December and we’re in Scotland, so I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with this.’ The florist produces a small bouquet bursting with winter foliage. Dark green holly with juicy red berries, fresh eucalyptus and other stems Elspeth cannot identify are woven together to make a beautiful display. Selina grins. ‘Everyone should have flowers on their birthday, don’t you think, Amelia?’

The young florist nods, handing the bouquet to Elspeth. ‘Happy birthday, Miss,’ she says shyly, nodding as Selina thanks her. For a moment, Elspeth is speechless as she takes in the gift she has been given.

‘Selina, you didn’t have to do this.’

‘Which is precisely why I did. I meant what I said, everyone should have flowers on their birthday. Mine’s in April, so you’ll have much more choice.’ She winks and Elspeth laughs, emotion catching in her throat.

‘Thank you, really.’

‘This isn’t even the best bit. Let’s go to the beach, I’m starving.’

‘Planning to fish for your supper, are you?’

‘Unless you want sand in your surprise, I think you should watch your tongue.’

Elspeth sticks her tongue out, then blushes, surprised at herself. Selina is bringing out a side to her that she hasn’t seen in a long time, not since she and Hazel were children. When their mother died, Elspeth had to be the sensible one, the one to look after their father and sister both. But they’re all gone now, she reminds herself. Perhaps it’s time to start living for yourself.

The beach is full of stones, making it difficult for Selina to wheel herself across it. She contents herself with sitting beside the wall, which Elspeth leans against, tucking her knees up so they are side by side. Selina opens the basket to reveal two crusty rolls filled with roast beef and mustard, as well as two cream cakes and a bottle of lemonade for each of them. A small tin of shortbread is nestled at the bottom.

‘Happy birthday!’ she trills, holding her bottle up in the air. ‘To twenty-four. May it be your best year yet.’

Elspeth clinks her bottle against Selina’s, giggling as liquid sloshes over her hand. They eat their rolls, brushing crumbs from their skirts while Selina throws small chunks towards the seagulls that have gathered a short distance away.

‘This way they’ll remember me,’ she says, licking cream from the side of her bun. ‘And perhaps they won’t shit on me.’

Elspeth gasps, almost choking on her mouthful. ‘I think that’s crows,’ she manages once the coughing fit has subsided.

‘Hmm?’

‘They say crows can remember human faces. I don’t think seagulls can.’

‘Drat.’

They sit for a while, watching the waves crash against the shore, until the cold begins to seep into their bones. Elspeth is standing up, dusting the sand from her skirt, when Selina gasps.

‘I’d almost forgotten!’ She reaches out for the unopened parcel, brushing invisible debris from the top before handing it to Elspeth.

‘You’re spoiling me now,’ Elspeth says as she takes it. Their fingers touch, sending a jolt through her.

‘Hardly. But go on, open it!’

Elspeth unwraps the parcel to find a neatly folded tartan scarf. She unravels it in awe, relishing the feel of the soft wool against her skin as she wraps it around her shoulders.

‘It’s our family tartan. I hope you don’t mind, but Reid does mean red,’ Selina babbles, gesturing towards Elspeth’s auburn locks, which are neatly pinned up on top of her head. ‘And I thought the colours would suit you better than the Edwards tartan. Do you like it? You don’t have to like it. I suppose I could return it, or I—’

‘Selina,’ Elspeth says, reaching out to grasp her hand, and the other woman’s mouth snaps shut, eyes dropping to their fingers clasped together. ‘I love it. It’s beautiful. Thank you.’

Selina smiles, her cheeks flushed. ‘I’m glad.’

They stay for a while longer, fingers entwined, watching the ocean glisten beneath the low afternoon sun.

‘One day, I’m going to swim in the sea,’ Selina says as they turn towards home, her voice so quiet Elspeth struggles to hear her over the sound of the ocean. ‘One day, I’m going to walk across the sand and let the water carry me away.’

Twelve

AILSA

Now

I wake early the next morning, exhaustion hitting me before I’ve even opened my eyes. Gran’s still not home, though I can tell the house isn’t empty. Doug is staying in his old room, Rowan on the sofa since I took hers when she walked out. The sky outside the window is dark, the sun not yet emerged above the horizon, and the floorboards are cold beneath my feet. Today is Gran’s birthday, and she’s out there somewhere, alone and scared, instead of surrounded by her loving, flawed family.

I slip into the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face after brushing my teeth. I look up to see another woman reflected in the mirror. Her eyes are ringed with purple, her hair greying at the roots. I am thirty years old, and I am starting to look like someone who could be my mother. Like the woman downstairs. I try to smooth the skin above my eyebrows, trying to ignore the similarities in our features. Now I have seen her again, I can see why people have always told me how much I look like Rowan, and how much she looks like Gran. We Reid women have inherited so much from one another.

A knock on the door, her voice muffled through the wood. ‘Ailsa? Is that you?’

Who else would it be? I think but don’t say.

‘Coming.’ I take another deep breath and hold it, before slowly exhaling through my mouth. If I believed, I’d pray to God, any god, for Gran to come home safely. But I only have myself, and Rowan, and Doug. I have to believe we’re enough.

I make my way downstairs, startled by the movement of someone in the kitchen, but it is only Rowan. She sits down at the table as I enter, a newspaper open before her, reading glasses perched on her nose.

‘Morning,’ I yawn.

‘Morning yourself.’

‘Coffee?’

She lifts her mug, half-full of tea, in answer. I boil the kettle again and spoon instant coffee into a mug.

‘The police rang,’ she says once I have sat down opposite her. ‘Just now. They want you to go in.’

‘Me? Just me?’

She eyes me over the half-moons of her glasses. ‘Just you.’

I sip my coffee, trying to ignore the roiling in my gut. Just me. They can’t know. They don’t know anything. It’s just routine. It has to be.

‘Are you wanting any breakfast before you go?’ Rowan asks. I look up to find her staring at me, in a way that tells me she’s been watching me for a while.

‘No thanks.’

‘You should eat.’

‘Since when did you care whether I eat or not?’ I snap. I see the emotion flash across her face before she can pull down the veil, and something about it makes me regret my sharpness. I sigh. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Aye, well.’ She gets up and goes outside, letting a rush of cold air in before she closes the back door behind her. I see the crossword she has been doing, the tiny squares filled in with neat capitals. One word stands out, bolder than the rest, as if she has gone over it several times.

Thalassophobia. Fear of the sea.

*

I walk down to the police station, hands stuffed into my pockets against the cold. On the steps outside, I bite my lip too hard and taste the metallic tang of blood on my tongue. Sweat beads on my upper lip, droplets sliding into my mouth. Salt upon salt.

‘Thanks for coming in, Ms Reid,’ the police officer says as he takes the seat opposite me.

The title makes me jolt and I manage to croak, ‘Ailsa, please,’ forcing a tight smile, which he mirrors.

‘Ailsa. I’m PC Harmon, I attended after your mother called us yesterday about your gran.’

I nod, remembering his aftershave, how inappropriately strong I had found it. I picture it drifting in his wake, left in other people’s houses like a ghost.

‘I understand your concern about your grandmother, Moira. When was she diagnosed with dementia?’

‘Almost two years ago.’

He begins to write, as if this is new information. ‘And how is she otherwise? Fit and well?’

‘Fit and well for a woman in her seventies with dementia.’

He doesn’t look up at the snippiness in my voice. ‘Hmm. I understand you went searching for her yesterday, after you discovered her missing?’

I consider those words, discovered missing. An oxymoron, a term to make my students giggle. You’re an oxymoron, at least one of them would say, elbowing their friend with a grin. Teenagers are mostly harmless, like declawed cats, until they discover that they also have teeth.

‘Yes, Rowan and I went out.’

‘Rowan Reid, your mother?’ I nod, refusing to speak the words he wants me to, but I know he’s not going to let me get away with it. ‘But she didn’t bring you up, is that right?’

‘No. My grandparents did. Rowan was sixteen when she had me.’

PC Harmon’s face twists into an unrecognisable expression, as if he is unsure which emotion to choose. He decides to go with pity. ‘That must have been hard.’ I say nothing, and he looks away. ‘You do realise you’re not under arrest, don’t you Ailsa?’

‘Of course,’ I say, pressing my fingernails into my thigh, ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’ Not this time, a voice in my head says.

He leans back in his chair, pasting a smile onto his face. ‘You’re a teacher, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Secondary? GCSE English?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it right that you’re currently suspended pending an investigation?’

I swallow. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to tell me about that, Ailsa?’

‘Not really.’

‘Not even if it would help find your gran? Help us find out what happened to your granda?’

The term jolts. Pop has always been Pop, the Scottish term never suiting him well enough. ‘My work has nothing to do with what happened here.’

‘Are you sure? Didn’t you receive death threats?’

Fuck. How does he know about that? I never reported them, never dared. I feared they’d be carried out if I did.

‘Just some idiots online,’ I say, aiming for a breezy tone. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

‘It’s a serious thing, sending death threats. And now your granda is attacked, your gran missing? I’d be a bit more concerned about that, if I were you.’

I look at him then, fury bubbling in my gut. ‘I am concerned. Why do you think I’m here? Have you even been looking for her?’

PC Harmon says nothing. He just watches me as I try to control my breathing.

‘If that’s all you wanted to say to me, I’m leaving.’ I stand, the chair legs scraping against the linoleum. ‘Call me if you find her.’

‘If?’ The officer stands too, an eyebrow raised.

‘Yes, if. Because at this rate, I’m going to find her first.’

I slam the door as I leave, wrapping my arms around me as I walk quickly away from the station, fury keeping me warm against the chill. I follow the coastal path, my gaze drawn out across the ocean as if Gran might be out there somewhere, perhaps in the lighthouse on Inchkeith, waiting for me to swim out and rescue her. I used to imagine living there when I was younger, hiding amongst the ruins and living off whatever I could forage.

I climb up to the top of Witches Hill and stand at the grave of Elspeth Reid. Something is telling me that the police won’t be any help here. That this is far too complicated, far too personal, for them to unpick. I brush a speck of mud from the gravestone of Alastair Reid, doctor and builder of the surgery in the garden, who died during the First World War. We used to come here often, Gran and me, to visit deceased members of the Reid family. Generations of Reid women, all born and raised in the same house, only to be buried alongside one another in death.

‘No escape,’ I murmur. Gran doesn’t talk much about her childhood, but I can imagine what it was like for her as a young woman to suddenly lose her mother and father in quick succession. I wonder how that felt, to watch your future shatter in front of you, a hand on the small of your back pushing you firmly towards a new, undetermined path. And then it happened again, when Rowan disappeared and left me behind and Gran suddenly became a mother again in her forties. She had borne it well, or at least, as far as I could tell. I had never truly felt unwanted by her or Pop, only loved and protected, and I feel a wave of grief, as if I have already lost her completely.

I run a hand over my face, fighting back tears. The wind picks up, salt spray stinging my cheek as I stand. I hadn’t wanted to call the police, partly because I haven’t had a good experience with a police officer yet, but mostly because I am afraid, terrified, that it was Gran who attacked Pop. That when they find her they will arrest her and lock heavy metal cuffs around her delicate wrists and take her away forever.

The wind has died down up here, as if it dare not blow above the bodies buried beneath my feet. Fresh flowers are laid upon Selina Reid’s grave, resting against the stone, which is weathered and worn from the years. I lift a thistle and put it to my nose. Gran has always turned her nose up at the shop-bought, plastic-wrapped flowers people leave here, preferring to pick wildflowers from the garden instead. This latest offering tells me she has been here in the last few days. I run a hand over the letters carved into Selina’s gravestone: You are the moon, dear love, and I the sea. I recognise the words, but where from?

I pause at each Reid grave, pretending I am offering my respects when really I am delaying going back to the house. Stop dithering, Gran says inside my head. Get it over and done with. I wonder if I will always hear her voice, or if, at some point, she will fade away. Perhaps when I am old and my memories are lost, she too will be gone. There’s a saying, isn’t there, something about dying twice. You only really die when no one alive still speaks your name. I feel a lurch. I suppose the internet still counts as people talking about you. Will they ever stop typing my name when asked What’s happening? or What’s on your mind?

My feet move as if they have a mind of their own, my body pulled towards the place I used to love, if only for its gruesome history. Ghostly figures floating in the space between, as if they have been waiting to be summoned by the words Tell me a story. The only story Rowan told me was about the witches. The women who had been hounded, hunted by their friends and neighbours. She said her grandmother had told Gran that those women had been our ancestors, and she must have believed it, for she passed it on to her daughter. I can believe it too. Trauma passes through generations, I read once. Our DNA is fused with past trauma, just like this metal ring is fused to the rock. I press my fingertips against it; the iron is cold, coated in salt and sand and centuries-old blood.

It is too close, suddenly, too real. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. The mothers and daughters in this family have always had strange relationships. And, I realise now, I’m the only one to have ever known my maternal grandmother. Gran’s mother died before Rowan was born, and Cordelia’s mother, Elspeth, never met Gran. I wonder how far back it goes, mothers and daughters cast adrift, without the previous generation to turn to for help. We have broken the cycle, Gran and I, but suddenly I see why Rowan left, all those years ago. For the first time in generations, there was a grandmother to pick up the pieces. A grandfather too, two ready-made parents to take in the unwanted child of their teenage daughter and make her wanted.

This part is not a story. I know now that Rowan was still a child herself when she gave birth. I should be grateful to her for leaving me with her parents. What kind of life would we have had otherwise? I’ve never known who my father was and I’ve never asked because Rowan gave me her own. Pop, the friend, the protector. The man who took his wife’s surname, who raised his children gently, with a quiet voice, a heart full of love and a mouth full of stories.

Tell me a story, Pop. I can hear my own childish voice; hear the way he would sigh theatrically at my request. We liked to camp in the back garden, snuggled inside a one-man tent with holes in the material and a hot-water bottle to keep us warm. He would start to talk about Australia, and soon the frozen Scottish weather would disappear and I would feel the heat of the desert beneath my palms.

All right, my little grub, he would begin. His nickname for me since I was a child, who did anything she could to avoid baths. Hair stiff from saltwater, mud beneath my nails, knees grazed and feet bare. Gran gave up trying to wrestle me into the bath and instead let Pop coax me in with the promise of a campout, as he called it, afterwards. On those nights, he would place the torch beneath his chin as he told the story, his voice so low I would have to lean in to hear him.

‘It was dark, not the kind of dark you have here in Scotland,’ he would say, as if he hadn’t spent more of his life in Scotland than he had in Australia. As if he wasn’t truly a Reid, and didn’t belong. ‘The sky was lit up with stars, and the road was open wide. I loved those drives, but days on the road without seeing a soul can make you lonely.’

I remember shivering at the thought of that open sky and open road, nothing but dust for miles on end.

‘So, one night, I’m cruising along and I see a figure at the side of the road. As I get closer, I realise it’s a sheila, around my age. She sticks out her thumb and I pull over. She leans through the window, tells me where she’s headed. It’s on my way, and even if it wasn’t, I didn’t want to leave her there alone, so I tell her to hop in and we’re away. She’s a quiet one, not very chatty, so I turn the radio up and drive on. After a while she tells me to turn in down a side road, so I do, and to look out for a house on the right with a swing tied to a tree in the front yard. So I’m driving and I’m looking, slowing down and peering through my window to make sure it’s the right house. I spot the tree with the swing like she said, but when I turn back to tell her we’re here, the passenger seat is empty.’

I knew the story, had heard it a hundred times before, but still I listened, eyes wide, heart racing.

‘I’m thinking, what the hell? So I get out of the car, check around the sides in case she decided to lie down and have a little Nana’s, y’know.’ I giggled, as he knew I would, thinking of Gran and her afternoon naps in the armchair. ‘But she’s not there. She’s disappeared. Poof!’ He opened one hand to indicate a puff of smoke. ‘So now I’m wondering if I’ve gone troppo, if I dreamed her up, but here I am, standing outside this house she described. There’s a light on in the window, so I go up the path and tap on the door. I don’t know what I’m doing at this point, but the door’s opening and I’m readying myself to speak. An old man stands in the doorway, his hair all white and his face wrinkly.’

‘Like you!’ I exclaimed, pointing at his hair, and he pretended to swat me.

‘Anyway, I introduce myself and say I picked up a girl, about yay high,’ he continued, holding his hand above my head, ‘and she told me to drop her off here. Had she come inside? And he looks at me like I’m a right weirdo, just stares at me for ages. I’m about to leave when he asks where I picked her up from. So I tell him, and he nods then like it all makes sense. He says, “There was a girl who lived here.” I see then that he’s crying, tears streaming down his cheeks. He points to the tree and says, “This was her swing. I made it for her when she was seven years old.” The way he says it gives me the creeps. By now I’m ready to hop back in the car and never look back, but he’s still talking, staring at that tree. “She was my daughter,” he says, “and she was in a car accident on that very road. She died thirty-five years ago.” ’

I remember the pause, the beat of silence after the realisation hit me. Every time, the utter sadness of that man would wash over me like a wave, and I would picture Pop instead, waiting for my ghost to come home.

‘If I died, I’d stay with you,’ I would tell him, and he would smile, but there was always something else in his eyes, something I was too young to understand.

‘And I would stay with you, little grub.’

I can hear his voice so clearly, as if he’s right next to me. Tears spill down my cheeks and I try to focus on my breathing, ride out the wave of grief. I focus on the memory of that small tent under the stars, the freezing Scottish air and the sound of Pop snoring beside me. I think again of the ghost girl in his story, and how, thirty-five years after her death, she had only wanted to go home to her parents. How that is all I wanted to do, when I left my flat and drove north just a couple of days ago. The comfort of the only parents I have ever known, the two people I love most in the world, and who I have always known would protect me. But now I’m here and they are both lost to me.

I pull out my phone to find an email notification. Heart in my throat, I tap to open it and begin to read.

Dear Ms Reid,

I am writing with regard to the incident which has been under investigation since November 16th . . .

The incident. It’s a change from the allegation, which is what it was called to begin with. But those are two separate things, one which places me in the role of the accuser, the witch hunter. The other, the witch.

I put my phone away, the words settling inside me, falling to the bottom like sand in an hourglass. I’m running out of time, but I can’t think about that now. I have to find Gran.

Thirteen

ELSPETH

A few weeks later, Selina begins to attend training sessions with her father from first light. Elspeth installs herself in the waiting room of the surgery, a book on her knee, and listens to father and daughter working together. They have an easy relationship, as if the past few years have dropped away entirely, the memory of one another stronger than the darkness which had almost swallowed Selina whole.

Elspeth tries to make herself useful, but Dr Reid sees few patients during the day. Perhaps it is because he works with some of the poorer members of society, and so makes himself available when they have finished work. She enjoys the time she spends in the surgery, offering herself as a volunteer for Selina to practise tying bandages and listening to her heartbeat. Her pulse quickens as Selina leans in close, cold metal pressed against her heart, and she tries to ignore the feeling which passes over her.

In the afternoons, the three of them go back to the house for lunch before Dr Reid leaves to make house calls, and Selina does her exercises before resting. She no longer needs Elspeth to drag the mattress out from under the bed, for Bess has attached a leather handle to it, allowing Selina to reach it from her chair. She is so much stronger now, is more than capable of doing everything for herself, and Elspeth is, in truth, beginning to feel quite useless. But it is not about me, she reminds herself. It is about Selina. I can still be here for her. And I need her, too. The thought is hot, like the heat from a bonfire, and she tries to push it away.

Dr Reid comes home one afternoon with a metal contraption under one arm. He bursts into Selina’s room, startling the two women from their reading, and drops the thing onto the bed.

‘What on earth is that?’ Selina asks from her place by the window. It had started snowing that morning, light flakes floating to the ground, coating the garden in white. If it gets too deep, Elspeth had thought, watching it settle, Selina will not be able to make it to the surgery.

But now Dr Reid has solved that problem before it has begun.

‘It’s a calliper, or a leg brace,’ he says, breathless with excitement. ‘It supports your hip so you can walk.’

‘Walk?’ Selina’s eyes are wide, the word a breath, floating in the air before them. ‘Papa, could I really?’

‘I think so, yes. With your exercises, your muscles should be strong enough to help keep you upright.’ He is unstrapping the brace, opening it up. ‘It should be about the right size for you. I saw an old colleague on my visit to the hospital today, and when I explained your activities, he gave it to me.’

Elspeth is speechless, her eyes on Selina as she rolls herself closer to the bed, a hand reaching out to touch the metal brace. She knows Selina has grown to love her chair, loves all it does for her, but now she could walk. She could move around the house and the surgery with greater ease, for neither were built to accommodate the width of a wheelchair. She could enter any shops she wants, climb the steps to the bakery or board a train without assistance. She could move across the sand and feel the water on her skin. She could walk.

‘Would you like to try?’ Dr Reid is saying. Selina nods. ‘I think perhaps we should start on the bed. We’ll need to make sure we fit it right.’

Elspeth rises, but Selina is already moving towards the bed, shifting herself onto the mattress in one fluid movement. She lies down, wincing as her father lifts her left leg to place the brace beneath it. He pulls the straps tight, checking the position carefully, ensuring the material of her dress is not caught in the straps. When he is done, Selina sits up slowly, moving her legs over the edge of the bed, her left leg sticking straight out.

‘How does that feel?’ Dr Reid asks.

‘A bit strange,’ she says, carefully bending her knee until her foot is on the floor.

‘Take my arm,’ her father says. ‘We need to make sure it’s giving you the right level of support.’

She grasps his arm, and slowly rises. She wobbles, rights herself, then looks up at Elspeth, a smile blazing across her face. Elspeth feels the hot rush of tears as she watches Selina take a step.

‘Bravo!’ Dr Reid exclaims, grinning at his daughter as she takes another step, and then another. ‘How does it feel?’

‘It hurts,’ she whispers. ‘Should it hurt?’

‘You’ll need to build up to it,’ Dr Reid says, leading her back to the bed where she sits down. He crouches before her, fiddling with the straps. ‘A few minutes a day, just like with your exercises. I’ll see if we can adjust it so it fits better, but pain, at least to begin with, is not unexpected.’ He looks up at her. ‘You’re doing something you haven’t done in over a decade, Selina. It will take time, but don’t lose heart.’

Selina nods, her face clearing. ‘You’re right, Papa. Do you think I could ever walk without it?’

‘One step at a time, my dear,’ he replies, then shakes his head at the phrase. ‘Your condition is not degenerative. That is to say, it’s—’

‘I know what it means,’ she says softly, lifting an eyebrow.

‘Of course you do.’ He smiles, bends to press his lips against her forehead. ‘Rest now, but do keep trying whenever you feel up to it. Familiarise yourself with how to take it off and put it on. Miss Edwards can help you.’

When he has gone, Selina lets herself fall back on the bed, her eyes closed. Elspeth moves to sit beside her. She runs her eyes down the brace, marvelling at the contraption. There is a strap that sits around Selina’s waist, connected to a metal pole that sits along the outside of her thigh, finishing at another strap above her knee. She does not know how it works, how it might support Selina so she can walk otherwise unaided, but she has just watched with her own eyes as Selina took her first steps in years.

‘Are you all right?’ Selina asks, opening one eye to peer at her.

Elspeth shakes herself from her thoughts. ‘Me? I’m fine. Are you? Is it still painful?’

‘It’s abating.’ She closes her eyes again. ‘Do you think it will work?’

Elspeth hears something in her voice; excitement? Anxiety?

‘I think so,’ she says carefully, ‘but you still have your chair. It doesn’t have to be one or the other.’

Selina is quiet for a moment before nodding. She looks relieved, as if she had been worried that using the brace would mean giving up the chair. There is no cure for her condition, and although it is not degenerative, as Dr Reid said, there may be complications in the future. It is part of her, no different to the curl in her hair or the glitter in her eyes. And now, at least, she knows how to live with it.

‘The brace will help when I am working,’ she says eventually. ‘No more bumping into trays and scattering instruments everywhere.’

Elspeth smiles. ‘I think that’s just your natural clumsiness.’

Selina reaches out and flicks her arm. ‘You were right, you know. When we first met. I am fortunate. Privileged. I have two aids, when some have none. I have a father who loves me, when some have no one. I need to remember that.’

‘And you have me,’ Elspeth says quietly, not looking at Selina as she speaks. The words feel like a betrayal, a confession, a part of her soul ripped out and hung on the wall for all to see.

‘And I have you,’ Selina says, and this time when she reaches out, she takes Elspeth’s hand in hers.

*

Selina is galvanised. She practises walking with the brace several times a day, her gait growing steadier with each trip across the floorboards. Elspeth is cautious at first, but as Selina’s confidence grows, so does her own. Gradually, the length of time Selina needs to rest between practising is reduced, and she slowly builds up to wearing it while she works in the surgery.

Bess exclaims delightedly the first time Selina walks into the kitchen, awkward on the steps, like a baby bird. The maid throws out her arms, knocking over a jar of sugar in her excitement.

‘Now no pinching my biscuits, Miss Selina,’ Berry says with a wide smile. ‘I count them every night, just so you know.’

Elspeth feels strangely proud of Selina, who she no longer considers a charge but a friend, as she chats and laughs with the women. Her own shyness has made it difficult for her to always know how to converse with others, but here she feels as though she is accepted for who she is, just as Selina is. She feels a rush of emotion for this young woman, now in her twenties, having left her teenage years behind and stepped into womanhood. Into a new career, a future she may never have expected.

What use then would she have for Elspeth? This is the question that keeps her awake at night, staring up at the ceiling. Selina no longer needs a governess, nor a nurse, for she can do everything herself. Would Dr Reid truly continue to pay a woman for simply being a friend? It seems unlikely, and feels odd to Elspeth, to receive payment for spending time with someone she loves.

The word brings a flush to her cheeks. Is it a sisterly kind of love she feels for the young woman? Or is it something else, something she has never before felt for another?

‘Elspeth?’

She blinks, her thoughts interrupted by Bess waving a hand in front of her face.

‘S-sorry?’

‘Miss Selina here was saying she’s tired. I can take her back to her room if you’re wanting to eat now?’

‘It’s Selina,’ the woman protests. ‘Just Selina.’

‘There’s no just about you, Madam,’ Bess says.

‘That’s true.’ Selina grins before turning to Elspeth. ‘I am tired though. Do you mind if we rest in the bedroom before luncheon?’

‘Of course,’ Elspeth says, smiling, surprised again at the change in her. She expresses her fatigue as a simple statement, whereas before, it would always be spoken of in terms of a burden, something which sets her apart. Now she is like everyone else. And yet she is entirely different, Elspeth thinks as she accompanies Selina back to her room. She is like no one I have ever known before.

Selina reaches out and takes Elspeth’s arm, leaning on her slightly as they make their way back down the hall. Elspeth’s mind is preoccupied with the proximity of the other woman, her eyes drawn to a curl at the nape of her neck. Stop it, she thinks, and when Selina turns her head towards her, she wonders if she has spoken aloud.

‘You smell nice,’ Selina says. ‘Is that a new perfume?’

Elspeth feels her cheeks reddening. ‘Not new, exactly,’ she mumbles. ‘It is old, actually. A gift from my father, many years ago. I just never have occasion to wear it.’

‘You should wear it every day,’ Selina says, leaning in even closer, closing her eyes as she inhales. ‘It suits you.’

Elspeth says nothing, is trying to stop her cheeks from burning, when Selina turns towards the front door.

‘Where are we going?’ Elspeth asks.

‘I’m not really tired. Well, I am, but I wanted to show you something.’

‘Oh, but you should rest, Selina. You have—’

‘Work later, yes, yes. There’ll still be plenty of time for a rest beforehand. Come on!’ She tugs on Elspeth’s arm, her eyes twinkling, and Elspeth follows, infected by the other woman’s giddiness. They step out into the front garden, the sky above a light blue. Elspeth thinks of the first time she stood on the doorstep, hand raised to knock, unaware of what awaited her inside. Now summer is in full swing, and soon it will be a year since Elspeth arrived. What will life look like by then? Elspeth wonders as she allows Selina to pull her out onto the road. Will we still be together?

Before she realises it, they are standing at the sea wall, the ocean dark and moody. Elspeth looks up in surprise. ‘Really? Are you sure you’re ready?’

Selina’s eyes are soft as she reaches out to take Elspeth’s hand. ‘I’ve never been more ready in my life. Come.’ She slips out of her shoes, reaching down awkwardly to peel off her stockings until Elspeth wordlessly takes over, knowing how stiff the brace can be. ‘Now you.’

‘Are you mad? It’ll be freezing.’

Selina laughs. ‘Where’s your sense of adventure, Miss Edwards?’ Elspeth hesitates. ‘Come on, we’re a minute away from home. We’ll be warm and dry in no time.’

She looks into Selina’s eyes, those eyes the colour of the ocean, a dark blue-grey, and makes her decision. Selina claps as Elspeth kicks off her own shoes, stuffing her stockings into them and tucking both pairs beside the wall.

‘Let’s go then,’ she says, breathless with anticipation. ‘Before I change my mind.’

Selina takes her arm again, and together they walk down to the water, squealing as the icy waves spray their skin. Selina’s hand runs down Elspeth’s arm until her fingers find her hand, and then they are wading into the water, skirts held aloft in their free hands. All else falls away, the town behind them, the house and the graveyard and the rock they once chained women to, their ashes blowing on the wind. Elspeth feels them, suddenly, knows without question that this is where their ashes settled, along the shoreline, the space between, burning long after the darkest night had passed. She can see the men surrounding them, their anger sharp enough to bite, to spark the fire, and she shudders away from the image, the memory.

She turns to find Selina looking at her, the ocean reflected in her eyes, their gaze meeting with a depth Elspeth could fall into, if she let herself. Then Selina’s lips are on hers, and she lets go.

They walk barefoot back to the house, fingers entwined, skin warm despite the chill. The world has no magic in it, her father used to say, but Elspeth knows now that he was wrong. He had never met anyone like Selina.

Elspeth is reaching out to open the front door when she hears a cough behind them. She lets go of Selina’s hand as if burned, regret pinching when Selina almost loses her balance, pain shooting across her face. She turns, shielding her eyes from the glare of the setting sun to take in the stranger standing on the path. Dark clouds suddenly roll over the sky, casting everything in shadow. The man before her is well-dressed, modern in fashion and, arguably, handsome with it, and she frowns, certain that she knows him from somewhere.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ Selina says, finding her voice, but any reply is cut off by a crack of lightning breaking open the sky. She begins to move towards him. ‘Are you here for an appointment?’

As Elspeth approaches the two figures, the man’s features are illuminated by another flash, and she falters. Time seems to slow down, sound muted as if she is underwater.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Selina is saying. ‘Could you repeat that please?’

But Elspeth doesn’t need to hear his response. She can tell now that this man is a Reid. He has Selina’s eyes, dark and round, framed by thick lashes and full eyebrows. He could be her brother, twin even, so alike are they. He catches her gaze and holds it, and she feels as if a hole has opened up before her, a yawning mouth waiting for her to fall.

‘My name is Samuel Reid,’ the man says, and the heavens open.

Fourteen

ELSPETH

Elspeth watches Selina hovering outside her father’s study, one hand pressed against the doorframe, favouring her right leg as she strains to hear what is passing between the two men beyond the door.

‘Selina,’ Elspeth says, and she hushes her.

‘I’m trying to listen,’ she whispers. ‘Come here.’

Elspeth moves closer, though the last thing she wants is to be caught eavesdropping on her employer.

‘I can’t hear anything,’ she whispers back, and Selina sighs.

‘Me neither. Come on, I need to get this stupid brace off.’

‘Are you in pain?’ Elspeth asks, putting a hand up to stop Selina from charging off. She reminds her of an animal sometimes, a hound released into the woods after being restrained by a leash for so long. Sometimes she needs to remember to slow down. ‘Here, let me help you to your room.’

For a moment, Selina looks as if she’s going to argue, but then she nods, taking Elspeth’s arm and limping into her bedroom.

‘Who is he?’ Elspeth asks, lowering her voice, though the door is closed behind them.

‘Samuel Reid. My cousin,’ Selina says, her expression darkening. ‘Papa’s brother’s son, if memory serves. A kirkman, a Presbyterian. You know the type, wound tighter than a nun’s—’ She stops and winces as she appears to remember who she is speaking to. ‘Sorry.’

Elspeth waves it off. ‘But I thought Dr Reid had no contact with them?’

‘Very little. He looked as surprised as we were when I brought Samuel in. I know Samuel wrote recently to say he was studying medicine in Glasgow, but I cannot recall Papa’s response, if there was one.’ She folds her arms over her chest. ‘I don’t like it. Papa never shuts me out like this. There must be something he does not want me to know.’

Elspeth says nothing. She has no idea why Samuel Reid has appeared, or what he wants, but she doesn’t like it either.

‘Where’s your chair?’ she asks, looking around the room.

Selina grimaces. ‘In the surgery.’

‘I’ll go and get it.’ Elspeth leaves Selina to her thoughts, drowning in her own. Her lips still sting with the memory of salt and the taste of Selina. This cannot be. She knows it cannot be, and yet her bones ache with the thought of never holding her close again.

As she’s pushing the chair through the garden, she looks up to see the two men in Dr Reid’s study. Samuel is standing near the door, but Dr Reid is pacing, a hand running through his hair. As she gets closer, Samuel turns and their eyes meet, sending a shiver down her spine. She quickly looks away, lifting the chair into the house and hurrying back to Selina’s room.

Selina sighs as she lifts her leg out of the brace and stretches it out in front of her, flexing her toes. ‘They could have made it a bit more comfortable.’

‘Perhaps we could add some padding?’ Elspeth suggests. ‘I’m sure I could sew something together.’

‘You sew, Miss?’ Selina teases. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Oh, no. I never learned. Unless stitches count?’ Elspeth winces, and Selina laughs, too loudly. She clasps a hand over her mouth, her eyes dancing. ‘We don’t want my new cousin to think badly of us, do we?’ she whispers behind her fingers.

Elspeth remembers again how he found them earlier and turns away. She wonders if he is telling Dr Reid, if they would send her away. Don’t be so foolish, she scolds herself. He was too far away. He can’t have seen you doing anything wrong. But she was feeling something wrong, and she thinks Samuel knows it.

‘You must be Cousin Selina,’ Samuel had said after Dr Reid had been found. He bowed towards Selina, who frowned, before turning to Elspeth. ‘And you are . . .?’

‘This is Miss Edwards,’ Dr Reid said gruffly. ‘Selina’s . . .’ He had fumbled for the words, until Selina stepped in.

‘My good friend,’ she said, and Elspeth tried to hide her dismay. Samuel’s eyebrows had lifted, only slightly, and in that gesture Elspeth believed she saw the knowledge she had been hiding from herself for some time.

‘Enchanted,’ Samuel had said, before turning back to Dr Reid. ‘Uncle, as wonderful as it is to spend time with family, it is business which brings me here. Might I have a few moments of your time?’

His eyes flickered towards the women, and Dr Reid cleared his throat.

‘Yes, very well. Selina, could you take over replenishing the stock cupboard please? Perhaps Elspeth could help you, if she has time.’

‘Of course, sir,’ Elspeth said automatically, knowing as well as he did that the stock cupboard had been replenished only that morning. Selina dipped a curtsey dripping in sarcasm, her good leg bending slightly behind the other, before leaving the room with as much dignity as a crowned monarch.

‘Remarkable!’ they heard Samuel exclaim before the door closed behind them. ‘What was wrong with her again?’

‘Wrong with her?’ Selina hissed in the dark hallway. ‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me, you smarmy wee pri—’

‘Selina!’

‘It does seem odd, him turning up out of the blue,’ Elspeth says now from her place by the window. ‘I wonder what news he was bringing to Dr Reid.’

‘Out of the blue. I like that. As though he crawled out of the sea like some prehistoric fossil.’

Elspeth feels a shiver pass over her. She shakes herself, going back to the door. ‘I’m going to fetch some food. Are you hungry?’

Selina nods, but her eyes are clouded, her mind far away. Is she thinking of what passed between them? Or is she thinking of her new-found cousin, the threat he seems to have brought with him? Samuel Reid is an unknown, a mystery to be unravelled, and Elspeth isn’t sure she wants to be there when he comes undone.

Fifteen

ELSPETH

Samuel is staying, Dr Reid announces that evening. He is here for some special training, the dying wish of his father, a wish Dr Reid cannot ignore despite the distance between the two brothers. There seems to be something beneath his words, a secondary meaning only Selina appears to understand.

Elspeth notices the shift in the air almost immediately. Selina, unable to bear being in the same room as her cousin for more than a few minutes, spends more time in the surgery, studying at her father’s desk or assisting with patients. She is seen in glimpses, a skirt twirling as she turns on her heel, like the edges of a ghost.

Elspeth grows accustomed to spending her days in the parlour while the Reids are busy in the surgery, the small building suddenly overflowing with Samuel joining them during the day. Unlike Samuel, she cannot stay where she is not wanted. She feels displaced, confused and alone. She sees little of Selina, whose bed is often empty when Elspeth retires for the night. Except for the small hours, when her bedroom door opens and Selina slips inside, curling her body around Elspeth’s in the narrow bed, Elspeth might wonder if it had all been a dream. They wake together, a silent alarm alerting them to the prospect of getting caught, and when Selina slips back into her own room, Elspeth is left feeling cold, all the words she did not say crowding on her tongue.

One morning, when Elspeth feels Selina pulling away, she rolls over to grasp her wrist. Selina looks down, eyes widening before she smiles.

‘Good morning,’ she whispers.

‘Where do you go?’ Elspeth asks, tongue still tangled in sleep.

‘What do you mean?’

‘At night. Where do you go?’

Selina shifts, looks away. ‘To work. Papa sometimes needs my help.’

‘With what?’

‘Why are you interrogating me?’ Selina slides into her chair, tugging her wrist from Elspeth’s fingers. ‘Has Samuel been dripping poison into your ears?’

Elspeth sits up, kicking her legs to free them from the sheets. ‘Samuel? What? No, I just—’

‘You cannot trust him, you know.’

‘Can I trust you?’ The words are out before she can consider their impact. She watches them hit Selina with an almost physical force. Selina opens her mouth, then closes it again, and before Elspeth can speak, she has disappeared through the door between their rooms, the lock clicking firmly in place behind her.

*

Every evening, Samuel returns to the house alone, and so Elspeth feels obliged to dine with him, exchanging pleasantries as their cutlery scrapes against the china. The dining room is like a cave, just a few candles flickering on the table between them, and the air is awkward. Elspeth is on edge, waiting for Samuel to bring up what he saw that first day. Perhaps he saw nothing, she tries to console herself. Perhaps he does not care. But there is something about him that never allows her to relax.

Samuel is polite, asking her to pass the salt, which always seems to be at her end of the table despite her never using it, and taking it upon himself to fill her glass with wine. This is how their first real conversation begins.

‘I rather fear this will taste like vinegar,’ Samuel says as he pours them both a glass, his mouth pinched in a way that reminds Elspeth of Selina. He looks up and, noticing her expression, relaxes his features. ‘Dr Reid is many things, but a wine connoisseur he is not.’

‘I know very little about wine,’ Elspeth says quietly. ‘We very rarely drank it at home.’

‘And where is home, Miss Edwards?’ Samuel settles in opposite her, picking up his knife and fork, and she does the same.

‘Edinburgh. Though strictly speaking, it is home no longer.’

‘Oh?’

She dabs at her lips with a napkin. ‘My father died, and then my sister. I have very little kin left to me.’

‘I am sorry to hear it. My father recently passed too, and I am an only child. I barely remember my mother, for I was so young when she died.’

Elspeth nods. It is why he is here, after all. ‘My condolences.’ They are silent for a few moments, until she speaks again. ‘You know, you and Selina are not so different.’ Samuel gives her an almost bemused look, and she blushes. ‘She also lost her mother when she was young. She died in childbirth.’

Samuel appears to consider this, as if it is new information. ‘And we are both only children,’ he says. ‘Though, of course, I did not have the same challenges as my cousin.’

Elspeth says nothing, concentrating on the food before her.

‘She has overcome them well,’ Samuel continues, ‘thanks to you.’

‘Oh, I think it is all down to Selina herself.’

‘You are too modest, Miss Edwards. My uncle often sings your praises. Selina too.’ His eyes are sparkling, and Elspeth feels an uneasiness spread through her. Is he toying with her? Dangling his knowledge about her true feelings for Selina in front of her? Though their relationship has turned from a fizz of excitement to a gnawing anxiety of late. What are they to one another? Where is this going, if anywhere?

When she reaches out for her glass, her fingers knock clumsily against it and the glass topples over, red wine spilling out across the tablecloth. She jumps up, Samuel throwing his napkin over the mess before rushing out to the kitchen for more. Elspeth’s cheeks are aflame as she mops it up, her embarrassment deepening when he joins her on the floor.

‘Oh dear, you’ve got some on your sleeve,’ he says, pinching the material between forefinger and thumb. ‘Come, I know a way to get it out.’ He holds out a hand as if expecting her to strip off before him, then chuckles, his own cheeks turning red. ‘My apologies, I meant . . . Please, bring me the garment when you are ready.’

Elspeth is caught off-guard by his sudden bashfulness. She can almost see him as a little boy, hands held behind his back to hide a stolen treat. What is it about him that sets Selina on edge? It feels like there is something deeper, something darker, about her cousin that stands between them, a silent curse. If only she would talk to her, if only they could speak without fear of being overheard. If he had seen something on that first day, surely he would have said something by now? Perhaps he does not deserve their hostility. Perhaps he could be a friend to them both.

She climbs to her feet and gives him a small smile. ‘Thank you, Mr Reid. That is most kind.’

*

Samuel takes to reading the newspaper in the parlour before and after dinner, and so they sit together in comfortable silence, Elspeth reading a book. One afternoon, Bess sticks her head through the door, already wearing her hat and coat.

‘Apologies, Miss Edwards,’ she says, for Samuel’s benefit, ‘but I have to dash tonight. My mother has taken ill. Berry left dinner warming in the oven.’

‘Go,’ Elspeth says, standing. ‘Please. We can manage ourselves just fine. Give your mother our love.’

‘Shall do, Miss.’

‘Should I send Dr Reid after you?’

A strange expression passes over the maid’s face. ‘He won’t be free tonight. I’ll call on him in the morning if he is needed. Goodnight.’

She hurries away, the front door slamming behind her. The wind has picked up, the ocean carried in the air, salt on Elspeth’s lips as she turns to Samuel Reid.

‘Are you hungry, Mr Reid?’ she asks formally. ‘I can serve whatever Berry left for us.’

Samuel folds his newspaper and gets to his feet. ‘I’m quite used to fending for myself, Miss Edwards. I would often make a nuisance of myself in the kitchens when I was small.’ He winks. ‘The cook would give me a biscuit just to get me out from under her feet.’

Elspeth smiles at the image as she leaves the room, Samuel following behind her. In the kitchen, she finds a pot of beef stew and a loaf of warm bread, which she asks Samuel to slice while she fills two bowls with the stew. They sit at the kitchen table by silent agreement, the butter dish open between them, two small glasses of wine at their elbows. They do not speak as they eat, but Elspeth snatches glances at Samuel, looking away when his eyes meet hers. He is mysterious, this Reid cousin, and she cannot understand why Selina hates him so. He has been nothing but pleasant to Elspeth, making it difficult for her to continue to shun him as Selina does.

Samuel dabs at his lips with a napkin, his bowl empty, before looking around the room. ‘Now, where’s that biscuit tin?’

‘On your head be it,’ Elspeth says with a smile. ‘Berry guards her stash ferociously. She’s quite handy with a knife, you know.’

Samuel’s eyes widen in mock fear. ‘On second thoughts, I believe I am quite full.’

Placing their bowls in the sink, Elspeth opens a cupboard and brings out a small tin, lifting the lid to reveal a few fingers of shortbread.

‘This is my own stash,’ she says, offering him the tin. ‘Left over from my birthday. They may be a little bit stale.’ She flushes as she thinks about that day and the surprises Selina had organised for her. Everyone should have flowers on their birthday.

‘Well,’ Samuel says, reaching out and taking the tin from her, ‘a happy belated birthday to you, Miss Edwards. Shall I make tea?’ Elspeth is not quick enough to hide her surprise and Samuel chuckles. ‘Towards the end, my father would often wake in the night and demand a cup of tea. It seemed unfair to drag the poor maids from their beds every time, so I started to make it for him.’ Something like sadness glistens in his eyes as he speaks, but he continues to smile. ‘And I can make a ruddy good one, if I say so myself. Please.’ He indicates for Elspeth to sit back down, and she does, watching as he moves around the room, boiling water and adding tea leaves to the pot.

‘Caring for your father must have been difficult. Was it dementia?’

Samuel flicks a look at her as he pours the water into the teapot. ‘Yes. How did you know?’

‘I overheard you and Dr Reid speaking once,’ she says, blushing. ‘You said something about your father’s memory. And the tea in the middle of the night . . .’ She lifts a shoulder. ‘My own father died of diphtheria, but I remember him telling me about his father, how he would demand the same meal every day, and swear blind he hadn’t had it in months. He had dementia too.’

‘You are very perceptive, Miss Edwards.’ Samuel sits back in his chair, watching her. She sips her tea, trying not to feel his eyes on her skin. ‘You know, Selina is lucky to have you. You are a good friend.’

Elspeth looks up, trying to see if there is anything hidden in his words. Something is telling her to keep quiet, to stay still, as if Samuel is a wolf and she a hare. Suddenly he is a threat once again. She shifts, moving her legs to one side, as if preparing for an escape.

‘You do know what they do at night, don’t you?’

She says nothing, memories of Selina, her skin coated in salt, slipping into bed in the early hours flitting through her mind. Samuel smiles as if he can read her thoughts. ‘You don’t. You have no idea what they’re doing in there, do you?’

She glances up at the kitchen window and the surgery beyond the glass. He chuckles. ‘Ask her. Ask your dear Selina what she gets up to at night.’

Sixteen

AILSA

Now

The wooden edge of the kitchen table presses hard against my stomach as I lean over it, absorbed by the book laid out in front of me. On the outside, it looks like a normal notebook, a hard cover the colour of the roses planted in the front garden, a soft pink like a blush under the skin. I ran a finger down the spiral spine before I opened the book as if it were a passcode, a ritual to make it give up its secrets. But they are my secrets too.

The book begins with a story, one I have heard before, but not in this way. It is written in the first person, as if the woman in the story is telling it herself. Perhaps that is the point. Gran hasn’t been able to trace the family tree far enough back to find this woman, this witch, but her fear and legacy runs through our blood. We are tethered to one another, as she was tethered to the rock above the house, her daughter beside her. Mothers and daughters, condemned together. Is that when it all started, this curse between the Reid women? I know little about Gran’s mum, only that she died when Gran was a young woman. I flick through the pages, looking for something, anything, that might tell me more. I find another story, the first line capturing my attention.

Our mothers were taken by the sea. I had never seen her swim, only float. The water held her like an embrace, her head cupped by the gentle waves, her skirts billowing around her like sea foam. I am dreaming, I said, and turned for home, to find my mother gone, just like her mother before her.

It is in Gran’s handwriting, that same lyrical style, almost like poetry. I’d had no idea she’d written these stories, but Rowan seemed to recognise the book when she snatched it from Doug. Why had Gran never shared this with me?

I turn the page and continue reading. One line stands out:

She called her the moon, for she lit up the darkness and called her home.

The moon. Selina’s headstone comes back to me. You are the moon, dear love, and I the sea. I push the chair back and run upstairs to find the Reid book, searching the pages for the family tree as I head back downstairs. Beneath Alastair Reid are Selina and Elspeth. I had assumed they were sisters, but now I realise the line to Cordelia is in the middle of the two names. They were together.

I hear someone come in behind me and turn to see Rowan in the doorway.

‘What’s that?’ she asks.

‘Gran’s books. Did you know about these stories?’

She glances at the page as she passes on her way to the kettle. ‘Aye. Don’t you remember me telling you the one about the witches?’

I nod. ‘It’s the only thing you ever gave me.’ Even as the words leave my lips, I know that they are unfair. I exhale. ‘Sorry.’

Rowan looks at me, her eyes wide with surprise and something else . . . resignation? Has she always known that, someday, it would come to this? That we would have to face one another amidst the barbs and thorns of our relationship, so that the scratches might heal?

‘I can tell you another one,’ she says, flicking the kettle on. ‘But I’m no sure you’ll want to hear it.’

‘Try me.’

‘His name was Liam.’ I don’t need to ask who she means. Part of me doesn’t want to hear what she’s going to say, but I realise that I must. Communication, Doug said. It’s what we have been lacking, all of us, even Gran. ‘He was a few years older than me. You know the type, baggy jeans, dark hair, stank of cheap aftershave. He bought me cigarettes and vodka and drove an old Corsa with a dodgy exhaust, blasting heavy metal out of the speakers. I thought he was cool. I thought I was cool, when I was with him.’

She takes a sip of tea, lifts a shoulder. ‘It was my rebellious phase, I suppose, but it’s lasted my entire life. I’m starting to think I’m ready to move on to the next one.’ She looks up at me, her features hazy in the smoke. ‘I wanted to, I think. People say I was too young to decide, but I’ve always known my own mind. I won’t let anyone take that from me. I just didn’t know what else could happen. Sure, they tell you to use condoms, but they don’t really teach you what to do if a boy says, Oh, but it doesn’t feel the same. I won’t enjoy it. And he’s done it before, so you trust him instead of your fusty old science teacher who had a face like a tomato the entire time she was trying to put a condom on a banana.’

I laugh, despite myself, despite what else she is telling me. Despite the fact that things haven’t changed, not really.

‘So yeah, I consented, but I didn’t know what else I was consenting to, you ken? So I fell pregnant. I hid it at first. Your gran had no idea. By that point, our relationship was already pretty strained. I didn’t think she’d ever done anything bad in her life, she was always so straight-laced. The one who set the rules.’ I nod, remembering telling Doug the same thing at the hospital. ‘She was the strict parent. And for a time, I thought Da was weak, always going along with what she said. He told her everything, and vice versa. It always made me feel like the odd one out. Was it the same for you?’

I hesitate, surprised. This is the first time she’s asked me about what my childhood had been like, growing up with her parents. ‘For a time. But Pop made me realise that I had the two of them behind me, instead of against me.’

She gives a huff of laughter. ‘Did he, aye? I didn’t get that. But then I suppose I was pregnant at fifteen, and you were just a bit of a twat.’

I feel my eyes widen, my body preparing to bristle with indignation, but then I laugh, and I am shaking with it, tears in my eyes. And she is laughing too, her head tipped back, her chest heaving with the effort of being quiet.

I wipe my eyes with my sleeve, shaking my head. ‘Doug called me a brat, and you just called me a twat. On brand, as the kids say. But how did you know?’

Rowan sobers, a shadow flitting across her face. ‘Your gran, she wrote to me. Every week. I got most of them, though I suppose some must have got lost as I moved between lodgings. But I got them, and I read them, and I kept them.’

I’m surprised again, rendered speechless. I hadn’t known Gran had written to her. ‘Did you reply?’ I ask after a moment.

She shakes her head. ‘Other than to share my new address, no. I don’t think she ever expected me to. It was more like a postcard. Hi, hope you’re well, here’s a snapshot of our amazing lives without you.’

‘I doubt she meant it like that.’

‘I know that, now. But I disappeared when I was sixteen, and like I said, my teenage rebellious phase has lasted thirty years. It took me a long time to stop being a twat myself.’ She looks up at me again, her eyes shining. ‘I didn’t just give birth and fuck off, you know I was here for a few months. I tried, I really did. But when Mum said she’d say you were hers, “to save my reputation”, I thought, well what if you really were hers? What did you need me for, when you had two doting parents already? I’d only fuck it up, fuck you up. Mothers and daughters . . .’

She shakes her head, and I’m reminded again of what she said before. She might be the woman you dance around the kitchen with, singing ‘Babooshka’ while peeling hard-boiled eggs, but she was never that woman to me.

‘I came back a few times too, over the years,’ she continues. ‘You probably don’t remember.’

‘I do. I remember you telling me the story of the Reid women. The witches.’

She glances at the book, still open on the table between us, and smiles. ‘Oh, aye, the witches. The curse. But now I think about it, it doesn’t make much sense. Why would those women curse us, the Reid women who came after? It’s the men they would have cursed. The ones who tore them from their beds and burned them on the hill. It’s the men they would’ve blamed.’

‘Isn’t it easier though,’ I say, almost without thinking, ‘to blame other women? Safer, almost?’ Rowan’s gaze is sharp, as if she is probing inside my mind, and suddenly I can’t stand it. I have the urge to confess, to tell her everything that has been going on recently, but how can I? ‘I’m going out for a bit, get a bit of fresh air. I’ll ask around for Gran.’

Rowan nods. ‘Sometimes I think she’s here with us, close by, you ken? Keeping an eye on us.’

‘Like a ghost?’ The words are out before I can consider them. ‘I mean, I don’t . . . Not that she’s—’

‘Aye, I know what you meant. No, I just feel like she’s nearby. I smelled her perfume earlier. Just a waft, like she’d walked right past me, or left the room just before I came in.’ She shrugs, shivering slightly. ‘I’m talking shite. Go on, I’ll see you later. I think Doug is bringing dinner home with him, he’s been out searching the hospitals.’

The Reid men are less patient than the Reid women; they are fidgety, needing to be up, doing something. Pop was always tinkering with something, his hands rarely still. I wonder how he is coping in the hospital.

I leave, Rowan’s words ringing in my ears. I find myself walking down to the beach, hands shoved into my pockets against the chill coming off the sea. The sky is leaden, dark clouds rolling in, the promise of a winter storm in the air. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I know without looking at it that it will be another email, full of words I don’t want to think about. Investigation. Allegation. Andy Wright.

I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over the notification. No point delaying the inevitable, Gran says in my head. It is from the school, following up from the last email I ignored. I take a deep breath. I know I need to stop running from this, but I want nothing more than to hide beneath the duvet in my childhood bedroom and pretend none of it ever happened. I tap the notification and open the email.

To Ms Reid,

I am writing with an update regarding our investigation into the allegations against you. As per my previous email, our investigation has been concluded, and we would like you to come in on 4th January for a meeting with the headteacher at 10 a.m. Please confirm by return.

The investigation has been concluded, and yet they have included no details and no indication as to which way it has gone. The allegations against you. When did they turn it against me? It wasn’t even my allegation, not that it matters. I had one role in my job as a teacher which was more important than all others: to protect the children I was responsible for.

I’d heard it whispered, the hushed tones of girls discussing that truth which most, if not all, women know. The same name repeated, until I heard it inside my head like the beat of a drum. Mr Wright. Mr Wright. Mr Wright. But I didn’t believe it, not until I saw it, my heart in my throat as I watched him do what they said he had been doing. A hand on a bare thigh, a finger pressed against his lips. A hand on the small of a teenage girl’s back in the Natural History Museum. When I saw them in the classroom together, I kicked open the door and told the girl to leave, and he knew, then, that I knew. He saw the knowledge in my eyes and yet, he smiled, as if we were co-conspirators. As if he knew he was untouchable.

Of course he knew. Men like that always do. Born with a cavalier attitude towards others, to the world. An exception, higher than and free from everything which binds everyone else. But I had not known it, not then. I was too naïve, too trusting. I had gone straight to the headteacher and told him everything, and, by doing so, sealed my own fate.

Seventeen

ELSPETH

The next night Elspeth stays awake, poised for Selina’s return. She sits in the kitchen, waiting for Samuel to retire, listening as he ascends the stairs, his bedroom door closing with a click. She tidies the room and washes their teacups in the kitchen sink, though Berry will scold her for leftover marks in the morning, for Elspeth’s eyes are focused not on her hands but the surgery, the dimly lit window across which Selina’s silhouette moves like a ghost.

Elspeth goes through the house, tidying, fluffing cushions, sweeping floors, anything to keep her body moving, her mind alert. She drinks a glass of wine, then another, watching the fire burn down in the grate, skin prickling as the alcohol fizzes through her. She thinks of the Reid women, or if they were not Reids then just women, torn from their beds in the middle of the night, accusations flayed across their skin. The men they trusted, fathers and brothers and husbands and sons, love turned to hate with suspicion and fear. Elspeth does not believe in witches. She believes in the power of connection; she has felt the sparks on her skin from Selina’s touch, but witchcraft? No.

Finally, she hears the back door open and close, then Selina’s slow steps in the hall. Elspeth waits, listening as Selina goes into her room, before standing and crossing the hall, opening the bedroom door before she can talk herself out of it.

‘Oh!’ Selina jumps, turning to face Elspeth as she slips inside. The room is in near darkness, a lone candle burning on the bedside table, and suddenly Elspeth feels dizzy. Her eyes are adjusting, drawn to the flicker of the flame as Selina moves as if to block it, to plunge the room into full darkness. ‘You scared me. What are you doing up at this hour?’

‘I wanted to speak to you. I have . . . You are . . .’ She fumbles for the words. Now the moment is here, she does not know what she wishes to say. What she dares say.

‘Now isn’t a good time,’ Selina says, her voice sharp. Elspeth blinks in surprise. ‘You can’t just come in here like this. He might—’

‘Your cousin is upstairs,’ Elspeth interrupts. ‘I waited. But he . . . I haven’t been able to catch you alone since . . .’

‘I know.’ Selina’s voice has softened, and Elspeth feels a surge of hope, until she speaks again. ‘I have to go. I only came back for something.’

‘Back to the surgery? But Selina, it is past midnight.’

‘I know. It’s . . . There were some complications. Papa is expecting me.’

Elspeth feels her temper flare. ‘There’s always something, Selina. Samuel said—’

‘Samuel now, is it?’ Selina glares at her, eyes flashing with fire.

‘We’ve been talking. You have more in common than you think.’

Selina snorts, sitting down on the edge of her bed and unlacing the brace. She rubs her hip. ‘The only thing we have in common is our ambition.’ Elspeth frowns and Selina smiles unkindly, a flash of that old Selina, the one who had been confined to her bed, furious at the world as it turned around her.

‘Why must you always think the worst of people?’

‘Not people, just him. Oh come, Elspeth. You must have realised? Samuel Reid only wants my father’s surgery and this house. He wishes to be his heir.’ Elspeth shakes her head, but Selina misunderstands her and continues. ‘It is the truth, Elspeth, I know it. His own father left him with nothing, except debts coming out of his ears. He needs money, and quickly.’

‘Even so,’ Elspeth says, ‘he is your cousin. Your blood. He has little family left. I know how that feels.’

Selina’s face softens. She reaches out to cup Elspeth’s cheek. ‘You have me,’ she whispers. ‘And Papa. We are your family now.’

But they both know it can never be as they wish it. Samuel’s words echo inside her head. Ask your dear Selina what she gets up to at night. But something stops her from saying the words. Something tells her that she will not like the answer.

‘I know,’ she says instead, leaning into Selina’s touch. ‘But you have been so distant lately. Working all hours.’

‘The work we do—’

‘—is important, I know,’ Elspeth interrupts with a sigh. More important than me, she finishes silently, but Selina seems to hear it anyway. She takes a step forward, the candle held between them now, and Elspeth feels its heat as Selina moves closer.

‘Tomorrow. We will speak tomorrow. I will come to you.’ Her lips brush Elspeth’s cheek, gentle as a sigh, before she lowers herself into her wheelchair. ‘You’ve got a stain on your blouse,’ she says, pointing to a dark spot on Elspeth’s breast, a drop of wine hastily guzzled, and then she is gone, spirited away into the darkness.

Elspeth goes to her own room and sits down heavily on the bed. She begins to unbutton her blouse before pausing, Samuel’s words twisting in her stomach like a knife. You have no idea what they’re doing in there, do you?

Selina is hiding something. Elspeth is suddenly certain of it, seized by the knowledge so fiercely that she begins to tremble, the wine like hot embers in her gut. Something Selina does not trust Elspeth to know. She fastens the buttons once more, quickly stands and heads for the back door before she can change her mind. The cold air hits her with force as she steps outside. The garden is in shadow, the moon hidden behind a cloud, and so she moves unseen, a ghost in the night, towards the surgery and the secrets waiting inside.

One night can change everything. This dark night is the crossroads, the decision Elspeth makes now setting her on a path that will echo down through the generations. She feels the warmth of Selina’s hand on the doorknob as she grips it, seconds ticking by as she hesitates.

She opens the door.

The waiting room is dark, the shadows swallowing Elspeth as she moves through the room. There is a light on in the end room and, as she creeps closer, she hears the low murmur of Dr Reid and Selina, talking between themselves. And then a third voice, a woman, her voice dulled with pain and medication.

‘Is it done?’

Elspeth peers around the door to see the woman getting up from the bed, supported by Dr Reid. Selina is filling a bottle with something, a murky liquid Elspeth recognises as the same medication Selina takes. The woman is just a patient, she tells herself as she watches. Someone who cannot attend the surgery during the day. Perhaps she works in a factory, or has children at home who cannot be left alone.

‘For the pain,’ Dr Reid is saying, taking the bottle from his daughter and pressing it into the woman’s hand.

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ she says, and then they are moving toward the door, and Elspeth must hide. She flattens herself against the wall as Selina passes through the office with the patient in tow. She hears her say goodnight to the woman, and then the door is closed and she is coming back. Elspeth tries to tuck herself behind a cabinet, but then the light is switched on and she blinks in the brightness, her eyes adjusting to find Selina right in front of her.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she hisses, reaching out as if to grab Elspeth’s arm. Guilt floods through her, her cheeks burning as Dr Reid appears, a dish held between his hands with as much reverence as a priest holding the sacrament. She glimpses what is inside before he can hide it, and her guilt turns to outrage in an instant.

‘I might ask you the same question,’ she says, pulling out of Selina’s grasp. ‘Is that a . . . Is that a baby?’

‘A foetus,’ Selina says, her voice hard, and suddenly Samuel’s words make sense.

‘You’ve been performing . . .’ Elspeth trails off, and Selina frowns.

‘Abortions. You can say the word, Elspeth.’

‘Selina,’ her father says, looking at Elspeth as one might a spooked horse.

‘What? She is scandalised, Papa, I can see it.’

‘Horrified is the word I would use,’ Elspeth shoots back. ‘How could you do such a thing?’

‘It is healthcare,’ Selina says, enunciating the word carefully. ‘Necessary healthcare.’

‘It is illegal.’

‘It isn’t,’ Dr Reid chimes in, stepping forward as if to put himself between the two women. ‘Miss Edwards, I understand that what you have seen may have shocked you. I can only apologise for that. But Selina is right. It is necessary, legal healthcare, but it is not widely available. These women come to me, to us, for help.’

Elspeth is suddenly speechless. She looks between father and daughter, trying to breathe, to think. Selina reaches out for her again, taking her hand and leading her into the waiting room, where she switches on the lamp and riffles through the cabinet, her chair fitting awkwardly in the gap. She comes up with a leatherbound book and holds it out.

Elspeth takes, it, feeling the coolness of the cover against her palm. ‘What is this?’

‘It’s an appointment book,’ Dr Reid says, his eyes still wary. ‘For my . . . other patients.’

‘Papa has been seeing female patients in the evenings, much like the woman you saw here tonight,’ Selina says quietly as Elspeth flips open the book. Every day has at least one name written beneath the date, sometimes several.

‘First names only,’ she murmurs as she scans the pages.

‘There is a need for . . . discretion,’ Dr Reid says.

Elspeth looks at him, and in his eyes sees the words he has left unspoken. She takes a shaky breath. So many names, so many women.

‘If it is perfectly legal, why the need to hide it?’

‘Elspeth, mo chridhe,’ Selina says, taking hold of Elspeth’s wrists, her fingers warm against her flesh. The use of their private term surprises Elspeth, throwing her off balance. ‘These women would die without it, or else be turned out of their homes and left to starve or freeze. Men are not always kind.’ Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes sparkling, almost feverish as she speaks. ‘Elspeth, you must know this would happen with or without us. At least here, they are taken care of properly, by a doctor, not an old woman with filthy fingernails and even filthier instruments.’

The words make sense, but the fear coursing through Elspeth taints them, twisting them into something else, something too weak to penetrate.

‘Elspeth,’ Selina says again, squeezing her wrists, but she pulls away, the appointment book falling from her grasp.

‘How could you do this?’ she whispers, tears filling her eyes. ‘It might not be illegal, but it is immoral. It is a sin.’

Selina stares at her as if she is unrecognisable. ‘You talk to me of sin? To me?’ Dr Reid clears his throat and Elspeth looks at him in fear, but Selina persists. ‘You may be a kirkman’s daughter, but you know better than to go down that road.’

Elspeth reels back from her words and the storm in her eyes. She does not want to consider the truth beneath what she is saying. She cannot open that particular box for fear she will fall inside it.

‘He did not kill me in the womb,’ she whispers, avoiding Selina’s gaze, ‘so that my mother might have been my grave. Jeremiah, 20:17.’

Selina laughs then, a laugh so full of menace it hits Elspeth like a blow. ‘And what is the end of that passage? Why did I come out of the womb to see only trouble and sorrow, and to end my days in shame? Don’t you see?’ She takes hold of Elspeth’s shoulders, shakes her. ‘We are saving lives with this work, Elspeth.’

Acid fills Elspeth’s mouth and she turns, fumbling with the doorknob in her haste to get out. She feels Selina reach for her, but she shrugs her off with such violence that Selina falls back in her chair.

‘Go, then,’ Selina says, her voice ragged, and Elspeth almost turns back, almost, but then the door is open and she is out, breathing in the spring air, air which should be sweet with the scent of roses but instead is tinged with blood and the ocean, salt upon salt.

Eighteen

ELSPETH

Elspeth bursts through the kitchen door to find Samuel standing at the window, as if he has watched the entire scene play out. His touch is light on her shoulder, but she spins away, slamming into the kitchen table.

‘Miss Edwards, are you quite all right?’

She breathes in and out, the breath rasping in her throat. She cannot speak of it, cannot say the words. Now she has no choice but to leave, and the thought shatters her heart into a thousand pieces.

In her bedroom, she pulls the suitcase out from under the bed, pausing with her fingers on the latch. But where would she go? Who remains to her now? Her sister’s children, though Duncan has remarried and so there will be no room for the spinster aunt. Another job, then, a similar position in a household, or even another shop? She had enjoyed her work, mostly, though the idea of moving back into rooms shared with other girls fills her with dismay. She has got so used to having her own privacy. She has got so used to sharing her space with a woman she loves, instead of women she tolerates and who tolerate her in return.

She sits down on the bed, her limbs heavy with grief. She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. She needs to think. Her upbringing had, by nature, been a religious one. She was taught to believe in the right to life, that abortion was abhorrent. And yet . . . She thinks of Selina’s expression, the emotion in her voice as she spoke. You talk to me of sin? To me?

Shame floods through her and she puts her head in her hands. Sin. Her love for Selina would have been a sin in her father’s eyes. How can she stand in judgement on others? Dr Reid is a good man, and Selina is . . . Selina. She trusts her, wholeheartedly. She deserves better than this. Now the shock has passed, Elspeth feels ashamed of herself. She should at least listen to her, and ask questions with an open mind and an open heart. It is no wonder Selina did not trust her with the truth.

There is a knock on the door, low, almost hesitant. She is not sure if she is ready to face Selina just yet. Taking a deep breath, she goes to the door and opens it, surprised to see not Selina but Samuel on the other side.

‘Miss Edwards, are you quite well? Can I come in?’ he asks in a low voice. One foot is already in the doorway, and so she moves back, letting him inside. This is her first mistake. He sees the suitcase and looks at her strangely as he sits on the hard chair in the corner. ‘Are you leaving?’ She opens her mouth but he continues. ‘Now you know the truth, I thought we might . . . I thought you might need a friend.’

A friend. Her eyes fill with tears and she sits down heavily on the bed, bringing her hands up to cover her face.

‘Oh, my dear.’ She feels Samuel’s hand on her shoulder and, for a moment, she could believe it is Selina. Shame fills her at the memory of Selina staggering backwards, her chair crashing into the desk behind her. Elspeth did that. Elspeth, in her blinding self-righteousness, has hurt her love in more ways than one, and now she fears it is all over before it had begun.

‘Miss Edwards, I must apologise.’

She looks up to see Samuel’s features twisted with emotion, and it stirs something in her. The need to comfort.

‘There is no need,’ she whispers, though there is. There will be.

‘I should have prepared you for what you would find tonight. It must have been a tremendous shock. I just . . .’ He sighs and runs a hand over his face. ‘I’m afraid I must burden you further, Miss Edwards, as I have a confession of my own.’ He is silent for a moment, his mouth working as if he is chewing on the words he must say. ‘There’s something you do not know. My uncle is . . . My uncle is unwell. He has been keeping it a secret, but the illness is progressing, and soon he will have little choice.’ Elspeth blinks, trying to process his words. ‘Did you never wonder why I came?’

Out of the blue, she thinks, her mind slow and clouded. ‘Your father . . .’

‘Yes. Dr Reid wrote to my father before he died and asked me to come, to learn his business, for he has no heir.’

‘He has Selina.’ Elspeth rubs the skin beneath her eyes, trying to calm her racing thoughts. Was Selina right about him after all? Or does he truly wish to take over from Dr Reid, continue his work in all ways? Would he allow Selina to continue her training?

‘When Selina has finished her studies, it would be my pleasure to work alongside her,’ he adds, as if reading her mind. ‘She is a . . . a remarkable woman.’

She is. Elspeth blows out a breath. ‘Forgive me, Mr Reid, but why are you telling me this?’

Samuel smiles then, almost shyly. ‘I thought . . . I know you have had a shock tonight, but Miss Edwards, you do not have to leave. You could stay here, with me.’

With me. Not Selina. She is shocked into silence.

He continues: ‘But – and I know you will agree with me here, Miss Edwards – I would not allow these nightly rituals to continue. I am a religious man, as you are a religious woman, and I believe that what they are doing is against God.’

She looks down at her fingers twisting in her lap, uncertainty filling her once again. She cannot forget the look on Selina’s face when she spoke of it, how these women live, how they are helping them. Can it be true? She does not want to be here, listening to Samuel. She needs to speak to Selina. She tries to reply, but he interrupts her again.

‘And I do not just mean what goes on in the surgery.’

When she meets his gaze, she sees the truth written there, and feels her skin go cold.

‘You are discreet, I will give you that, but I’ve seen the way you look at one another. Who could miss it?’ He crosses one leg over the other and sighs. ‘I fear you have been taken advantage of, my dear. You are a young woman, a godly woman, and my cousin is . . . damaged.’

‘Don’t say that,’ she whispers, horrified.

He shakes his head. ‘I do not mean . . . come now, Miss Edwards. You were raised in the light of the Lord. You know right from wrong. I can see it, His light shining inside you. Imagine what we could achieve together? We could help my cousin. She is not beyond redemption.’

Redemption. Elspeth’s head is suddenly swimming. She should not have drunk so much wine earlier. She should have remained clear-headed, but she had needed something to give her the courage to follow Selina, to open that door. Now she feels sick, as if she is aboard a boat in stormy waters.

‘I will leave you to rest, Miss Edwards,’ Samuel says gently as Elspeth tries to breathe through the nausea. ‘Try not to fret. Things will look better in the morning.’

The door closes with a click and then she is alone, his words echoing as the room spins around her. She lies back against the pillow, too weary to reach down and unlace her boots, and allows darkness to take her.

*

Elspeth opens her eyes to a bright spring morning. It is late, and she knows that she has spent the night alone. You talk to me of sin? Her cheeks grow hot as the memory of last night comes back to her, her stomach twisting as if it is made of rope. She turns to face the wall that separates the two rooms, the lock which holds a key that has rarely been turned. The only thing stopping her from opening the door is herself, and her shame.

She closes her eyes as they begin to burn with tears. Samuel’s face drifts before her, his accusation turning her insides to ice. He knows. But I am not beyond redemption, am I?

There is a knock on her bedroom door. Thinking it will be Bess, she calls for her to enter, her voice barely more than a croak. The door opens and Selina’s face appears in the gap.

‘Oh,’ Elspeth whispers, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and running her hands over her nightdress. She feels strange, almost shy, like a toddler hiding behind a mother’s skirts. But she is no toddler, and her mother is long dead, and she cannot hide from Selina forever.

‘May I come in?’ Selina’s voice is oddly formal as she seeks consent in a new way. Where before communication was through a light touch, lingering gazes and quiet gasps, now there is an awkwardness between them, a barrier as wide as the ocean, as impenetrable as the winter sky.

‘Of course,’ Elspeth says finally, too lost in her thoughts to recall how to behave. Their situation has never been usual, the formalities quickly giving way to the closeness of their exceptional circumstances. She stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, watching as Selina wheels herself inside and closes the door behind her. She sees the other woman take a deep breath before turning towards her, feels the tightness of her chest as if it is her own, anxiety and words clogging their collective throat. ‘I—’

‘It’s—’

They speak in unison, as they have done in the past, their thoughts aligned, their mouths parting then closing, lips turning up in a smile. Elspeth feels a tug at the corner of her mouth, resists.

‘Forgive me,’ she says as Selina looks down at her knees, fingers twisting in her lap. ‘I am not . . . Please, you go first.’

When Selina looks up, Elspeth sees that her eyes are shining with tears. ‘I wanted to come last night,’ she says softly, almost apologetically, ‘but I did not . . . I thought it best if we slept on it. Oftentimes, things can look better in the morning.’

‘Your cousin said the same thing,’ Elspeth murmurs.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. I didn’t . . . Do things look better for you?’

Selina chews her bottom lip before responding. ‘Not really. But I thought we could talk, now we have calmed down.’

Elspeth almost laughs. Calmed down? She has never felt less calm in her life. Her heart beats wildly in her chest, and her limbs ache as if weighed down with stones. Her thoughts crash into one another in her mind with explosive clangs. Her breath is coming in gasps, as if she has just climbed a mountain and is standing above the world, looking down on her life and all she has done. And it terrifies her.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ she whispers, sitting down on the edge of the bed. ‘I am . . . I am sorry for last night, truly. I should have spoken to you instead of sneaking around. But I fear that, regardless of how I discovered it, I would still have struggled to understand the truth.’

‘What is there to understand, Elspeth?’ Selina pushes herself forward, stopping a few feet away. ‘You and I had very different upbringings, that much is clear, but surely you can see past the religious guff and into the heart of the matter?’

Elspeth feels her skin prickle at the barb. ‘And what is the heart of the matter, in your eyes?’

‘The safety and wellbeing of the women who seek us out. Who need us. Surely no god would condemn them for saving their own lives? Or those of their living children?’

‘So they are sacrificing one child for another?’

Selina’s jaw tightens with frustration. ‘I do not see it that way, and neither does Papa. And truly, anyone who comes to us for help need not share their reasons for doing so. You would not give a reason for asking me to remove a splinter from your palm, after all.’

Elspeth’s eyes widen. ‘Surely you are not comparing the two?’

Selina sighs. ‘Of course not. But the rest is true. To me, to Papa, this is just another medical procedure. A vital one, yes, but it is medicine, not politics or religion. Just medicine. Can you really not understand that, mo chridhe?’

She reaches out a hand, fingers trembling as they wait for Elspeth’s to meet them. Elspeth feels a pull in her stomach, the same complicated, tangled feelings that led them here, to this very moment, a chasm yawning between them.

‘There is more to it than that,’ Elspeth says, and Selina drops her hand. ‘I think it is . . . a sign, perhaps? That this, we, were not meant to be.’

‘A sign? From who?’ Selina gives a huff of laughter. ‘God?’

Elspeth feels frustration rise in her once more. ‘You need not be so dismissive.’

‘I cannot help it! Where has this obsession with God and sin come from, Elspeth? We have been living in peace, in love, for all this time. Why now?’

Elspeth says nothing. Selina is right, after all. She has always known her feelings would be against her religion, the beliefs that have shaped her entire life, and she has pushed all that aside. Until now. She can feel Selina slipping away from her, is unsure whether she should reach out and grab her or let her go.

‘I know why,’ Selina says after a moment, her eyes narrowing. ‘It’s Samuel, isn’t it?’ Elspeth’s mind is empty and full at the same time, her mouth unable to form the words she must say. ‘He was in here with you last night, wasn’t he? I thought I heard his voice.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘And your cosy meals together, sitting in the parlour every evening. He’s got to you. He’s got you.’ Selina wheels herself back a few feet, turning as if to leave. ‘I warned you that he could not be trusted. It was he who sent you out to spy on us last night, wasn’t it?’ She takes Elspeth’s stunned silence for confirmation. ‘If you trust him, Elspeth, you are a fool. You are not the woman I thought I knew.’

‘You know nothing!’ Elspeth cries, the words bursting from her like flames. ‘And I know nothing of you! All this time you have kept secrets from me, lied to me. This has nothing to do with Samuel. This is about what I thought was between us. How can it be love when it is built on lies?’

‘I kept it a secret to protect you,’ Selina hisses. ‘And, yes, to protect myself too. Can you blame me? I feared you would react in this way, and I was right.’ Her eyes are shining with tears and rage. ‘Your holier than thou attitude will be your downfall, Elspeth.’

‘Get out!’ Tears flow down Elspeth’s face as she screams the words at Selina, sees them hit her with a physical force. ‘Get out! Get out!’

She watches as Selina turns the chair towards the door between their two rooms and wheels herself through the gap. She turns her head as if to say something, but Elspeth slams the door shut behind her and twists the key in the lock. The click echoes through the room like thunder as she sinks down to the floor, pretending she cannot feel the longing seeping through the wall, a longing fierce enough to match her own.

Nineteen

ELSPETH

Elspeth spends the morning packing her suitcase, the bedroom door ajar in case Dr Reid is passing. She has her resignation letter written out, her signature smudged by a tear she could not stop from dripping onto the page. She has no hope of a good reference, and she is still unsure of where she will go next, but she knows she cannot stay here. The job she was hired to do no longer exists, after all, and any hope of staying in the Reid house for another purpose has been shattered.

When she hears a noise outside the door, she turns to find Samuel raising his fist to knock. Swiping beneath her eyes, she manages to find a small smile for him as he enters the room.

‘Miss Edwards,’ he says, his voice soft, ‘I fear you are leaving us.’

She inhales sharply, holds it. ‘I am, Mr Reid. I was hoping to find your uncle before I go. Do you know of his whereabouts?’

She recalls his mention of Dr Reid’s illness, and wonders if that is the reason for some of his absences. A thought comes unbidden – I should ask Selina – and then a wave of sadness crashes over her.

‘I’m afraid not,’ Samuel is saying as she tries to regain her composure. ‘Can I be of any assistance?’

Elspeth glances at her watch. There is a train at twelve o’clock; she will need to leave soon if she hopes to catch it. ‘Perhaps you could give him my letter of resignation? If it’s not too much trouble, of course.’

‘No trouble at all, Miss Edwards, but I must confess that I would rather not. As I said last night, I would much rather you stayed.’

She sighs. ‘I cannot. I must find new employment. There is nothing for me here.’

‘Nothing?’ Samuel’s lips twitch. ‘My dear cousin may no longer need you as a nursemaid, but surely my uncle can still make use of you?’

Elspeth winces at the term. Nursemaid. I was many things to her, but never that.

‘Indeed,’ he continues, ‘I could make use of you. I intend to encourage my uncle to hire a secretary, someone to keep the diary and manage the patients. Things have been rather . . . haphazard, of late. I intend to make some changes to the practice, and I hoped you would assist me. If we were to marry, we—’

‘Marry?’ The word bubbles up as a laugh, and she looks up to see anger flash across his face. ‘Y-you mistake me, sir. I have no wish to marry.’ You, she adds silently.

‘You must understand, Miss Edwards, that you will have no reference from my uncle. He is extremely disappointed in your conduct while employed in this house.’ Samuel’s voice is tight, as if his teeth are clenched together. He shakes his head as if to clear it, fixing a small smile on his face. ‘Where will you go? No job, no reference, no home. Please, Miss Edwards, be reasonable.’ He takes a step forward, his hands held open by his side, palms up as if in supplication. ‘I would hate to see you fall so low.’

Your holier than thou attitude will be your downfall, Elspeth. Selina’s words echo inside her head. What Samuel says is true, but she has never sought the life her sister fell into. Marriage, children, misery. She knows that life can be joyous for some, for many, hopefully, but it has never been for her. Then what?

‘Please, Miss Edwards,’ Samuel continues. ‘Allow me to help you. I thought we were of the same mind. We are God-fearing, good people. You have just . . . lost your way. My cousin is a strong influence. I know you are truly innocent in all this. A victim.’

Emotions bubble up inside her – frustration, confusion, shame. He sounds so much like her father, his voice soft yet confident, and it throws her off balance. Her father had been a good man who had only wanted the best for his daughters. Perhaps Samuel Reid is the same. Perhaps he only wants what is best for the family that remains to him. And you could be a part of that, a voice says inside her head. You could be a Reid.

She looks up at him, her eyes connecting with his. She does not look away; instead she searches them as if hoping to find something there. Maybe I could. Maybe he would be a good husband, kind. And maybe this is how I could stay with Selina. Maybe, with time, we could become friends again.

She blinks, and then his lips are on hers, soft yet urgent. She feels an anticipation of pain, like the moment before you look at a wound. She pulls away, her movements slow, but his hand is behind her head, pushing her towards him. She does not try to pull away again. She does not say no, or tell him to stop. A part of her will always wonder if she invited this, for letting him into her room, for eating meals and drinking wine with him, for trying to make him feel welcome. For not being stronger. For not sensing the danger.

As she allows the darkness to take her, she realises that he was wrong. Selina is not a predator, and, most importantly, she is not a victim.

*

Elspeth does not make the twelve o’clock train. Before he leaves, Samuel promises to speak to Dr Reid on her behalf, to begin making plans for their wedding. The word twists inside her like a knife.

She stays in her room and the next morning, she tells Bess she is unwell. There is some truth to her lie. She feels as if she is dying. Her mind is full of darkness and her throat is sore from vomiting after she woke. She feels hollowed out, as if her spirit has left her body and fled to somewhere she cannot follow.

For days, she cannot bring herself to get out of bed. She could still leave, she thinks in one of her more lucid moments. But the question remains: where would she go? She would have to flee this place, move as far away from the reputation Samuel will give her as possible. It feels overwhelming, exhausting, and so she stays in limbo, awaiting judgement.

At one point, she thinks she hears raised voices, anger radiating through the house as a door slams. A dream? She no longer knows what is real, no longer knows what day it is, what month, what year. Time flows by like water through fingertips.

One day, Selina uses Bess’s key and slips inside Elspeth’s room. It is dark, the curtains shut tight, the air close and unpleasant. Selina moves towards the bed and the shadow lying beneath the covers, and Elspeth wonders what she sees. She has not looked at herself in some time. She cannot bear to find her own eyes in the mirror and see her pain etched there. See his face pressed against her cheek. She wonders if Selina can see him too.

‘Elspeth,’ she breathes. ‘Elspeth, I can help.’

Then she is gone, and Elspeth wonders if it was another dream. She remembers walking into the sea with her, fingers entwined with hers – but no, Selina cannot walk. It must have been a dream. And then a nightmare.

‘It was real,’ a voice says, and Elspeth opens her eyes. Selina is sitting beside the bed, holding a bowl of something. Elspeth can see steam rising from it, an aroma drifting up to reach her, and she feels her stomach ache with hunger. ‘Here. Eat.’ A spoon at her lips, metal clinking against her teeth. Liquid coating her tongue, soothing her throat as she swallows.

‘I know what he did.’ The words are soft, but when Elspeth looks up she sees a hardness in Selina’s eyes. ‘He told me . . . He said you needed to be corrected, and that . . . that you are to marry.’

Elspeth swims up through the murkiness, her hand reaching out for Selina’s. She opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out, her voice dried up inside her throat. She coughs, swallowing down fire as fury begins to burn through her.

‘No,’ she manages. ‘No.’

Selina is shaking her head. ‘I know, my love. I know. He is gone. You’re safe now.’

Horror washes over her as she imagines Samuel forcing his way into Selina’s room. ‘Did he . . .?’

‘No. He cornered me in the surgery, told me my days as a doctor were limited.’ Her eyes are shining with fury. ‘I was sitting on one of the beds after the last patient had left. My hip was aching, so I was taking off the brace and was going to use the chair to get back to the house. I know it is only a short distance, but the pain has been . . . I have been pushing myself too hard, I think.’ Her features harden, and Elspeth grasps her fingers. ‘He was so pompous, boasting about what happened. I think he truly believes that you were willing.’

‘It is a lie,’ Elspeth whispers, her eyes burning with tears. ‘I did not . . .’

‘I know. Men like that believe they can take whatever they want and get away with it.’ She sighs and reaches her hand out to brush a tear from Elspeth’s cheek.

‘What happened?’

‘My father walked in just in time to see me hit him over the head with my brace.’ She smiles, her eyes blazing, and Elspeth can picture it, Samuel believing her to be helpless without her brace or her chair. Helpless and naïve, like Elspeth had been. She had been a fool, taken in by what she had believed was kindness. Samuel had been playing her all along.

‘You always were the strong one,’ she says quietly.

‘Don’t think like that.’ Selina squeezes her hand. ‘Don’t you dare.’

But she cannot help it. Selina had been right to distrust her cousin, to keep her distance, and Elspeth, naïve, foolish Elspeth, hadn’t listened.

‘He said Dr Reid asked him to come, to become his . . . his heir. He said your father is unwell.’

Selina frowns. ‘Another lie. Like I said, Samuel is in debt, and came of his own accord.’ She rubs her thumb against the back of Elspeth’s hand. ‘He’s gone. He’s gone, Elspeth. You’re safe.’

But his child is not. She must have spoken the words aloud, for Selina’s eyes begin to glisten with tears.

‘Are you sure?’

Elspeth says nothing, for it is too early to be certain, but she knows.

Selina takes a deep breath. ‘I can help. Elspeth, you know I can—’

‘No.’ The word is firm, her voice surprisingly strong. She sees now that they were right, that anyone who is burdened with an unwanted pregnancy might attempt to rid themselves of it, and who could blame them? Certainly not Elspeth, who spent her childhood amongst mothers and fathers who would go hungry to feed their children, whose children still starved anyway. Not the sister of Hazel, dead from too many pregnancies in quick succession, the last child taking her life for its own. She of all people should understand these women, and she does. But it is not the path for her. The women who come to this house late at night come asking for help, and that, she realises, is key. Some are desperate, almost all are resolute, and Elspeth is suddenly filled with a kind of admiration for them. The child growing inside her is not his. She will be a Reid, this daughter of hers – for she knows it is a girl – and she will change everything.

‘I am sorry,’ she whispers, gripping Selina’s fingers. ‘Forgive me for the things I said. I was wrong. Please, forgive me.’

Selina hushes her, bending to kiss her palm. ‘There is nothing to forgive, mo chridhe. I am here, by your side, and here I shall remain.’

*

Time passes. Samuel is gone, but somehow, Dr Reid manages to produce a marriage certificate. If he had thought it a strange request when Selina approached him with this idea, he did not say so, but it means Elspeth can now be a Reid, taking the name and wrapping herself in it like a shroud. She comes out of her room like a creature emerging from hibernation, blinking uncertainly in the light, but Selina is there, and she feels stronger for her presence.

Bess and Berry treat her as if she is made of glass, and she wonders, but cannot ask, whether they know. She wonders too if she deserves their kindness, if they would be so gentle if they discovered the truth, not just about Samuel, but about Selina too. For that night achieved the opposite of Samuel’s wishes. It has lit a fire inside Elspeth, burning away the shame and fear and leaving only a fierce longing to be her true self.

When Berry’s sister dies unexpectedly, she goes back south to look after the children, and Elspeth takes over the running of the house and kitchen, with Bess’s help. The maid is a careless cook, throwing dough into the air, laughing as flour dusts her hair and shoulders, potato peelings littering the floor. Soon, Bess will leave to marry, and then they are alone. Selina’s room becomes theirs, and there is no more slithering out in the middle of the night, though they continue to be discreet. The house becomes a refuge, a safe place for Elspeth to grow her child, her daughter. She allows the walls to close in on her like a cocoon, the world outside turning to dust as she buries herself in Selina.

Twenty

ELSPETH

There is no word from Samuel, no sign of him, and Elspeth does not ask where he might be. His name does not pass her lips, and she can almost pretend he never existed, but for the reminder growing inside her.

When the time comes, she is alone. The hour is late; Selina is with Dr Reid in the surgery, helping another woman in a different, yet similar way. Elspeth cries out in the empty house as the pains grip her, whispering Selina’s name. The air grows hot and fetid, crowding in on her like a hundred men circling her, their breath on her face. She struggles for air; it burns, fire forcing itself inside her mouth and down her throat.

‘Easy,’ a voice says, and then there is a coolness on her brow, the sweet relief of water on her tongue. She drinks greedily, noisily, drops falling to her chest. A small champion in the face of the flames, but still she is grateful for it. ‘Easy, Elspeth, I’m here.’

Selina? She cannot speak, cannot see. The room is dark and thick, as if choked with smoke. She tries to bring up a hand, reaching out into the fog, but she can find nothing, no one.

‘I’m here, Elspeth. Just breathe.’

So she does. Tiny, hesitant breaths like the first steps of a fawn, legs weak beneath her. She drinks in the air, one sip at a time, focusing on the relief as it spreads through her body. Then she is being guided backwards, her back hitting something soft, and then she is lying down, and she can see the moon shining above her, pale light bathing her in coolness.

‘Breathe, Elspeth.’

I am, she thinks but does not, cannot, say. I am breathing. I am here. She opens her mouth to speak, takes in water instead. She coughs, turns her face to the side, droplets forming on the end of her nose. She watches the wetness spread, running along her body like a shadow, staining the sheets beneath her as if to say, Look! I was here! I am here! Can’t you see me? She looks up again and sees the moon has gone, swallowed into the black, leaving her alone.

And then the pain returns, pain unlike anything she has ever experienced. Red-hot, slicing, like a knife through butter. The stench of burning flesh, the metallic tang of blood. Is she dying? Is this what hell looks like? She pictures tiny forks stabbing at her, imagines she can hear the maniacal laughter of mini devils as they dance around her body.

‘I can see it,’ a voice says, and then the devil is inside her, long fingernails tearing at her, cutting his way out.

No. She thrashes, and when hands encircle her wrists like chains she thrashes harder, legs kicking out into the darkness. She can’t see; why can’t she see? All is black, then red, like distant flames on a far-off shore, blackening the flesh of another woman in another time.

‘It’s coming!’

She feels breath on her cheek, cool this time. ‘Elspeth, you have to push. Do you understand?’

Fingers gripping hers, slick with sweat, blood. Salt upon salt.

‘Can you hear me, Elspeth? I need you to push. Are you ready?’

Hot tears spill down her cheeks as the devil tears itself from her, and then all is quiet but for the crackle of the flames which engulf her.

Fire turns to air. She dreams of floating, her body held suspended in the air, clouds drifting past like wisps of smoke. The sky is a purple bruise, the fingernail moon too small and distant to provide any light, but as she drifts, tiny dots of starlight begin to lift out of the black and form a path before her. And then she is falling, softly and silently like snowflakes, into the gaping jaws of the ocean below.

She wakes suddenly, gasping for breath as if she truly has been underwater for too long, her lungs full of salt. Her eyes adjust slowly, taking in the unfamiliar room around her, until all at once recognition dawns.

‘You’re back.’

She turns to find the moon hanging above her, bathing her in cool light. She blinks and the image is gone, replaced by a sweeter one.

‘Selina.’ A whisper, a word slipping up her charred throat as involuntary as breath.

‘Here.’ A glass is pressed to her lips, the cool liquid a relief. ‘Slowly.’

She drinks until the glass is empty, longs for more. Fingers find hers and grip them, soft and smooth and familiar as her own.

‘What happened?’ she manages after a while, eyes closed. A pause, the slow consideration of words being moved around in a mouth. ‘The truth,’ she adds. ‘Please.’

‘You almost died. We – I had to . . .’ An exhalation, heavy and wet. ‘I had to cut you, Elspeth. I had no choice. The baby—’

‘Baby?’ She opens her eyes, tries to sit. Pain flares through her stomach, between her legs. ‘What baby?’

‘Your baby,’ Selina says gently, her eyes glistening as she squeezes Elspeth’s hand. ‘Don’t you remember?’

Elspeth shakes her head, regretting it when nausea rises. She feels as if she’s been at sea, drifting across the ocean for months on end, salt spray on her lips. She has returned just days after she left, but to a place no longer familiar to her. She grips Selina’s fingers, tethering herself to this woman who is her rock, the iron ring which holds her, unbreakable, despite the waves which smash against it.

‘It’s all right, shh, you’re all right,’ Selina whispers, and Elspeth allows herself to be lowered back down to the bed, falling out of the blue and into the black.

When she wakes again, she is alone. The curtains are ajar, a shaft of sunlight shining through the gap, cutting her legs in two. She sits up, slowly this time, until her back is resting against the headboard and she can survey the room around her. She is in Selina’s room, the large bed at once familiar and strange to her. Her room, now. Theirs. Memories come back to her, piece by piece. Muffled laughter beneath the covers, breath hot against skin. Hair and fingertips trailing, soft as whispers. She leans into these memories, seeking the comfort they promise, but they slip through her fingers like thread as newer, sharper memories cut through. She gasps, hands flying to her face as she tries to breathe through the pain.

‘Elspeth?’ The door opens and Selina rushes in, gently pulling Elspeth’s hands away and encasing them in hers. ‘Shh, you’re all right. I’m here.’

‘What . . . happened?’ Elspeth manages, tears cracking her voice like glass. But she knows. She remembers it all, now. The night that changed everything. The child she grew inside her, released now into the world. ‘Where is . . . Where is the baby?’

Selina’s face softens then. ‘Should I bring her to you?’

Her. A girl, another Reid daughter. Elspeth nods, fear knotting up inside her, but there is something in the way Selina looks at the bundle as she lifts it from the low cot that makes it easier, somehow, to open her own arms and cradle the girl against her. Couldn’t this be their child? A miracle baby born of two women, Mary and Josephine. It makes her want to laugh and cry at the same time.

‘What will you call her?’ Selina asks, reaching out to cup the baby’s head with a hand.

‘Cordelia,’ Elspeth says after a moment. ‘It means daughter of the sea.’

‘Cordelia,’ Selina breathes, and thus she is christened, Cordelia Hazel Reid.

Twenty-One

AILSA

Now

I wander down to the beach, the wintry air cold against my skin. I look out across the Firth of Forth, the sea wild and choppy, and remember all the days I spent here with Gran, collecting sea glass and shells, building sandcastles with Pop, and, once, burying Doug up to his chin. Was there ever a time when all five of us were together? I can’t remember many occasions when both Doug and Rowan were present. Until now.

I expect to feel the usual irritation when I think of Rowan, but there is something else there now, almost a kind of peace. I understand her now, as a person, the woman she is, the girl she was. She did come back a few times throughout my life, though her visits were always fleeting, short and sharp, like a finger testing a bruise. I wonder, as I often have, if she ever regretted leaving me, but suddenly it no longer seems to matter. She did what she thought was right at the time, and I don’t want her to regret it, because I don’t regret it. She gave me her parents as my own, and I’m lucky to have them.

Doug meets me at the front door, keys in hand. He’s carrying a plastic bag and a bottle of wine, which I take from him as he unlocks the door.

‘I got us a fish supper,’ he says, opening a cupboard to look for plates and frowning. ‘I swear they used to be here.’

‘The cupboard below. Gran couldn’t reach any more, and she’d taken to standing on a bloody stepladder.’

Doug laughs. ‘Sounds like Mum. Stubborn as a mule.’

‘You’d get a clip round the ear for that.’

He gives me a wide grin. ‘Not me. I was the favourite.’

I think about mothers and daughters, and the smile falls from my face, but Doug is too busy unwrapping steaming parcels of fish and chips to notice.

‘Hope you like vinegar, there’s half a bottle on there,’ he says as he puts a plate in front of me.

‘Only half?’ I smile, reaching up to grab two glasses from another cupboard. There’s something about fish and chips that always reminds me of home. Fish and chips in London is nothing like the fish and chips in Scotland. ‘How did you get on? Has anyone seen her?’ I ask as I fill my glass with water from the tap before pouring Doug a large glass of wine.

‘Not a soul,’ Doug says as he spears a chip with the little wooden fork. ‘It’s as if she disappeared into thin air.’

The fish melts in my mouth like butter, then turns to ashes as I remember why we’re both sitting here. I swallow, the food sticking in my throat. I just can’t make sense of it. Gran had to have left suddenly, as she didn’t take anything with her, but where could she have gone? It’s already freezing outside, could she really last another night out there?

‘Can you take me to the hospital again later?’ I ask, pushing the food away.

‘What’s wrong with your car?’ Rowan has come in behind us on silent feet, cat-like, ears pricked.

I feel a slice of panic and force my features to stay still. ‘There’s a storm coming. I’m not too confident driving in bad weather.’

Rowan narrows her eyes but says nothing.

‘Of course, I was going there anyway,’ Doug says, looking between us as if we have been speaking a different language, and he can catch only a fraction of what we’re saying. Perhaps we are. He checks his watch. ‘Shall we go now? I can’t remember when visiting time ends. There’s a plate in the oven for you, Rowan. Unless you wanted to come?’

But she is gone again.

‘I’ll just get Pop’s book, I forgot it last time.’ I get up from the table and go upstairs. I stand before the wardrobe in my grandparents’ bedroom, wondering if I’ve forgotten anything else. I should have asked Pop what he needed, but maybe he won’t need anything else. He could come home with us today, patched up and sore but home, safe. Is it safe here?

‘Ailsa.’

I turn to find Rowan in the doorway. ‘Why do you always do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘Sneak up on people.’

The corner of her mouth lifts. ‘I don’t. You’re just jumpy.’

‘Am I?’ I turn away, blowing out a breath as I pretend to survey the wardrobe again.

‘That’s what happens,’ Rowan says, her voice sounding closer, as if she has come up right behind me, ‘when you have secrets.’

I turn back to find she has disappeared. Maybe she was never there at all.

*

The doorbell rings, and I open the front door to find PC Harmon standing there, his fist raised as if to knock. My mouth falls open in surprise, my brain whirring too fast to keep up.

He lifts an eyebrow. ‘Ms Reid. Can I come in?’

I step aside, dropping Pop’s book on the bottom stair and following the police officer into the kitchen, where Doug and Rowan are waiting. For a second, I can almost see them as they were years before, the little sister looking up to her big brother, the big brother trying to ignore his annoying little sister. Is that how it had been? With so many years between them, had they been like strangers, ships passing in the night, rather than siblings? I have never wished for a sibling, but suddenly I am seized by a strange concoction of emotions; terror at where Gran could be, fear for Pop, and an immense gratitude that Doug and, yes, even Rowan, are here. That I am not completely alone.

‘How can we help you?’ Doug says, indicating that the officer should sit down. He does, stretching his legs out underneath the table, and I see that Rowan has noticed it too. Manspreading, police officer edition.

‘I’m here to speak to Rowan, actually,’ he says. ‘I wondered if you’d come down to the station to answer some questions?’

‘Am I under arrest?’

I’m surprised by the sharpness of her words, but PC Harmon only smiles.

‘No, you’re not under arrest.’

‘Then you can ask your questions here. I’ve nothing to hide.’ She lights a cigarette, blowing the smoke towards him, and leans back against the counter. I almost smile. I have learned more about the woman who gave birth to me in the past two days than I have in the thirty years I’ve been alive. She is abrasive, yes, secretive. Incredibly frustrating. But she is strong, and I try to draw some of her strength into myself as the police officer speaks again.

‘Who was the father of the child you gave birth to?’ he says, as if that very child isn’t standing in the same room. I see Doug’s eyes widen, but Rowan only lifts an eyebrow, her features half-obscured by smoke.

‘No comment.’

PC Harmon gives a huff of laughter. ‘You’re not under arrest, remember?’

‘No comment.’

I watch her, trying to read her expression, but she is giving nothing away.

The officer sighs. ‘All right. Why did you abandon your child all those years ago?’

Rowan looks at me then, almost involuntarily, and there is a flicker of something behind her eyes. I feel as if something is building inside me, like the pressure before a storm.

‘No comment.’

‘What has this got to do with Gran?’ The words explode from me, and PC Harmon turns to rake his eyes over me.

‘Your gran took you in when you were a wee bairn, right? I wonder why she did that.’

Doug is frowning, his fists clenched by his sides. ‘Because she’s a nice person.’

‘Nice? I think you’d have to be a bit more than nice to take in someone else’s child.’

‘Her grandchild,’ Doug says through gritted teeth. ‘It wasn’t as if she was a stranger.’

‘And did she know you were pregnant, Rowan?’ PC Harmon turns his attention back to her. ‘When you were fifteen, aye?’

Rowan stares at him for a moment before replying. ‘She knew.’

‘Did you not try to get rid of it?’

It is those words that change everything. I feel them wash over me, freezing my skin like winter sea spray, but they turn to flame when they reach Rowan.

‘It? Do you mean the young woman standing just there?’ She points at me, but I am still frozen, made of ice and salt. ‘You want to know why I left her? Men like you. Men like you who are in positions of power – police officers, teachers.’

I flinch at the word, at the venom in her voice.

I see it then, as if I had been present all along and had forgotten. They say our eggs are fully formed in the uterus of our grandmother, and so maybe I was there, watching, bearing witness. It happens slowly, like a dripping tap filling up a bath, until in the end it begins to overflow and the ceiling caves in.

Suddenly I am there with her. It starts with the men on the building site across the road from school, the whistles carrying on the wind as she tries to flatten her skirt against her legs. The tsk-tsk as she walks past the teacher at the gates, the contempt in her eyes which Rowan tries to believe isn’t aimed at her. From there to the café after school, a large hand on the small of her back as she queues for hot chocolates. A wink when she turns back to see a stranger’s eyes roaming her body. Then to the beach, where the other girls laugh at her hairy legs and the tufts beneath her armpits. The razor which appears in her bedroom as if by magic the next day, the same one her mother uses. The worry on her father’s face when he sees her outfit and suggests she get changed in his soft voice.

She is made from the gaze of others, built by the images in their minds and formed like clay, moulded by their hands and winks and tuts. All these tiny pieces, slotting together to make a girl. She wraps herself up in her secrets, as if they will hold her together. As if they will protect her.

Twenty-Two

ELSPETH

Elspeth recovers in time with the seasons, emerging as winter slowly loses its grip on the world, the sun rising earlier and setting later each day. By the time the first daffodils poke their heads out above ground, Elspeth is walking in the garden, Cordelia on her hip, Selina by her side. The sun is weak but warm, a welcome relief after the long winter. Selina is chattering to Cordelia about the herbs growing in the soil, the trees which will soon flower and bear them fruit. The baby’s piercing blue eyes seem to take everything in, absorbing the world like the ocean absorbs light.

Elspeth has not taken to motherhood quite as easily as Selina. She is often tired, her body aching as if she has walked a hundred miles each day. Although she is enjoying the sunlight on her face, she also longs for the darkness of her bedroom, the comfort of the cave she has made for herself. She sees the similarities, of course. How could she not? She recalls how she first met Selina, buried beneath blankets and the weight of pain. And so she knows that Selina will not let her fall too far and will be there to catch her if she does.

One morning, she leaves Selina and Cordelia in the garden, retiring to the kitchen to make a start on lunch. She watches them from the window, and the future begins to unfurl before her. Summer, the scent of fresh fruit and a dab of ice cream on Selina’s nose. Autumn, leaves the colour of fire drifting to the ground. Winter, a snowman with a carrot for a nose looking out to sea like a fisherman’s wife. Then it is spring again, and so it cycles through, until suddenly another year has passed and everything is different. The world is at war, and Dr Reid has gone to the front line in France, leaving his house of women, to tend to the dying and the dead. Bess’s husband is missing, presumed dead. When the telegram comes, she seeks comfort with her mother to await the fate of their other men, their brothers and cousins and friends, and Selina is working at the hospital in Kirkcaldy, assisting with the new midwifery training, so Elspeth and Cordelia must learn how to live together, alone. Months pass in a blur, the time marked only by the growth of her daughter. Elspeth begins to teach her how to read, printing words on pieces of paper which she sticks up around the house with tape. DOOR. WINDOW. STAIRS. CUPBOARD.

‘Cup board,’ Cordelia says, pointing, turning the word into two, and Elspeth smiles.

‘It’s where we board the cups,’ she says, lifting the girl and opening the door to show the teacups stacked neatly inside. ‘This is where they sleep.’

‘Shh,’ Cordelia whispers, ‘we have to be quiet then.’

‘Yes, we should.’ Elspeth glances at the clock. Selina will be finishing her shift soon. ‘Why don’t we go out and meet Auntie Lina? We can go to the beach.’

‘Yay, beach!’ Cordelia exclaims, forgetting her decree for quietness. ‘Shells!’

Elspeth laughs. ‘Yes, shells. Run and get your shoes then. We don’t want to be late.’

They leave the house together, hand in hand, the little girl’s curls bouncing as she half-dances down the street. Elspeth suddenly remembers the first time she came here to meet her new charge, expecting a little girl with smart black shoes and curly hair.

And now here she is, she thinks as the breeze picks up. Cordelia reminds her of Selina more every day. She is stubborn, inquisitive, and surprisingly sensitive. She has Elspeth’s red hair, the blue-grey Reid eyes, and Selina’s temper. She truly is their child, and Elspeth feels her heart swell with love as they walk together, Cordelia already steady and confident on her feet. They pass the bakery and the grocer’s, nodding to the women and children queueing outside both. Food has become difficult to come by of late, with more and more being sent to the front line, so Elspeth has been tending the kitchen garden more carefully, grateful for the chickens Bess had acquired before leaving to marry. Though they say it will end soon, it feels as if the war is forever creeping closer.

Cordelia tugs on her hand. ‘Auntie Lina!’ she cries, pulling free from Elspeth’s grasp and running down the street.

‘Cordelia!’ Heads turn towards her as she shouts her daughter’s name, then picks up her skirts and begins to run after her. She has no time to consider what they think of her, of their strange family arrangements. Though it is no longer so strange, women and children living together without men. The irony of the freedom this war has given them is not lost on Elspeth. She catches up with her daughter and is opening her mouth to reprimand her when she sees Selina, and exhales.

Selina is limping slightly, a sign she has been on her feet for too long, and she is frowning as she walks, until she looks up and sees Cordelia running towards her. A smile breaks out over her face, and Elspeth is reminded of those early days, when she would bathe in the warmth of Selina’s smile, as infrequent as it was. She bends to hug the little girl before taking her hand, and they walk back towards the beach, the little girl chattering between them.

While Cordelia combs the beach for shells, Elspeth reaches out to brush a strand of hair away from Selina’s face. She looks tired, her eyes puffy and ringed in purple, but still she smiles, taking Elspeth’s hand as they follow their daughter across the sand.

This is their ritual, their way of staying connected when the world around them feels as if it is crumbling. The two women slip off their shoes and stockings, Elspeth lifting Cordelia to sit on her shoulders as they walk into the waves, salt spray sharp against their skin. She knows Selina whispers a message to her father, and, as if understanding, Cordelia drops a shell into the water, like an offering. They stand in the shallows until their toes are numb, and Selina’s eyes sparkle once again.

*

That night, while Cordelia sleeps in what used to be Elspeth’s room, the two women sit at the kitchen table, sipping from cups of weak tea. A candle flickers on the table between them, sending shadows across the room, as Elspeth sews up a tear in Selina’s uniform and Selina reads the paper. She is looking for his name, either of the Reid men, one dreaded, one longed for. After a while, she puts the paper down and stretches, fingers kneading at her hip joint. Elspeth pauses, needle halfway through the material.

‘Are you in pain?’ she asks.

‘No more than usual.’

‘When did pain become usual?’

Selina smiles. ‘You know what I mean.’

Elspeth puts down her sewing. ‘You aren’t made of iron, Selina. You must be gentle with yourself.’

‘War is gentle on no one.’ Selina gives a puff of laughter. ‘I’m fine, Elspeth. You worry too much. They say it will end soon, anyway.’

‘They’ve been saying that for years.’

Selina reaches up to pull the pins from her hair, sighing as it falls down her back. ‘That’s better. Though I’ve considered cutting it all off. Don’t you think it would suit me? Or how about this?’ She pulls a strand of hair across her top lip like a moustache.

Elspeth can’t help but laugh. ‘You are so silly.’

‘And that’s why you love me.’ Selina stands, holding out a hand. ‘May I have this dance?’

‘You need to be resting,’ Elspeth scolds, but she places her hand in Selina’s, rising and pushing her chair under the table to give them more room.

‘This is resting.’ Selina puts her head on Elspeth’s shoulder, and they sway to a silent melody, the moon their only witness. Their love has been a gentle one, soothing like water held to parched lips, and sometimes Elspeth has to remind herself that she isn’t dreaming. That despite the violence of Cordelia’s conception, their family is everything she could have ever wanted from life. More, in fact.

She inhales Selina’s scent, salt mixed with soap and antiseptic, and closes her eyes.

Twenty-Three

ELSPETH

Dr Reid is dead.

Selina folds in on herself as she reads the telegram, her upper body collapsing until her head almost touches her thighs. Elspeth crouches down beside her, feeling the cool metal of the chair press against her side as she holds her.

‘My love,’ she whispers, her voice cracking with grief, her eyes burning with unshed tears as her sleeve is soaked in Selina’s, her sobs making them both vibrate with sorrow.

There is no body to ship home, but still there is a funeral to arrange, an obituary to write. Selina does what she does best and buries herself in work to avoid her pain. She still sees female patients in the garden surgery, staying later and later each night, until Elspeth wonders if she sleeps at all. But she says nothing. She leaves Selina to her grief, for she knows the pain of losing a beloved father, and how differently it can affect each person. When she feels Selina slipping into bed beside her, she reaches out and wraps her arms around her, kissing away her tears, salt upon her lips. When Cordelia cries in the night, she brings the child into their bed, their daughter lying between them like an anchor, a rock to which they are both tethered.

It is Selina who first brings up Samuel. Elspeth is finishing Dr Reid’s obituary, sitting in his office like a cuckoo in a nest, but it brings her comfort. She is glad the room is now empty of those strange jars, the collection now residing in the surgery, though she understands now the importance of Dr Reid’s research. She likes to run her eyes across his bookshelves, remembering their short yet encouraging discussions about Selina. It feels like a lifetime ago since she arrived from Edinburgh. She had slotted in quickly, she thinks now, laying down her pen and looking out through the glass doors into the garden. She had swiftly become used to the rhythms of the Reid house, and Dr Reid had trusted her judgement almost immediately, encouraging her to find the right way to coax Selina from her bed.

She wonders now if it would have been harder, had Selina been the younger version Elspeth had expected. After all, Selina had chosen to try the exercises, to get back into the chair. Elspeth had done little but be with her as she did so, to turn a disappointment into something to laugh about. She knows she wouldn’t have had it any other way.

She looks up to find Selina in the doorway, watching her. ‘Is it time for lunch?’ she asks, glancing at the clock. ‘I’m almost finished.’

Selina moves into the room, rolling up to the desk and resting her elbows on top of it, her chin cupped in her hands. ‘Is it such a good idea?’ she says. ‘To put a notice in the paper.’

Elspeth frowns. ‘But we must. How else will people know?’

‘There is someone we perhaps do not want to know.’ Selina’s voice is light, as if she is trying to distance herself from the words. ‘Someone we perhaps do not want turning up on our doorstep.’

Understanding floods through Elspeth, turning her skin to ice. ‘Samuel.’ The word is like a knife, a blade sticking out of the wood between them, handle quivering.

Selina nods. ‘I expect he would not dare turn up to the funeral, but he may come here once he discovers Papa’s death. He may come to claim what he believes is his.’

‘Nothing here is his,’ Elspeth hisses, and Selina reaches out to take her hand.

‘Nothing here is his,’ she repeats, bringing Elspeth’s hand to her lips and kissing it gently. ‘But he may come to claim it anyway.’

Elspeth feels the ice melting, droplets forming on her skin and then evaporating. A fire has been lit within her, burning bright enough to blind. She knows that this is not the end of the story, that someday he will return. She feels it like a premonition, a deep knowledge in her gut that she will have to face him once more.

‘Then let him come,’ she says, and Selina squeezes her fingers.

*

Selina, as always, turns out to be right. Samuel does not make an appearance at the funeral nor at the wake, both of which are small and quiet. The women come later, leaving flowers at the back gate as if they have rehearsed it, a silent agreement amongst the patients who are used to coming after dark. Elspeth feels a flush of shame as she remembers how she reacted when she found out the truth. She had shown her naivety that night, her narrow world view rendering her vulnerable against Samuel. He had wanted her to feel alone, detached from Selina. He had seen their relationship as a sin, against God, and sought to break them both. She had not truly believed in evil until that night, when he took advantage of her vulnerable state. Until she had finally seen what was there all along.

She shivers, wondering what might have happened if Selina had not done as she did, if he had remained in the Reid house as her belly and her shame grew. Would she have been put out on the street? She does not believe Dr Reid or Selina capable of it. Would she have left herself then, placing herself at the mercy of her sister’s husband? No, perhaps she would have been forced to marry Samuel, cementing the viper firmly in the nest. Perhaps that had been his plan all along, for he knew Elspeth could not bear to be apart from Selina. One way or another, he believed he would win. But he had not planned for Selina. He had not planned for her love, her unwavering trust and devotion, which Elspeth tries to believe she is worthy of.

As she watches Selina pull Cordelia onto her lap and roll them around the garden, she feels a pang at the memory of Dr Reid holding Cordelia for the first time. After the birth, he had checked Elspeth over carefully, complimenting Selina’s stitching. It had felt so clinical, and anxiety suddenly gnawed at her, the fear that she would be turned out of this house rising up again. Dr Reid washed his hands at the sink before turning back to her, and she saw then that his eyes glistened with tears.

‘I know it is . . . unusual,’ he said, moving to perch on the end of the bed, ‘our arrangement here. Many would not understand. But you cannot know how proud I am of you, Elspeth, and how very glad I am that you joined our family.’

Cordelia had begun to cry then. Elspeth’s head jerked towards her as if on a string, but Dr Reid was already leaning over the cot.

‘May I?’ he asked, and she had nodded, watching with tears in her own eyes as he picked up his granddaughter and held her against his chest. ‘She has Selina’s eyes,’ he whispered, gazing into them, and Elspeth laughed, at the impossibility and perfection of it all.

She thinks now about how Samuel had seen them as against God. She does not know any other women who are like them, but they must exist, for nothing about this feels wrong. Nothing about her love for Selina feels like a sin, and so she absolves herself, there and then, as she watches her love talk to their daughter, collecting the flowers left by the women she and her father helped.

Selina looks up then, as if feeling Elspeth’s gaze on her, and smiles. It is a complicated smile, tinged with sadness, and yet there is hope there too. Dr Reid is gone, but his daughter will continue his legacy, and his granddaughter will know a life without the fear of men.

Twenty-Four

ELSPETH

The glass cracks with the first blow, the rock bouncing back to land in the long grass beneath the window. It is this that gives Elspeth the time to grab Cordelia, diving across the room and scooping her up before the second rock shatters the glass, shards raining down on the now-empty bed. Elspeth holds her daughter against her body, barely daring to breathe in the darkness. Selina is still in the surgery, seeing the last of the patients. She is alone in the house, and someone wants to get in.

A shadow moves towards the window, a gloved fist reaching in to knock away the rest of the glass. Elspeth glides backwards like a ghost, fading into the shadows, but it won’t save her this time. Cordelia lets out a cry and the silhouette becomes a figure, a figure with a face, one Elspeth had hoped she would never have to see again, though she knew he would return someday.

Twisting, she pulls open the bedroom door and runs, her stockinged feet slippery on the floorboards as she moves without thinking. The smashed window is at the side of the house and Selina is at the back, and this is where Elspeth runs to, towards the surgery and the woman she loves, the woman who will protect them with her life.

The path is wet beneath her feet, the remnants of an autumn storm soaking through her stockings as she runs. She can see the surgery, the lit windows a lighthouse in the middle of the ocean, and she feels the cool slippery doorknob beneath her fingers before she is yanked back, a scream catching in her throat. She holds Cordelia tight against her as she falls to the ground, her own head smacking against the concrete slabs of the path, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. Samuel stands over her, his features half-hidden in the moonlight.

‘Hello, wife,’ he says, and Elspeth screams. He grabs her by the throat, cutting off her air, and she flails, kicking out at him. He hits her once, twice, her head smashing into the concrete until her vision blurs. ‘I hear I have a daughter,’ he hisses, turning his attention to Cordelia. Elspeth tries to fight him, but all the strength has left her body. Cordelia is frozen in fear as he reaches for her, her eyes wide and shining.

‘Move away.’ Selina’s voice is like the crack of a gun, a warning shot. She is framed in the doorway of the surgery, the light blazing behind her and the full moon reflected in her furious eyes.

‘Cousin!’ Samuel exclaims, straightening and taking a step away from Elspeth, who rolls over, tucking Cordelia against her body as if she were still in the womb. He opens his arms as if expecting an embrace. ‘What kind of welcome is this?’

‘An appropriate one, for someone who is not welcome. What are you doing here? My father—’

‘Is dead. Or so I hear. My condolences.’ Samuel licks his lips, eyes darting between the two women. ‘I am here to claim my inheritance.’

Selina scoffs with false bravado. ‘You have none, so leave.’

‘Oh, but I do. I am Alastair Reid’s male heir. You must remember, dear cousin? He signed everything over to me upon my marriage to Miss Edwards here. You know, the marriage he arranged without my being present.’

Elspeth’s head is spinning, but she gets to her knees, shuffling painfully away from Samuel. She does not know if his words are true, but she knows Selina has no intention of giving anything up to this man. And neither does she.

‘You’re lying,’ Selina says, watching Elspeth’s slow progress across the ground. She takes a step forward and Samuel mirrors her. He would reach Elspeth first; she sees the knowledge flash across Selina’s face, and so she stops, her body twitching with inaction. She will tease her about this, later, when it is not so painful, Elspeth thinks. About how she cannot bear to stay still. They will laugh about this later, when Samuel is gone and they are safe.

‘Thankfully, I have a copy of the documents,’ Samuel says. Elspeth turns to see him pulling a sheaf of paper from his pocket. ‘Surely you did not expect me to leave the only copy here, in your hands?’ He chuckles.

‘My father detested you for what you did,’ Selina spits. ‘There is no way he would have signed anything over to you. Either you are lying, or you had him at knifepoint.’

‘As I have you, now. Curious how things work out, isn’t it? Poetic, I’d say.’ Samuel smiles widely, holding the papers aloft. ‘Now, I’ll be needing you to leave. Tonight. Both of you.’ He looks at Elspeth. ‘You can leave the child here.’

‘Never,’ she hisses, painfully getting to her feet. She stands between the two cousins, Cordelia held against her, and spits on the ground before Samuel. ‘You will have her, and this place, over my dead body.’

Samuel’s smile widens, his eyes glittering. ‘As you wish, my dear.’

He springs at her like a cat, his feet barely making a sound as he lands a few feet away, fingers reaching out for her. Selina knocks into Elspeth, something glinting silver in the moonlight before it slams into Samuel’s neck. Elspeth hears it slide from his flesh as he falls to the ground, blood spurting from the wound, running down Selina’s arm as she stands over him, breathing hard.

‘I should have killed you when I had the chance,’ he wheezes, hands clasped over the wound as he tries to shift away from her.

‘Yes, you should have,’ Selina says, her smile as hard and metallic as the scalpel in her hand. She lashes out again, slicing expertly into his flesh. Elspeth turns away, jiggling Cordelia who is now shrieking. She shushes her, placing a pinkie finger into her mouth to quiet her like she did when she was a baby, and when she turns back, she knows that Samuel is dead.

‘Are you all right?’ Selina asks, dropping the scalpel and holding out a hand towards Elspeth. Her fingers are coated in blood, and Elspeth feels her stomach heave.

‘What are we going to do?’ she cries, staring down at the body between them.

She pictures uniformed men and iron shackles and metal bars, the cold roughness of a concrete bed, hair unwashed and matted. She would go, she decides in that instant. She would be the one to rot away in a cell or be hanged by the neck, not Selina. Cordelia needs her mother. Elspeth cries quietly into her daughter’s neck, closing her eyes.

‘What are we going to do?’ she murmurs again, as much to herself as Selina.

Selina looks at her until Elspeth meets her gaze, inhaling deeply before speaking. ‘The only thing we can do. We need to get rid of the body.’

The ground is soft beside the surgery, almost ready for planting the new medicinal herbs Selina has been gathering. She holds a sleeping Cordelia as Elspeth digs, wordlessly swapping baby for shovel when Elspeth tires and climbs out of the hole. Selina is trembling by the time she clambers out of the earth, her face pinched with pain.

Laying Cordelia gently on the grass, Elspeth moves towards the body of Samuel Reid, her own body trembling as she looks him in the face. His eyes are closed, his lips slightly parted, and she feels a wave of emotion engulf her, as powerful as the tide. She grabs him beneath the armpits and begins to drag, her lower back screaming as he moves inch by inch across the ground. Selina meets her halfway, taking one arm and half of his weight, and together they pull him towards the hole that will forever be his resting place. As he tumbles into the darkness, Elspeth reaches out and takes Selina’s hand, sweat mixing with blood, salt upon salt.

Part Two

Twenty-Five

AILSA

Now

Rowan doesn’t join us this time. The sky is heavy and full of foreboding. I can feel the storm in the air as Doug drives down the dark road. I can feel her gathering her strength like a commander gathering warriors.

‘Are you okay?’ Doug asks, and I nod, but I’m not. My mind is full of that email, of Andy Wright. Of who he was to me, and who I was when I was with him. Who I was before I knew the truth.

At first, I was naïve. I hate that word. Is it ever used when talking about men? But in this case, it is accurate. My lack of experience meant I walked into it without knowing what to expect, believing only what I wanted to believe, what I had been taught. Picture this: a bright-eyed, newly qualified teacher lands a new job in a renowned private school. She is in her mid-twenties, and has, despite the usual university experience, never had a proper boyfriend before. She believes in romance, in true love, thanks to her role models. Her grandparents are the very definition of soulmates, and the same, she believes, is out there for everyone. She will find her Mr Right, or in this case, Mr Wright.

He is a few years older than her, dark hair peppered with grey, giving him a silver fox vibe. He has grey eyes too, the same colour as sea foam on a winter’s day. He has never lived by the sea, he says, and he prefers the Mediterranean to the cold North Sea, but he likes her accent and enjoys listening to her talk. She says little, at first. She is nervous, unsure of herself, but he makes it clear that she is firmly beneath his wing, that she can trust him, and so she opens up, blossoming under his gaze like a flower. At first, their conversations are restricted to the staffroom, then snippets when they are on lunch duty together, or when he catches her walking out of the gates. He pops up more often, and soon she finds herself looking for him and missing his presence when he is not there.

It is she who suggests they meet up outside of school. It occurs to her only afterwards that there might be some kind of rule against teachers dating. But this isn’t a date, she tells herself. Surely there’s no rule against teachers being friends? They meet at a pub nearby, though not so close to the school that they might encounter a Year 11 or sixth former working their Saturday job. Gossip, she learns, is something he is very concerned about. Mud sticks, he says with that twinkle in his eyes that both confuses and excites her. She drinks Diet Coke and orders a salad, because that is what she is supposed to do, isn’t it? Men do not like women who eat like they do, with their humungous burgers or oozing steaks. Men do not like drunk or bawdy women.

They talk of everything and nothing, trying to describe themselves while leaving the important bits out. She says nothing about Rowan, nor of the father she has never known, and he does not ask. It only occurs to her later that this is strange. Now, in this pub where they are surrounded by couples and friends eating and drinking and chatting, he begins to talk. He is the second son of an investment banker, went to Oxford University, and gets along well with his family, though they see little of one another these days. His parents retired to Spain some years before, his older brother lives in Australia and does something in tech which is, apparently, incomprehensible but makes him a lot of money. His younger sister – the rebel, he calls her, with a wry grin – runs her own coffee shop in Soho which also doubles up as a bookshop and has a tattoo and piercing studio on the second floor. He became a teacher because his mother was a professor, and he felt inclined to follow in her footsteps instead of his father’s.

‘I tried higher education for a time, but by that point, you’re already an adult, right? You’ve got to get them while they’re young. That’s when you can make a real difference.’

She laughs, because that is what she is supposed to do, and ignores the tiny niggle at the back of her brain at his wording. He teaches science, she reasons, not English. He may not be word-perfect, but his intentions are good. And yet—

‘We’re here.’

I look up to see that the car has stopped moving. The engine is off and the internal light has flicked on, and Doug is watching me with a strange expression on his face.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks again, and I nod, again.

‘Fine. Just tired.’

Tired. Exhausted. Worn out. Burned out. Burned. The words buzz around my skull like flies around a corpse. The image almost makes me gag. Doug glances at me as we walk into the hospital, but I ignore his eyes on me and hit the button for the lift.

Pop is sitting up when we arrive, an empty plastic pot on the table before him, the tiny spoon laid neatly on top of a napkin. He is reading a magazine, his glasses perched on the end of his nose, which he takes off as he sees us, his mouth stretching into a smile.

‘You’ve not forgotten about me then,’ he says. His tone is light, but his eyes are bloodshot, heavy with fatigue or pain or emotion, or all three.

‘Sorry, we’re here to see someone else,’ Doug says, pretending to walk past the bed before taking the seat on Pop’s left. I sit on the opposite side as Pop swats Doug’s arm with his magazine.

He turns to me, grinning, his eyes landing on my bag. ‘Ah! You brought my book. Thank God, I’ve read this blasted thing three times. I even considered doing the crossword again, but I’d done it in pen.’ He puts the magazine down and I hand him his book, but instead of taking it, his fingers gently snake around my wrist. ‘Ailsa. I won’t ask what’s wrong, because I suspect it’s obvious, but are you all right, little grub?’

To my surprise, hot tears spring to my eyes. They burn as I shake my head, my mouth suddenly too dry to speak.

‘Have you found her?’ he asks, his voice gravelly.

‘Not yet,’ Doug says. ‘But they will.’

I suddenly feel like I’m drowning, water burning my lungs. I try to take a deep breath and choke, a pressure in my ears, building and building until I’m afraid I’m going to burst.

‘I’ll tell you a story,’ Pop says, rubbing the back of my hand. I try to focus on his fingers, the fine hairs on his knuckles, the neat nails, the smoothness of his palm against mine as I hold onto him like a lifeline, a rock in the middle of the ocean. ‘It’ll help you understand,’ he says, ‘about your gran.’

‘Understand what?’ Doug asks. He is leaning forward, hands clasped between his knees as if he needs to stop himself from reaching over. Noticing, Pop takes his son’s hand too, creating a daisy chain between us.

‘Why she did what she did.’

‘What she did? Dad, are you saying—?’

Pop is shaking his head. ‘Let’s not jump too far ahead. This is her story to tell, not mine. But I’m sure she won’t mind me sharing this part. You might remember, Doug, though you were still small.’

‘Remember what?’

‘When you were young, about three or so years old, your mother went to university. Do you remember?’ Doug shakes his head. ‘I should say, she went back to university. She started, when she was younger, but she never got to finish.’

‘What did she study?’

Doug almost glares at me, as if I am not asking the right questions, but I know the drill. Pop has a particular way of telling a story, and I can tell that this one will be no exception.

‘English Literature. Oh, she loved it, and she was good at it. It’s about more than just reading, isn’t it?’ I nod, though I know he isn’t really asking me. His eyes have that faraway look he gets when he is lost in the past. ‘She could dismantle a book like I could dismantle a bike. She’d take it apart, look at it from all different angles, turn it this way and that, watch it catch the light. She wrote, too, short stories. They remain my favourite stories to this day.’

‘I found them,’ I whisper, and Pop turns to me. ‘A book fell out of the Reid family history. It . . . I didn’t understand it at first, why she had written those stories. It was to make sense of the past, wasn’t it? Her parents dying, her relationship with her mother.’

‘Mother is the key word,’ Pop says, patting my hand. ‘The curse; your gran always said she didn’t believe in it, but deep down, I think she does, especially after what happened with Rowan.’

It’s easier to blame other women, I’d said to Rowan. But it’s even easier to blame a curse.

‘Why did she go?’ Doug interjects. ‘To university. Why did she go?’

Pop looks at him as if he doesn’t understand the question. ‘Because she wanted to.’

‘But she didn’t . . .’ Doug blows out a breath through his nostrils. ‘What’s the point of this story?’

Now I glare at him. ‘Maybe if you shut up, you’ll find out.’

‘I’m more concerned about how you are,’ Doug says to his father, ignoring me. ‘What are the doctors saying?’

‘Ah, I’m fine. No brain damage, a slight concussion. Nothing to worry about.’

‘When can you come home?’

‘Tomorrow, they said. They just want to make sure I’m not going to keel over.’ Pop sighs. ‘You can’t know how much I’ve hated lying in this bed while your mother, your gran, is out there somewhere. Are you looking for her?’

‘We are,’ I tell him, squeezing his hand.

‘And the police,’ Doug adds.

‘She hasn’t . . .’ I almost don’t finish the sentence, but Pop looks at me expectantly, so I continue. ‘She hasn’t been here, has she?’

‘What?’ Doug says, one eyebrow raised, and I suddenly see the annoying brother Rowan had to put up with.

‘It’s just something Rowan said. Forget it.’

‘You know,’ Pop says, eyes drifting towards the ceiling. ‘I did smell her perfume earlier today.’

I look sharply at him, ignoring Doug’s sigh. ‘You did?’

‘A lot of people will pass through here,’ Doug says. ‘It was probably one of them.’

‘Probably,’ Pop says, but he doesn’t sound convinced. ‘Or I was dreaming.’

‘Why did you want to tell us about Gran going to university?’ I prod. It seems important, this nugget of information I either never knew or had forgotten.

‘Back to university,’ Pop corrects me. ‘She went before, for less than half a term. Something happened at home.’

‘Something?’ Pop closes his eyes and I sit back, telling myself to back off. Doug’s glare says the same thing. ‘Rest, Pop. We’ll speak to the nurses before we leave, make sure we know when to come and collect you.’

‘The diary,’ Pop murmurs, and I lean in again, trying to hear what else he is saying. ‘Find the diary. It’ll explain about the bothy.’

‘The bothy?’ Doug repeats.

‘Whose diary?’ I whisper.

We stare at one another over Pop’s now sleeping form, more confused than we were when we came in.

Twenty-Six

MOIRA

1963

‘Congratulations, Miss Reid.’

Moira looks up to see her English teacher smiling at her. She smiles back, allowing the joy of reading her exam results to flood through her.

‘Thank you, Miss,’ she says, carefully sliding the sheet of paper back into its envelope and holding it against her chest.

‘Your parents will be so proud of you,’ the teacher says, patting Moira’s shoulder. ‘All of you,’ she adds, looking around at the group of girls. ‘You’ve all done so well.’

‘Thank you, Miss,’ the girls chorus as the teacher moves on.

Moira stays quiet as her friends chatter around her. They will all be going to university in September, and Moira, who has been to Edinburgh only once on a school trip, is looking forward to escaping her home town and her home. For that is what university is offering her, a chance to be herself. To find out who she is, away from the shadow of her parents and family home. She knows she is lucky, knows that she would never be able to attend without the support of her teacher and her friends. Her father has never believed in educating girls beyond what is necessary for the home, and her mother . . . Moira has never understood her mother. While Cordelia has always pushed for Moira to focus on her education, she doesn’t often take an interest in the results, only what they will give her: freedom. She has vague memories of the two of them on a bus together, a small suitcase at her mother’s feet, her hat pulled low over her red hair. She remembers a dark hotel room, with stained sheets and carpet which felt damp underfoot. One night, two, and then they were on the bus home, no explanation offered for their sojourn.

She wonders now whether they had been fleeing, and her mother had lost her nerve. She thinks of the bruises on Cordelia’s arms, the black eyes and broken fingers, the injuries getting worse with each passing year. ‘Clumsy,’ her father says, ‘always drunk.’ Moira knows that Cordelia drinks in that way she has always done; carefully. A bottle of gin hidden in the cupboard under the sink or tucked into her apron, measures tipped into coffee. Perhaps her mother is clumsy. Perhaps she is always drunk. Or perhaps she is hiding the worst from her daughter.

‘Why don’t we leave again?’ Moira asked once, quietly, when they were at the supermarket together. Cordelia had glanced at her, her mouth opening as if to speak, then reached past her for the apples.

‘You are leaving,’ she said eventually, and it was never brought up again.

‘Your mother thinks there’s a curse,’ her father said one day, his eyes unfocused and his words slurred as if his tongue was too big for his mouth, for he too was always drunk. ‘You’re descended from witches, you know.’ He’d snorted then, and Cordelia’s eyes had hardened.

There is no curse, Moira thinks as she walks home, waving goodbye to Janet and the others as they set off towards their respective homes. She has never believed in this curse, but sometimes she looks at her mother and wonders if Cordelia has made it true. If she, Moira, can unmake it. Life is going to be different for me. It’s time to look forward.

She kicks a stone up the front path and watches it disappear into the overgrown lawn, brown and patchy from the unusually hot summer, and clink against an empty bottle of ale half-hidden in the undergrowth. She can’t remember the last time the lawn was mowed, or the hedges trimmed back, or, come to think of it, when anything was done by anyone other than her. Since she turned twelve and was, according to her father, ‘big enough and ugly enough to pull her weight’, Moira has done the majority of the cooking and cleaning in the house. She does the shopping each week after prising the money, which seems to decrease every time, out of her father and carries it home on foot, arms aching. At least she is already used to budgeting; it will stand her in good stead when she is at university.

The front door creaks as she pushes it open, catching at the bottom on a small pile of letters, all addressed to her father. She picks them up and carries them into the kitchen, placing them before her mother, who sits smoking at the table, flicking lazily through a newspaper. Moira wrinkles her nose at the smell and busies herself with filling the kettle.

‘No kiss for your maw then?’ Cordelia slurs without looking up from the paper. Moira bends and presses her lips against her mother’s dry cheek. ‘Where you been anyway?’

‘School.’

‘Oh, aye? I thought you were finished for the year.’

Moira makes a cup of tea for her mother, knowing Cordelia won’t drink it, and leans against the counter, blowing on her own cup. ‘Exam results,’ she says.

Cordelia grunts and turns the page.

‘How is he?’

‘Who’s “he”?’ Moira jumps to find her father standing in the doorway, gripping the doorframe. ‘The cat’s da?’

Her mother tucks the small bottle of gin into her apron as Moira sets about making her father a cup of tea.

‘Are you feeling better today?’ she asks, keeping her voice light.

‘Aye, and I’ll feel even better when your maw gives me some of what she’s having.’

Cordelia freezes, one hand hovering over the hidden bottle, as her husband sits down opposite her. ‘Wee Moira’s made you a cup o’ tea, look,’ she says.

‘I dinnae want tea, woman,’ Charles spits. ‘I want a dram, and I shall have one.’

Moira and Cordelia look at each other then, seeing the same fear in each other’s eyes.

Charles slams a fist on the table, upsetting his teacup. Liquid sploshes into the saucer. ‘I might be barred from the pub, but this is my house,’ he growls, and, with a glance at her daughter, Cordelia hands over the bottle.

‘Just a few more weeks,’ Cordelia whispers later, catching Moira on the landing between her bedroom and the bathroom. ‘Then you’ll be out of here.’

‘But you’ll still be here.’ The words escape before Moira can stop them.

Cordelia frowns, then reaches out. Moira tries not to flinch as her mother tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

‘I’m the mother,’ she says quietly, her voice steady, though her eyes won’t meet Moira’s. ‘And you are the daughter. I can look after myself.’

But Moira knows that isn’t true.

*

The rest of that summer seems to drag. It turns wet towards the end of August, and so the beaches are often empty except for hardy locals. When she isn’t working at the bakery, Moira slips out of the house whenever there is a dry spell and sits on the wall, watching the waves crash against the rocks. She thinks of Cordelia and realises how little she knows about her as a woman, as a person separate from her roles as wife and mother. She has never worked, not to Moira’s knowledge at least, and the only pastime she seems to enjoy is reading. She isn’t a very good cook, but she bakes the best shortbread Moira has ever tasted. She only smokes Embassy cigarettes but isn’t fussy about the gin she drinks. Sometimes she speaks of her childhood, often cutting herself off before she can finish a story. Moira knows even less about her grandmother, who died before she was born as the Second World War raged on. She knows they have always lived in this house, the Reids. She knows that this is her mother’s house really, not her father’s, and wonders if he knows this too.

Finally, it is time to leave. On the doorstep, Cordelia slips an envelope into Moira’s coat pocket as she hugs her goodbye. They do not have a car, so the baker is taking her to Edinburgh. ‘I can’t say I’m not sad to lose such a good worker,’ Stuart said when he offered her a lift, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiled. Living where they do on the edge of the town, Moira has always felt like an outsider, but now she is leaving, she suddenly feels an affinity to the place she has called home for eighteen years.

‘Have fun,’ Cordelia calls as Moira gets into Stuart’s car, as if she is just going off on a day trip and will be back for supper. Dark clouds are rolling in overhead, the cemetery above the house suddenly feeling like an omen, looming over her mother.

‘See you soon,’ she calls back, but she won’t.

Twenty-Seven

MOIRA

The call comes on a bright, cold Wednesday morning. Moira is brushing her hair before the small mirror above her desk, which she has to stand on tiptoes to see into. Her bag is packed full of books, ready for a day of lectures before a meal out to celebrate Jenny’s birthday and the end of their first half term. The weeks have flown by, a blur of lectures and seminars and late nights in the library, and she has enjoyed every second. As she tidies up her small desk, tucking away the markers she uses to highlight passages of the fiction or lines of the poems she’s studying, she starts to mentally compose her next letter to her mother, though she knows she will not receive a response. Cordelia has no time for letters, and they do not have a telephone at home, so Moira does not know how her mother feels about her leaving home. She suspects it is better this way, then she can pretend that Cordelia is proud of her. She can pretend that Cordelia is safe at home while Moira forges a new life for herself.

She is looking forward to the meal tonight. She’s already ironed her best dress and borrowed a red lipstick from her housemate. She hopes the boy with the light blue eyes will be there and will notice her. But Moira will not get the chance to be noticed. As she sets down her brush, a sharp rap comes on the door and she frowns. The warden is standing in the hall, her lips pursed.

‘Call for you, Reid,’ she says, and Moira suddenly feels like she is in prison, feels the chains wrapping around her wrists and ankles as she follows the warden to the poky office on the ground floor.

‘Hello?’ she says into the receiver, one eye on the warden who hovers beside her, breathing heavily.

She can hear voices in the background, a cough and low murmurs, before her father’s gruff voice comes over the line. ‘You have to come home.’

‘Home? Why?’

‘It’s your maw. She’s dead.’

*

The bus journey seems to take forever. Moira’s hastily packed suitcase bangs against her leg as she hurries up the road from the bus stop, the coastal breeze sending goosebumps across her arms. It was warmer in Edinburgh, she thinks as she approaches the house she grew up in. The house her mother died in.

He’s going to kill me, one of these days. The words buzz inside her head like flies, incessant, swarming. She tries to swat them away.

Charles told her nothing on the phone. He had used the phone box outside the pub to call her, and, judging by the unsteadiness in his voice, had already been in for a pint or four, his temporary ban apparently relieved in the face of tragedy. Moira feels something twist inside her as she pushes open the front door and sees him sitting at the kitchen table, a bottle of whisky at his elbow.

‘Da?’ she calls, but her throat is tight and it comes out as a croak. She puts her suitcase down and goes into the kitchen, hands gripping the back of her mother’s chair. ‘What happened, Da?’

He says nothing. His eyes are fixed on a stain on the edge of the table which Moira thinks is new, and does not look at her.

She learns more from the neighbour, an elderly woman who has lived down the road since the new houses were built and who was always kind to her.

‘You poor wee love,’ the neighbour says, her eyes watery as she grips Moira’s hand in her papery fingers. ‘A terrible accident, it was.’

‘How did it happen?’

The old woman licks her lips, moves her jaw around as if she is trying to find the words inside her mouth. ‘She drowned.’

‘Drowned? In the bath?’

A slight tilt of the head. ‘No, love. In the sea. It was a terrible accident.’

In the sea.

Moira tries to picture it, cannot. All she can see is a bottle of gin on the bathroom floor, her mother’s clothes piled in the corner, steam curling up from the water. She had taken a bath every day for as long as Moira could remember. There are many things she did not know about her mother and now will never know. Her favourite colour, or her favourite food, or whether she preferred sweet or savoury. She does not know what Cordelia had dreamed of as a child, what life she’d wanted instead of the one she got. What she did know was that Cordelia preferred gin to whisky, rarely wore socks or stockings, even in the dead of winter, and she never, ever, swam in the sea.

‘I don’t understand,’ she says.

The rasp of the neighbour’s hand rubbing Moira’s. ‘It’s difficult to take in, love. She was such a vibrant soul.’

Vibrant. Vibrant? Moira repeats the word in her head. It is not one she’s ever heard to describe her mother before. Cordelia was many things, but vibrant?

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t understand,’ she says again.

‘I know, love. I know.’

The funeral takes place the following week, her father dry-eyed and red-nosed, dressed in a suit which has seen better days. The scent of spirits surrounds him. Moira wears a dress of her mother’s, hears her voice as she smooths it down. He’s going to kill me one day.

She sits beside her father at the front of the church, throat sore with unshed tears. She listens to the vicar talk about her mother and recognises nothing in his words. The Cordelia Reid in his mouth was a loving wife and mother, a pillar of the community who engaged in volunteer work and cared for her neighbours. This Cordelia Reid was not the type of woman who stole milk from her neighbour’s doorstep in the wee small hours, or added gin to her morning coffee. She was not the woman who lay quietly on the floor as her husband kicked her, or turned her face away as he lay on top of her. She was not the woman who packed a case and took her daughter away, who did not touch a drop of alcohol during those two days and two nights. Who gave up entirely on the bus ride back and embraced the lot she had been given in life. Who secretly wanted better for her daughter, and was at the same time jealous of what Moira would achieve. Whose death would change everything, forever.

‘You’ll be staying for good now then,’ Charles says as they stand in the pub afterwards, a plate of untouched sausage rolls and cucumber sandwiches on the bar before them, and Moira knows it isn’t a question.

*

Moira lies awake, plagued by visions of her mother. She sees her on the beach, bare feet dancing across the sand, skirts moving in the breeze. Cordelia’s mother had liked the salt on her skin, Moira remembers. Cordelia spoke of the grainy residue, tidelines on her ankles. She would stand with one foot in the water and one foot on the sand, in the space between ocean and land. That nowhere space, made only for salt spray and women who were lost. But then she had drowned, and Cordelia never entered the sea again.

Moira turns over, screwing her eyes shut. She tries to think of a happy memory, a time when her mother was at peace. The bath, she thinks. Cordelia had spent half her life in the bath, so much so that a young Moira would read with her back up against it, just to be close to her. Your mother is a mermaid, Cordelia would say. Your mother is a madwoman, Charles would say.

Which one were you? she thinks, her eyes opening to find the night sky beyond the window.

Both, Cordelia whispers in her ear. Neither.

One morning, Moira goes down to the beach. It is still dark, the sun not yet visible on the horizon, and she knows her father won’t wake for several hours. He wouldn’t like what she is about to do, would call it witchcraft, which is why he will never find out. In her pocket is a lock of her mother’s hair, cut years before and placed inside the locket Moira has worn around her neck since her mother had slipped it into her pocket the day they came back from that brief trip. At the time, she had not realised it was odd, this way around; that usually the mother would wear the daughter, but it felt right for them. Until now. Now it feels wrong, as if she has taken something that is not rightfully hers, and she must give it back.

The beach is empty, as she knew it would be. It is freezing, this midwinter morning on the shortest day after the darkest night. The nights are long, the darkness wrapping around them like a mother’s arms, promising that all you could ever need is there, right there.

‘But it wasn’t,’ Moira whispers at the shoreline. ‘And now you’re gone, and I have to take your place.’

Her face is wet, from tears or sea she does not know. Salt upon salt. The thought is unbidden, like a line from a poem. She kicks off her shoes and steps into the ocean, the cold sharp as a blade. Taking the hair from her pocket, she wades further in, the water covering her ankles then her knees, deeper and deeper until the sand falls away and she is held, suspended, by the ocean. She opens her hand and the hair is snatched from her grip, and she hears her mother sigh in her ear.

Twenty-Eight

MOIRA

Hogmanay. The baker closes an hour early and waves Moira off with a warm loaf and the shortbread her mother used to love. Is this what life will be like now? The first Hogmanay without her mother. The first Easter. The first birthday. And all the little things in between. The first Sunday lunch, the first visit to church, the first day the sun shines and Moira will think of her mother sitting on the front step with her legs out, skin turning red, a cigarette dangling from her fingers as she squints up at her daughter’s dismay. And then there will be the anniversary, an invisible ring around the day her mother was lost to the sea. The unconscious marking of time which will eventually tip over, until Cordelia will have been dead longer than she was alive.

Moira lets herself into the house and, dropping the bread on the stairs, heads straight for the bathroom, where she locks the door and carefully takes out the envelope containing her wages. Stuart, having heard she had returned from university to look after her father, had offered her more hours in the bakery. He pays a good wage – and lets her keep her textbooks in his office besides. She spends her lunch hour with her nose buried in a book, trying not to wonder what her classmates are doing, and how far ahead they are. She knows she will never graduate, but she isn’t quite ready to let go. She fears she will need something more than what Stuart, despite his good intentions, can offer her. She fears she has no future ahead at all. And so, behind the locked bathroom door, she counts out the money she will give to her father and hides the rest behind the cistern.

When she goes back downstairs, the kitchen door is still closed, and she breathes a sigh of relief. Picking up the bread, she pastes a smile on her face and strides into the kitchen.

‘Hi, Da,’ she says, bending to peck his cheek. ‘I brought shortbread.’

‘Any whisky?’ Charles croaks, peering at her through a haze of cigarette smoke.

Moira shakes her head. ‘I’ve not been to the shop yet. Here are my wages.’ She passes him the envelope and watches him count it, holding her breath until he grunts.

‘Aye, well take this and go get me a bottle. It’s Hogmanay, we’re to have a celebration.’

Anger fizzes through her as she takes the money from his grubby hand. A celebration? What on earth would they have to celebrate? She cannot leave her mother behind, cannot turn her back on her grief as the clock ticks over to a new year. New year, same fury.

‘And a fish supper,’ her father says, counting out some more coins as if they are his to gift.

‘Aye,’ she says, and slips back outside. The sky is dark, the winter sun long set. The days are so short now, Moira leaves the house and returns in darkness. Sometimes she wonders if she will ever see the sun again.

As she is queuing up, the bottle of whisky tucked into her handbag, Moira wonders if this is it. If she will work in the bakery until she dies. If she will ever escape that dark, dank house, or the booze-soaked presence of her father. If she, too, will drown herself in gin and bathwater. If she will one day step into the sea and never return.

She can hear murmuring, as she often can since her mother died, snippets of conversation accompanied by looks of either pity or suspicion thrown her way. She often cannot tell the difference.

‘He saved her, you know, from ruin,’ she hears Stella whisper from behind the counter, and Moira feels her blood run cold. Ruin. The word brings to mind old stones, bricks turned to dust by time or violence or both. Like the old doctor’s surgery in the garden, the roof caved in, ivy climbing the walls and shattering the windows, nature demanding to be let back in.

‘Pregnant . . . Another man’s child . . . Saint.’

She lets the words wash over her, understanding their message without needing to hear the rest. Is it true? It could be. It probably is. But what does it matter anyway?

‘Excuse me, Miss?’

Moira snaps out of her reverie to find a man staring at her, his brow wrinkled with concern. ‘S-sorry?’ she stammers.

‘You’re next, I believe,’ he says, holding out an arm as if to let her pass. She shakes herself, remembering where she is, and steps up to the counter to order. After handing over the money to Stella, she turns back to the man. He is standing a few feet behind her, a newspaper tucked under one arm.

‘You know you don’t need to bring your own,’ she says, nodding towards it.

He looks down and laughs. ‘Probably all it’s good for,’ he says. ‘What happened to proper journalism, eh?’ Moira gives a small smile, suddenly on the back foot. He grins. ‘Ah, I thought I had at least another five years until I turned into my dad. Grumpy old man syndrome.’

She watches him out of the corner of her eye, wondering who he is and where he’s from. He has an accent she’s not used to – Australian, maybe? But why would he be here? He could be a fisherman, or perhaps he works on the railway, like her father used to. Or has he followed a sweetheart? She knows she should not ask, should not engage this stranger, yet she feels drawn to him. She wants to ask what his name is, where he’s from, what he does. What he wants. The words are bubbling up in her throat when Stella taps her arm.

‘Here you are, Moira, love,’ she says, holding out two warm parcels. ‘Tell your da we say hi.’

‘Ta. Will do.’ Moira glances at the man again as she turns to leave. ‘Haud Hogmanay,’ she says quietly, feeling her cheeks heat up.

‘Haud Hogmanay, Moira,’ he says with a wink, and her name in his mouth makes it sound so different, it is almost unrecognisable.

She goes home, unwrapping the parcels on the table before her father, but he barely glances at the food before reaching for the whisky and unscrewing the cap. She picks at her own food, cursing herself for forgetting to ask for vinegar, trying not to think about the boy in the chip shop and the way he said her name. Moira doesn’t want to think about him and how he might change her life. That was her job. She was supposed to get a degree, the first Reid woman to have done so, and forge a career. She was supposed to travel overseas to teach English and build wells in small, dusty villages. She was supposed to live in her own house in the countryside, far from the sea which fills her nose with the scent of dead fish and fills her ears with the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks and the crying of gulls. She was supposed to have more. But she has given up her place at university and is working to pay for her father’s whisky and to keep this roof over their heads.

Though no one will be visiting them this year, as no one has visited them for all the years Moira can remember, still she collects the bucket full of cleaning supplies from under the stairs and begins to dust the surfaces in the living room, and tries not to think about how she has failed.

Picking up a photograph of her mother, a memory hits her. Words spoken only once, whispered as if to herself, as if Cordelia had forgotten her daughter was sitting on the floor beside her.

He’s going to kill me, one of these days. He’s going to kill me.

Moira goes to bed early, leaving her father drinking whisky at the kitchen table. She cannot bear to see her mother’s empty chair, her packet of Embassy still stacked on top of a battered hardback beside the ashtray. She takes them with her, opening her bedroom window and sitting on the ledge while she fumbles with the match. She has never smoked before now, not really, but the smell reminds her of Cordelia and so she breathes it in as if it could bring her mother back, breathe life back into her and put her back in her chair in the kitchen. Guilt floods her at the idea of bringing her mother back to this life, but still she longs for it.

The weight of the book in her hands and the smell of cigarette smoke transports Moira back to when she was a child. She pictures her mother sitting on the end of her bed, a book of poetry open in her lap, smoke trailing towards the ceiling from between her fingers.

‘Again,’ young Moira whispers in her memory. ‘Please, Mama.’

Cordelia sighs, exhaling smoke like a ghost into the room, preparing to recite her daughter’s favourite Walt Whitman poem.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,

Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,

I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,

Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,

Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,

I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,

Nature without check with original energy.

‘Are you thirty-seven years old?’ Moira asks when her mother has finished reading.

Cordelia smiles. ‘In my heart I will always be seventeen. It was the sweetest year, before my mother died and everything changed.’

Moira thinks of that poem as she throws the cigarette butt out of the window. She watches it drop onto the concrete below, sparks flying before dying out. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air. Is that how she has been formed? Was she nurtured by the soil beneath this house, like a tree with roots so deep you could never cut them out? Roots reaching all the way to the sea, salt-rich soil. Cordelia rarely spoke of her childhood, and there were no photographs on the walls, no memories to pore over with her daughter. Nothing but half-finished stories, fear and salt.

Moira looks out across the garden to the trees beyond, following the line until her gaze finds the cemetery above. The night is dark, the air quiet but for the rustle of branches and an owl hooting in the distance. She knows people will be gathered in their houses or in the pub tonight, exchanging gifts and eating together, seeing in the new year, but from here she can see only trees and the graveyard. And then a figure, flitting through the darkness.

Moira sits up, her heart beginning to beat wildly in her chest. Someone is out there, creeping through the night. She has always loved how the house and garden is built into the hill, as if it is climbing back up towards the forest, seeking its kin. The cemetery, which belongs to the old church on the hill, is separated from the garden by a low fence, and there, moving between the gravestones, is a person.

As if controlled by someone else, Moira jumps down from the windowsill and leaves her bedroom, tiptoeing down the stairs. She can hear her father snoring in the living room, where he must have collapsed in a drunken haze, as she slips into her shoes and buttons up her coat. She’ll only be a minute, she tells herself as she moves through the kitchen and opens the back door. Just a quick check. It’s probably someone looking for somewhere to sleep off the drink, or kids on a dare. The graveyard has always had a particular pull for the youth of the town, the abandoned church with wooden planks covering the holes where the windows used to be. Tales of spirits and ghouls passed down through the generations have meant a look of surprise when Moira told anyone where she lived, as if nobody expected the house to be occupied.

She passes the small building in the garden, which Cordelia told her used to be a doctor’s surgery, though Moira has never known it to be used for anything other than a home for rats and spiders. The roof has caved in on one side, and ivy covers the walls and windows, almost entirely concealing the door.

From her place in the shadows, she sees the figure moving towards the surgery. Quietly, she makes her way through the garden, hidden from view by the unruly bushes along the edge. She watches as the figure scrambles down the hill and approaches the low wire fence. They are so close now she could reach out and touch them, a hand snaking between the branches to grab their wrist.

‘Can I help you?’ she says instead.

The figure freezes, one leg over the barbed wire. They glance around, looking for the source of the voice, until Moira takes pity on them and steps out of her hiding place.

‘You’re on private property,’ she points out, moving closer to take in their features. It is a man, she thinks, not someone she recognises. ‘Are you looking for something?’

He shakes his head. ‘No. Well, yes. I was actually looking for somewhere to sleep.’

Moira feels her eyes widen. ‘Sleep? Have you no home of your own?’

‘I do, but not here. Do you mind if I . . .?’ He moves his other leg over the fence – not, Moira notices, to the other side, but so he is standing in the garden. She raises an eyebrow.

‘Not here,’ she echoes. ‘So why are you here?’

‘I heard there was the best fish and chip shop in all of Scotland,’ he says, and she sees his eyes twinkling in the moonlight. Recognition suddenly floods her, the accent making him stand out.

‘Oh, it’s you.’

‘And it’s you,’ he says. ‘Moira, isn’t it? I’m Rupert Brown. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, though I wish it were in slightly different circumstances.’

He holds out a hand for her to shake and, after a beat, she takes it. His fingers are warm and surprisingly soft in her own.

‘Why are you here?’ she asks again. ‘Are you really looking for a place to sleep?’

Rupert sighs. ‘I’ve been in bonny Scotland for a month or so. I was travelling with a mate and he found us some work here. He organised a boarding house for us both, but the landlady seemed to take umbrage with me for some reason and kicked me out.’

Moira can feel her lips twitching. ‘Oh? Some unknown reason, I assume, since your mate is not with you. Nothing you did to offend her?’

‘Me? Offend?’ Rupert places a hand on his heart and takes a few steps back as if in shock. ‘Never. No, the job I came here for never materialised, and my money dried up pretty quick, so . . .’ He lifts a shoulder. ‘I’m used to sleeping outside. We do it all the time back home.’

‘And where is home?’

‘Western Australia. A town the size of a postage stamp, way out in the desert.’

The desert. It sounds so fascinating to her, so unlike anything she has ever known. She wants to see it, this tiny town surrounded by dust.

‘Well, you can’t sleep outside here, you’ll freeze.’ She crosses her arms and looks at him for a long moment. ‘You seem like trouble to me, Rupert Brown,’ she says finally, and he grins.

‘Only the best kind.’

Against her better judgement, Moira finds herself leading Rupert in through the back door and up the stairs. Her father is still snoring in the living room, but she knows he will, at some point, stagger upstairs to his bedroom, so she opens the attic door and pads quietly up the wooden stairs.

‘There’s a sleeping bag here,’ she whispers. The room is in near darkness, the moonlight filtering in through the tiny windows. ‘It’s probably not the standards you’re used to.’

‘I was expecting to sleep on some poor soul’s grave tonight,’ he whispers back, ‘so this is like a palace to me.’

Moira smiles in the darkness. ‘My da is downstairs. He can’t know you’re here, so you’ll have to be silent as a mouse. And out before seven in the morning. I can come up and wake you.’

She sees him nod as he unrolls the sleeping bag and climbs into it. ‘No worries. You’ll never even know I was here.’

Twenty-Nine

MOIRA

When the morning comes, Moira lies in bed for a while, watching the still-dark sky beyond the window. The bells had started to ring as she’d climbed into bed, signalling the start of a new year, and she’d wondered if Rupert would be a good or a bad omen. Now she questions whether the whole thing had been a dream. Whether she had imagined leading the man from the fish and chip shop upstairs, or if she’d ever even met him at all. She can hardly believe she would do something as foolish as allow a strange man to sleep in the house.

At half six, she opens her bedroom door and peers out into the dark hallway. Her father’s door is closed, so he must have made it to bed at some point. She uses the toilet and splashes cool water on her face before padding back down the landing and pausing at the attic door. She hears Cordelia’s voice inside her head. My mother always told me never to trust a man, and I didn’t listen. And here we are. But this man is not Charles, and, more crucially, Moira is not her mother.

She opens the door and creeps up to the attic, expecting to find him still asleep or gone, vanished without a trace, but he is standing at the small window, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

‘Good morning,’ she says quietly and he jumps, throwing the cigarette butt out of the window.

‘Pardon me,’ he says. ‘I just can’t wake up without my first smoke of the day.’

Moira smiles. ‘It’s fine. Did you sleep all right?’

‘Like a baby.’ His teeth are straight and pearly white, shining out of his face like a half moon. ‘I heard it’s good luck for a stranger to cross the threshold on Hogmanay. What do you call it?’

‘First footing. But you were supposed to bring gifts, coal and whisky and the like.’

Rupert pats his pockets, opening his jacket to rifle through before smiling triumphantly. In his hand is a tiny lump of coal. Moira laughs, too loudly, clapping a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. He deposits the coal into her other hand.

‘So I’m good luck after all, Miss Reid?’

She lowers the hand from her mouth, still smiling. ‘We’ll see about that, Mr Brown. Now how about a cup of tea?’

They tiptoe down the stairs, pausing to listen to Charles snoring for a moment before carrying on down to the kitchen. Moira shuts the door behind them and goes to fill the kettle, stopping dead when she sees Rupert has got there first.

‘My mum always said to make myself useful,’ he says, clicking on the hob and setting the kettle on top. ‘And there should be no man alive who can’t make himself a cup of tea.’

Moira points Rupert in the direction of mugs and sugar, while she slices some bread and sets about making toast. There is an almost comfortable silence, though she feels her skin prickle with his proximity to her. She is no fool, daughter of Cordelia and Charles both. She knows what men are, or what they can be. But something feels different with Rupert, as if he has always been here, waiting for her to notice him. To be ready to let him in.

They talk over breakfast, keeping their voices low, though nothing will wake Charles from his whisky-induced coma. Rupert tells her of how he came to Scotland, the boat journey that almost ended with him being tossed into the water.

‘It was my mate who saved me,’ he says, elbow-deep in soapy water as he washes the breakfast things.

‘The one who abandoned you here?’

‘Aye, the very same.’ He turns to Moira, a glitter in his eye. ‘I’m becoming more Scottish every day. I was meant to be here. Teach me some words.’

‘Yer bum’s oot the windae,’ she says without thinking, and Rupert erupts into laughter. She hushes him before joining in, their faces turning red as they try to stay quiet.

*

By the time Charles makes it downstairs at lunchtime, Moira has a plan. Rupert has gone back to his old lodgings to see if his friend can smuggle out his belongings, and she has cooked bacon and eggs, her father’s favourite. She places a mug of tea in front of him as he sits down at the table.

‘Haud Hogmanay, Da,’ she says, forcing herself to peck him on the cheek. ‘Did you sleep well?’

Her father grunts in response, glaring bleary-eyed at the plate she offers him. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Moira takes a deep breath. ‘Mum always cooked eggs on the first day of the new year,’ she says, hoping the reminder of her mother will not anger him. ‘I thought I should carry on the tradition.’

He grunts again, picking up his cutlery and cutting into a rasher of bacon. Moira adds a slice of toast to his plate then sits down to her own smaller plate. Her stomach is in knots as she considers what she is going to say. How best to phrase it, so not to anger him. How many times had she seen her mother do the exact same thing? Carefully choose her words or plan her day in a way which would not anger her husband. Everything in their lives was planned around it, this man’s fury, and Moira tries to swallow her own fury at the realisation.

‘I was thinking about what you said,’ she begins, sipping her tea, ‘about the old doctor’s surgery being a waste.’

In truth, the only thing he’s said about it is that he refuses to sell to some developers who have shown some interest in the past. God knows they could do with the money, but Charles is nothing if not stubborn. Or perhaps he’s aware that it is not his to sell, she thinks. Either way, she knows she has to make it seem like it had been his idea all along.

‘What if we got it cleaned up? There are men in the town looking for work, what if they came and cleared it out so we could rent it out as accommodation?’

‘And what would you be paying these men with?’ Charles says around a mouthful of scrambled egg.

‘Well, I know at least one man who is looking for somewhere to stay,’ she says carefully. ‘There are men coming here to work on the railways, but the boarding houses are full. What if we paid them with bed and board?’

‘Where will they be sleeping until the work is done, hmm?’ He catches her gaze and holds it, pinning her to the spot. ‘In your bed?’

Moira tries to ignore the heat rushing to her face. ‘No, Da. Of course not. I thought they could stay in the attic. It’s big and dry enough, I think.’

‘How do you know about this?’ he asks, narrowing his eyes, and Moira takes a breath. He is sharper than she had expected after such a heavy night.

‘I heard people talking in the chipper yesterday,’ she lies. ‘I know how much this house means to you, Da, and how much it meant to Mum.’

Her father is silent for a few moments, methodically forking his food into his mouth and chewing, until he finally speaks.

‘Aye. It’d work.’

Moira breathes a sigh of relief.

‘But we’ll be renting it out afterwards, you hear?’ he continues. ‘Full price. I’m no running a charity.’ His eyes are gleaming when he raises them to meet hers, and she knows that she has won. For now.

Rupert arrives that evening, knocking on the front door and greeting Moira as if they are perfect strangers. She takes him into the living room where Charles is sitting in an armchair, a glass of whisky in his hands, but his eyes are more alert than they have been in years.

‘Good evening, sir,’ Rupert says, offering his hand for Charles to shake. ‘I’m Rupert Brown. Thank you for opening your home to me.’

Charles glares up at him. ‘What are you, a Kiwi?’

Moira’s eyes widen but Rupert only chuckles. ‘Afraid not, just a regular Aussie.’

There is a pause, until the older man gets to his feet and accepts Rupert’s hand.

‘Well, thank you for offering your services, Mr Brown,’ he replies in a voice Moira has never heard before. She realises then that, like her mother, she knows very little of her father as a person. She knows he worked on the railway for a while, and was injured in the Second World War before coming back to Scotland and marrying her mother. But what else? To her he is a drunk, a danger. The man whose existence hangs over her life like a shadow. The man who pulled her out of university without hesitation, who thinks only of himself and where his whisky is coming from. The man who might have killed her mother.

Thirty

AILSA

Now

On the way home, I switch on the radio to fill the silence and almost immediately regret it. Someone, probably the police, has told the media about Gran.

‘Local grandmother Moira Reid has been reported missing by her family. Moira is in her seventies and suffering from dementia. Police are launching a search, but anyone with any information is to call the non-emergency number as soon as—’

Doug slaps his palm against the dial, turning off the voice. ‘That’s enough of that, I think,’ he says tightly.

We stare out of the windscreen for a while, the landscape around us dark and almost unrecognisable. She could be anywhere, out there in the cold. She might have forgotten how to get home. She might not know where she is, who she is.

‘Did you hear about that woman,’ I say, ‘who joined her own search party?’ Doug doesn’t look at me. ‘It was in Iceland, I think. She got changed at a pit stop and the other passengers didn’t recognise her or something, so they all thought someone was missing. Can you imagine? Being told someone is missing, going off to look for one of your party, and it was you all along?’

Doug’s fingers tighten on the wheel, but he says nothing. I fall silent, chewing the inside of my mouth. The stress is getting to us both, and this visit to Pop did nothing to calm us down. The diary. Whose diary? Gran’s? Does he mean her book about our family? I need to read it all, every last word, to see if the truth about what happened to Gran is hiding between them.

‘He’s sending us on a wild goose chase,’ Doug says, as if reading my mind.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The mysterious diary, the bothy. It’s all nonsense.’

‘It might not be. It might be helpful.’

Doug snorts. ‘Haven’t you worked it out yet? The bothy?’ I stare at him. ‘It’s the old doctor’s surgery. That’s what they called it.’

The bothy. A small hut or cottage. A refuge.

‘So do you think—?’

‘That she’s been hiding out in that hovel all this time? Obviously not.’ Doug shakes his head. ‘That’s what I mean, it’s a wild goose chase.’

Or maybe it’s something you just don’t understand, I think but don’t say.

As soon as Doug has parked the car, I shoot out of the passenger seat and head for the side gate that leads to the back garden. If he calls after me, I don’t hear him over the rumble of thunder that seems to come from directly overhead. I kick my way through the overgrown weeds and pull down some of the ivy creeping up the door of the old surgery to reveal the handle. I twist and for a second think it must be locked, before it jolts open, almost sending me flying.

I take out my phone and flick on the torch, which does little to illuminate the dark space inside. The floor is littered with dirt and old leaves, blown in through the badly patched hole in the roof. The scent of damp permeates the room, old rainwater and mouldy brickwork. I move through to the next room, which has been used for storage for as long as I can remember. Pop is something of a hoarder, never wanting to throw away something he might use in the future. The torchlight hits an old bookcase of mine, one side covered in stickers from the teen magazines I used to read, amongst other furniture that has been decaying in here for decades. There is what looks like a hospital bed in the far corner, the metal sides pushed all the way down, the mattress torn. The other rooms are similarly full of old junk and empty of anything that might be useful.

Doug is right. There’s no way Gran is in here. Why on earth did I think she might be? I shake my head as I make my way back to the front door. I’m such an idiot.

I find him in the garden, hands tucked into pockets, head tilted back. The storm has moved over us, heading out to sea, and in its wake is a beautifully clear sky.

‘Don’t say it,’ I mutter as I join him.

‘Can I think it?’ he says, and I jab him in the side with my elbow. He doubles over in mock agony, forcing a smile to my lips. He straightens and flings an arm around my shoulders. ‘Sorry about earlier. Seeing Dad like that, it was just . . . It’s too much, you know?’ I nod. ‘I just want to find her. I need to know she’s all right.’

I close my eyes, inhale. ‘I know.’

‘Sometimes I feel like there’s something missing, something everybody else knows but nobody has bothered to explain to me. Like I’ve missed an important part of the joke.’

‘Like when you walk into a room and everyone stops talking,’ I add, and he looks at me.

‘Right, yeah. Exactly. Do you know what it is? I feel like it’s something to do with the women.’

‘The women?’

‘The Reid women. I think you’re right. There’s something they want us to know.’

We stare up at the cliff above us, the church silhouetted against the bruise-coloured sky, and for a moment, I think I can hear the iron rings clanking against the rock.

*

I go upstairs, seeking solitude. I need to think. I need to breathe.

I pull out Gran’s book, flicking through the pages. Is this the diary Pop was talking about? It doesn’t make any sense. I fling the book down on the bed and reach into my pocket to take out my phone instead, swearing under my breath when I notice the missed calls. I dial the voicemail number and listen to a police officer telling me that they need to speak to me again. It’s a woman this time, a DC, which Google tells me is a Detective Constable. Shit. Shit. My hands begin to shake, throat closing as I lock my phone screen and throw it onto the bed. My head is spinning, my ears full of the thump-thump-thump of my own heart. I know, deep down, that the police were calling about Gran. That they couldn’t know what happened in my flat before I came back to Scotland. That they would have descended, mob-handed, to drag me away in cuffs if they did. But still. But still.

I lie down and close my eyes, focusing on my breathing like I have learned in the guided meditations I’ve been listening to over the past few months. I count to ten, then restart, in and out, in and out, until—

I roll over and come up against something solid. I freeze, then exhale as an arm snakes around my waist.

‘Can’t sleep?’ he murmurs in my ear.

I glance up at the window to see that it is raining, heavy drops hammering against the metal balcony outside my bedroom window. ‘Too loud,’ I whisper.

His breath is warm against my neck, his fingers soft as they trail across my skin. ‘Let’s drown it out.’

And then I am underwater, bubbles escaping from my nose as I plunge downwards into the aqua blue. My feet touch the cool tiled bottom and then I am propelled upwards, towards the azure sky. I lean against the side of the pool, elbows hooked on the warm paving stones, and tilt my head back to watch light, fluffy clouds drift across the sky. It is early, the town below the villa still quiet. Soon I will walk down the short dirt road to collect pastries and fresh fruit, then I will make a pot of coffee and slide back into bed.

I roll over, one arm flung across my face. The room is in darkness and deep, utter silence. What woke me? I look up at the window, but the curtains are closed. A low rumble then, and the bed begins to shake. I try to sit up, but something is pressing against me, threatening to push me out of bed. A crack of lightning lights up the room as I hit the floor with a thud. The floorboards are cold beneath my hands and slightly gritty, as if covered in a layer of sand. I look up as lightning flashes again and then the horror of what I am seeing hits me. Open, sightless eyes, slack lips, a caved-in skull. The man I loved; the man who betrayed me. I scream.

I wake late the next morning, head groggy. I feel like I’m hungover, a beat pounding in my temple as I drag myself to the bathroom. I avoid my own eyes in the mirror, afraid of what I’ll see.

I find Doug in the kitchen making coffee.

‘Afternoon,’ he says with a smile, and I try to smile back but it is more of a grimace. My head is full of ghosts, but I need to focus. Today, I’m going to find Gran.

I go back out into the garden, realising just how neglected it has been since Gran’s arthritis set in a few years ago. The grass is overgrown, the evergreens thick against the rear fence. These trees that have been there since before any of us were born, the years carved into their trunks. I wonder what they have seen, the people who have come and gone across the decades. Were they there when the Reid women were burned on top of the hill? Did they bear witness, silently recording the women’s stories? I can almost picture the ashes drifting down onto their leaves, falling like a thousand snowflakes. I remember the story well, but I open the Reid family book and read Gran’s words again. It begins like this: two women, mother and daughter, are flushed from their home by the violent delight of men. They run through the village and out into the wilderness, skin grazed by thorns and ankles snatched by roots. Clouds cover the moon as if to protect them, to hide them in the shadows of the night, but still the men pursue them, like dogs scenting a wounded hare.

The women conceal themselves in the bracken, hearts pounding wildly with fear, eyes wide in the darkness. They are witches, the lowest of all women, the mother the worst of all, for she turned against her own son. Cursed, they say, but the women know better. It is not witchcraft that delivers their wrath upon these men, but justice.

For the hearts of men are fragile. They are more delicate than ours, more easily broken. We women are forced to endure what men could not imagine. And so here they are, cowering at the base of a tree, praying they will not be found. They can hear them, boots pounding against the forest floor, knives slashing at branches and brambles. Men, tearing the world apart. They wait, breath too loud in the night. Mother Nature reaches out and cradles them, and for a moment, they think the men might pass them by. That they might be safe. But then the sound comes again, closer this time.

They are here.

They drag the women from the forest, fingers digging into flesh which bruises like soft fruit. Their screams are drowned out by the sound of the men cheering, and the waves crashing against the rocks below. They are all recognisable to the women; neighbours, friends. And there, the older woman’s son, his face split open by a grin. Though he is now blind, he can hear their screams and he laughs. She too is split open by his betrayal, her heart shattering in her chest. The girl said he’d forced her, and when her baby had been delivered too early, she had gone to him with fury in her eyes and venom on her tongue. And he had not denied it, had in fact gloated about what he had done, and so his sister had sought justice. His mother had been unable, unwilling, to believe it, but he had seen it in her eyes anyway. The hatred, the disgust. Until his vision had been taken from him.

So now they are here, mother and daughter both, dragged to the top of the hill by the men they have known and loved and trusted their entire lives. The iron rings glisten in the moonlight, and the women scream until they are hoarse as the men fasten the rings around their wrists. They lie against the hard ground, rocks digging into their backs and straw prickling their legs, and watch in terror as the men form a circle around them. And it is the woman’s son who strikes iron against flint.

The sparks fly and catch on the straw at their feet. The women try to wriggle away but the rings keep them in place. Slowly, the flames crawl upwards, until the women are engulfed and their screams turn to ashes.

That is how the Reid women were made, through violence and flames.

Thirty-One

MOIRA

To Moira’s surprise, she finds it easy living with Rupert. Only he is staying in the attic, but a few other men arrive to help him work on the doctor’s surgery. She watches them from the kitchen window, wondering if it had been like this when it was first built. She pictures the roughness of men’s hands, cement beneath their nails and in the cracks, sweat mingling with dirt on their brows. Rupert stands out amongst them, his dark skin and easy manner so different to the others. Every so often he looks up, his eyes meeting hers, and she knows that he has felt her gaze upon him.

After dinner, when Charles has gone into the lounge to sink into a bottle of whisky, Rupert brings out a pack of cards. He teaches her games, laughs with her when she gets it wrong, gently correcting her, and always letting her win. She has never known the house to be so full of laughter. Her childhood was accompanied by the sounds of a bottle being opened, a bath filling up, a door slamming, her feet pounding against the tarmac until they reached the sand, until the sea, the sea, the sea.

They say goodnight in the hallway, Moira hovering while Rupert uses the bathroom, before going upstairs herself. It is a simple set-up, an old mattress dragged up the narrow attic stairs to balance on some pallets, but he seems happy enough. Every morning, they eat porridge together and tidy the kitchen before going their separate ways; Rupert to the garden, Moira to the bakery. On the second day, he walks her to the end of the road, lifting a hand when she looks back over her shoulder, waiting until she has unlocked the bakery door and gone inside. He is there again when she’s finished, takes the basket she is carrying and exclaims over the contents, lifting it to his face to inhale the scent of freshly baked bread.

‘Did you make this?’ he asks, as if it is the most incredible thing he has ever seen, and she feels a mixture of pride and disappointment. If he is this impressed with her baking skills, how would he view her if she’d got her degree? If she had a proper career, the one she’d always dreamed of. Would he have been impressed, or intimidated? Is he only here because she is a safe bet, a girl who needs saving?

One Saturday afternoon, she takes him down to the ocean. The evenings are growing lighter, a murmuration of birds circling overhead, the rustle of a thousand wings leading them down to the water.

‘What ocean is this? I know it’s the Firth of Forth, but where does it lead?’ he asks as they step down onto the beach, and Moira misses a step. She doesn’t know, has never before considered that there is more than one ocean, that there is anything beyond the horizon. Standing at the edge, it is easy to forget that it ends, somewhere, and new waters begin. She flushes, turning her face away when he glances at her. No wonder she dropped out of university, he would think if he knew. No wonder she works at a bakery and lives at home with her father. Why did she ever think she could have a different path?

‘You’re not going in, are you?’ he asks.

Moira is slipping her shoes off, bending to roll down her stockings. She looks up, searching his face. He will think her mad, and then he will leave and it will be over. What, exactly, will be over? she asks herself. This is nothing. Let him leave before anything begins. Before you get hurt. Lifting her skirt, she steps into the water, ice biting at her toes. She closes her eyes as the water laps at her ankles, then her calves. Her mind is empty, ears filled with the rushing of the waves as if her head is beneath the water. She pictures hair as seaweed, skin as salt fused to bone. She pictures her mother, droplets beading on her skin, her eyelashes. Saltwater and blood. What is memory, and what is fiction? She cannot tell any more.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Moira opens her eyes to find Rupert standing beside her, fists clenched at his sides as the waves crash against his bare legs.

‘They don’t call it the North Sea for nothing,’ she says, lifting an eyebrow. See, her mother says inside her head, you knew all along. It was always there, waiting for you to remember. Just like me.

He is watching her, his head tilted to one side, before reaching down to flick water at her. She laughs, something releasing inside her as she retaliates, salt spray arcing in the air between them. He attempts to chase her, but she is faster. She dances away, the sunset turning the sky to flame as they run across the shoreline, laughter filling the air, until they collapse onto the sand.

‘You’re some woman, Moira Reid,’ he says, breathless, his eyes glittering, and she smiles.

I know.

*

The weeks pass quickly. The mornings begin to get lighter, birds tweeting in the garden as they work together on the doctor’s surgery, which they nickname The Bothy, when Moira isn’t at the bakery. The men have drifted away, and Moira realises Rupert must have been paying them to help, for why else would they have come? And so it occurs to her that he is there not out of need, but by choice.

They make a good team. Moira begins to strip the door of its peeling paint while Rupert finishes tearing down the ivy covering the walls. He discovers a hole in the roof and starts to mend it, leaving Moira to pull up the damaged floor tiles inside. She sent Rupert in first to clear out the mice and spiders, and watched in horror as they scuttled out of the leaves he swept out of the door. Now she stands in the middle, surveying the room. It is cold and damp, the walls filthy with grime and cobwebs, but it is a good space, with three separate rooms which, now the windows are clear, are relatively bright.

‘What are your thoughts?’ Rupert calls down through the hole in the roof. She looks up, surprised.

‘My thoughts?’ She swallows, suddenly unsure of herself. ‘Well . . . I thought this could be the kitchen,’ she says, indicating the room she is standing in. ‘Since there’s already a chimney in here.’

‘Makes sense,’ Rupert says with a nod.

She gives a tentative smile. ‘And through here, I thought we could maybe create a type of hallway? There’s enough space, and the doors are in the right positions.’ He pokes his head through the hole, watching her go. ‘So this could be the sitting room, with the fire on the other side of the chimney. Just there.’ She points at the wall adjoining the kitchen. ‘And then we could have two bedrooms, or maybe a bathroom in the smaller space at the end?’

‘A toilet, at least,’ he agrees.

She opens the door and he disappears, reappearing at the edge of the roof.

‘I thought we could fence off this area so there’d be some outside space too, maybe even room for a small herb garden. Do you think it could work?’

Rupert looks at her then, his lips curved into a smile. ‘Do you think it could work, Miss Reid?’

She looks around again, imagining the space transformed. ‘Yes,’ she says after a moment. ‘Yes, I think it could.’

‘Moira!’ She turns to see her father at the kitchen door, his arms crossed over his chest. She hurries over, taking in his frown as she realises Rupert has followed her.

‘Will there be more men coming?’ Charles asks. Moira opens her mouth before realising he is speaking to Rupert, who shakes his head.

‘Most of them are working on the railway. It’s good money, if you can get it.’

Charles makes a noise in the back of his throat. ‘Aye, if you can get it.’

‘We’ve made good progress together,’ Moira says quickly. ‘Rupert is mending the roof, and I’m making a start inside.’ They look at one another, a small smile passing between them.

Her father eyes her then, something calculating in his gaze. ‘And how much is all of this going to cost?’

‘Oh, not very much. Rupert managed to salvage some roof tiles, and the floor tiles are in pretty good shape. There are only a few broken, which I think I can mend.’

‘They’re good-quality tiles, like these ones,’ Rupert says, tapping his foot on the floor. ‘They must have been installed when the place was built. Were they both built at the same time?’

Moira glances at her father before speaking. ‘I’m not sure. I think my mum said her grandfather built it, or something. He was a doctor.’

‘Her grandfather? Is that what she told you?’ Charles scoffs. ‘The only reason we have this house is because of me. Your maw was poor as dirt when I married her.’

Moira stares at him in surprise. ‘What do you mean?’

But Charles has already lost interest. He turns away and ambles into the kitchen. They follow, watching as he goes into the lounge. Rupert looks up as they hear the radio switch on.

‘My family was poor too,’ he says quietly, ‘in money terms. But we never wanted for love.’

Moira feels something shift inside her. It is the act of being seen, she realises as she lies in bed later, turning the words over in her mind. She has never truly felt seen before, never felt as if she is understood by those around her. Other than at university, that is. The memory of what she has lost feels like a kind of grief. She realises she is mourning for the future she could have had, and never will.

But now there is Rupert, and The Bothy. She can already picture it in her mind, the sweet little cottage it will become beneath their hands. She thinks of the money it will bring in, and how much it will improve their finances, if she can squirrel enough away, hidden from her father. She wonders then why her parents never sold the land before, why they stayed in this house which has always been too big for just the three of them instead of moving into something more modest. But she knows why. Her father has drunk every last penny brought into the house, and the money from the sale would have served only to drown her father ten times over. And, somehow, her mother had managed to keep the title deeds from him. It is her house, despite what he says. And now it is mine, Moira thinks, though the thought terrifies her.

She watches the shadows play across the ceiling, thinking of Rupert on the floor above. Is he sleeping, or is he lying awake too, thinking of her? She rolls over, instantly annoyed with herself. She has always refused to entertain the idea of marrying and having children. Although she knows not all men are like Charles, she has come of age in a post-war world where women were shunted back into their rightful place – the home – and out of the working world. Shut in behind kitchen doors, their voices drowned out by the men who returned. Moira remembers none of this, of course. She has only vague memories of those years, but it seemed as if rationing never stopped for the Reids. Except for alcohol and cigarettes, that is. Charles had never been able to keep a job for long, so money was often tight, and so Moira had decided at a young age that she would never rely on a man for anything.

And yet . . . Here she is, living back with her father, letting him dictate her life. And upstairs is a man who doesn’t seem to want anything from her, but who believes in her. Who listens. Who sees her. And that changes things, doesn’t it?

Thirty-Two

MOIRA

Moira was twelve years old when she realised that her surname had not come from her father, like everyone else’s, but from her mother. They had been creating family trees at school, and, upon seeing the name Elspeth Reid above Cordelia’s name, her teacher had asked if she was sure that Elspeth shouldn’t be above Charles instead. Her lips were pursed into a thin line when Moira answered, her mouth moving behind them as if she were chewing on her words. Although women did not always give up their surnames upon marriage, it was still unusual, Moira had realised, to carry your mother’s name.

She had tried to ask Cordelia, once. She’d followed her mother into the bathroom, watching as she rubbed the bar of soap under the tap, creating a waterfall of bubbles. Anything more luxurious was a rare treat. Cordelia spent more time in the bath than she did anywhere else in the house, and there was no money left over for fancy bubble baths.

‘Ma,’ she said, picking at a loose thread in the mat beneath her. She was leaning against the bath, breathing in the scent of soap and gin and the smoke from her mother’s cigarette, and it struck her then that this would be how she would remember her. A water woman, submerged from the neck down, one small tip smouldering. ‘Ma, did Da take your surname when you married?’

Cordelia had laughed then, a bark of laughter that startled Moira. She turned to look at her mother, saw her exposed neck as she threw her head back, eyes closed.

‘Oh dear,’ Cordelia said eventually, tilting her head back up to take a swig of gin. ‘The cat is out of the bag, I suppose.’

Moira didn’t know which cat she meant, or which bag for that matter, but she understood later, when she was searching for her birth certificate during her university application. Mother, Cordelia Hazel Reid, it said. Father, Unknown.

She has pondered this often, playing with it like a loose tooth, testing for pain. It does not hurt, the realisation that Charles is probably not her father. She cares little for her heritage, for she knows who she comes from on her mother’s side and that is enough. That is the Reid history, after all. What hurts is how she has been left with him now, left to deal with his anger and his drinking. She has had to abandon her dreams to play mother to a grown man she probably isn’t even related to and certainly does not like.

Is this life? she thinks now, staring up at the dark sky from her bedroom window. It is late, or early, these twilight hours slippery like rocks beneath wet feet. She will be working on The Bothy tomorrow, can already feel the ache in her shoulders and thighs that will come, and she realises that she is looking forward to it. This is life, she thinks, watching as clouds roll over to snuff out the stars.

She wonders what being Rupert’s wife would be like. Perhaps he would do as Charles did, take the Reid name for his own, though she knows he would have very different reasons for doing so. She knows that he is different, and that together they could change everything.

Before she can stop herself, she is moving across the room, bare feet soundless against the floor. The attic door opens before she can knock, as if he has been waiting for her. His face is shadowed in the dark, but his eyes glisten, and she knows that he is smiling.

‘G’day, Miss Reid,’ he whispers, and she smiles back.

Without discussion, this becomes their new routine. Moira waits until Charles falls asleep before creeping up to the attic, where Rupert waits for her, a book open in his lap. Sometimes they read together, sometimes they talk into the early hours, the room filling up with their whispers. He is gentle with her, exploring her body with a soft touch, eyes seeking hers for her continued consent. She falls in love slowly, picturing her body filling up with a kind of golden light with each moment they spend together, until she is brimming.

Charles seems to notice the difference almost immediately. He watches Moira as she moves around the kitchen, peeling potatoes and chopping carrots. The cigarette crackles between his lips as he inhales, the late afternoon light catching the smoke and holding it, suspended, like unspoken words between them.

‘Like mother, like daughter,’ he mutters, and she holds her breath. Part of her wants him to go on, to tell her the truth about her birth, her parents’ marriage. The truth about her mother’s death. Before he can speak again, a shout rings out from the back garden, and Rupert, who had been hammering away at the roof, is suddenly nowhere in sight.

Moira drops the knife into the sink and rushes out of the back door, socked feet skidding on the path, muddy from recent rain. She crashes through the door to The Bothy to find Rupert lying in what will be the kitchen, his face twisted in pain. Above is a gaping hole in the roof, dust sparkling as it drifts down to land on him. Dropping to her knees beside him, Moira pushes debris from his stomach, hushing him as he tries to speak, to sit up. When she gets to his legs, her hands freeze in the air above him as her brain processes what she is seeing.

‘That bad, eh?’ he says, and she looks up at the sound of his voice, their eyes locking. He is smiling, though it strikes her as more of a grimace, and she tries to smile back, trying not to think about how deep the gash is, or whether the broken tile has cut through to the bone.

‘Aye, but worry not. You’ve got another one,’ she replies, fighting to keep her voice light, and he snorts. He reaches out to grab her hand, his fingers rough and covered in grit. ‘I need to get the doctor,’ she says after a moment.

He nods, wincing as he shifts his leg. ‘Shame he’s not here any more, eh? Dr Reid’s ghost could come in handy right now.’

She marvels at him, his spirit. She knows he can be serious. She has spent hours talking to this man about his childhood, about Australia, the hardships he faced growing up and the long crossing to Scotland. She knows him inside out, and so she knows now that he is putting on a brave face for her benefit.

‘I’ll be quick,’ she whispers, leaning in to brush her lips against his forehead, narrowly missing the gash above his brow, before leaping up and running back towards the house. Charles is still sitting at the kitchen table and she gapes at him, surprised that she is surprised at his inaction, his inhumanity. ‘Rupert’s hurt. I’m going to get the doctor.’

He says nothing as she rushes through the house to put on her shoes and coat, slamming the front door behind her. The doctor lives in the town, but the few minutes it takes to get there feels like an eternity. She doesn’t notice the looks she gets from people on the street, women with baskets of groceries and shopkeepers tidying displays. She runs towards the surgery, pushing open the door and startling the receptionist as she gasps out her words.

‘Dr Fisher is with a patient right now,’ the receptionist says, taking a piece of paper and noting something down. ‘But I will send him out to you as soon as he is finished. In the meantime, do this.’

She hands Moira the paper, who stares down at it, the words swimming before her eyes.

‘You need to stop the bleeding. Tie something tightly above the wound, a bandage if you have one, and make him comfortable. Do not remove the object if it is still embedded. You can clean the wound with saltwater. One teaspoon in a glass of warm water.’ Moira nods, trying to absorb what she is telling her, but confusion must be present on her face for the receptionist adds, ‘I was a nurse during the war. I saw things like this and worse. You can manage.’

‘Maybe you should come instead,’ Moira blurts, and the receptionist gives a small smile.

‘Go. Dr Fisher will be right behind you.’

She goes, her breath coming fast as she races back up the hill towards home. Charles is nowhere to be seen as she fills a glass with water and clumsily tips salt into it, stirring it with a finger. She finds the first aid kit, the contents spilling across the table as she searches for a bandage. Nothing. Swearing, she runs upstairs and pulls an old bedsheet from a cupboard, the fabric trailing behind her like a ghost as she rushes out to The Bothy.

Rupert is sitting up when she arrives, breathless, and he smiles faintly. ‘The cavalry has arrived.’

‘The cavalry is on the way,’ she corrects him, tearing a strip off the bedsheet with her teeth. ‘You’ll need to make do with me for now.’

She ties a strip beneath his knee, trying to ignore the acid stinging the back of her throat at the sight of the tile embedded in his flesh. Pulling out the scissors she took from the first aid kit, she carefully cuts away the fabric of his trousers.

‘This might hurt.’ She tears off another strip, dips it in the saltwater and lays it gently over the wound. Rupert inhales sharply, the breath hissing between his teeth, as she dabs at the blood seeping from the wound.

‘Thank you, Dr Reid,’ he says when she is finished. His face is ashen, and when she reaches out to take his hand his grip is weak, his pulse fluttering beneath her fingertips. He leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes.

‘Stay with me, Rupert Brown,’ she says, squeezing his hand. ‘It’s just a wee scratch. There’s no need for such a fuss.’

He snorts, but his eyes do not open, even when there are footsteps behind them.

‘Miss Reid?’ She turns to see Dr Fisher in the doorway, the receptionist following him inside. Moira isn’t sure who she is more relieved to see. ‘What happened?’

‘He was working on the roof, and it must have given way. He fell and . . .’ She trails off as the doctor crouches beside her, his eyes going straight to Rupert’s leg.

‘You’ve done well, Miss Reid. I’ll take it from here.’ He turns to the receptionist, who he calls Miss Hawkins, firing off instructions. She hands him what he asks for from a bag, then reaches out to place an arm around Moira’s shoulders as she moves out of the way. ‘Mr Brown? Can you hear me?’ the doctor asks.

‘It looks worse than it is,’ Rupert rasps, his eyes narrow slits as he watches the doctor unwrap the bandage. ‘You should’ve seen the other guy.’

Dr Fisher smiles. ‘Is this him?’ He gestures to the tile. ‘I’m going to have to take it out now, all right? Miss Hawkins, would you hand me the bottle?’ She passes it over and the doctor offers it to Rupert. ‘For the pain.’

Rupert shakes his head, his eyes seeking Moira’s. ‘No need.’

She steps forward, taking the bottle from the doctor and pushing the glass against Rupert’s lips. ‘Don’t be so bloody stubborn,’ she whispers, and Rupert grins then, in that lopsided way he has. His lips part and she pours the liquid in, watching his throat as he swallows.

The doctor looks between them as if trying to understand their quiet exchange, before nodding. ‘Ready? All right.’

Moira holds Rupert’s gaze as the doctor starts to slide the object out. Pain flashes across his face but he doesn’t look away, and then it is out, Miss Hawkins stepping forward to wrap it in a piece of cloth, hiding it from view.

‘Now we’ll patch you up, young man,’ Dr Fisher says with a wink. He is about the same age as Rupert. He’d been a few years above Moira in school, she remembers. His mother had known Cordelia when they were young, and hadn’t been very nice to her, if Cordelia was to be believed. How had she forgotten that?

‘How’s your maw?’ she asks as he cleanses the wound.

‘Away to Dundee, to live with her sister after my father died.’

‘My condolences.’

‘No need. It was a while ago now.’ Dr Fisher looks up at her briefly as he riffles through his bag. ‘I was sorry to hear of your mother’s passing.’

The words sting, even now, almost a year later, like salt in a wound. She thinks of Charles, lurking somewhere in the house, as she watches Dr Fisher carefully stitch up Rupert’s leg, and the damage a man’s hands can do. She nods and looks away. When she turns back to look at Rupert, his eyes are closed.

After, Dr Fisher helps Moira half-carry Rupert into the house. She knows they would never make it all the way up to the attic, so she pushes open the dining room door, the room dark and dusty with neglect. Miss Hawkins takes Moira’s place, supporting Rupert’s left side, while Moira pushes the table and chairs out of the way, leaving one propped against the wall. Rupert grunts as they help him onto it.

‘Now that’s what I call service,’ he says, but his voice is tired, his eyes bloodshot. ‘How much do I owe you, Doc?’

‘The service is free, Mr Brown,’ Dr Fisher says with a smile. He glances at his watch. ‘But, as long as I’m not imposing, I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.’

Rupert looks at Moira, knowing it falls to her, though he makes a better cup of tea than she does and would usually have jumped at the chance.

‘Don’t think I’ll be your skivvy now,’ she says, wagging a finger at him. He smiles back at her, and she squeezes his shoulder as she leaves the room. She fills the kettle, turning to find Miss Hawkins in the doorway.

‘Can I help?’ the older woman asks. ‘I could fill the sugar bowl, if you like. Dr Fisher likes his sugar, despite his warnings to the contrary.’

She gives a small smile, and Moira wonders how old she is. To have been a nurse during the war, she must be much older than she looks. She wonders what her life is like, and whether she is happy.

‘Thank you.’ She points her towards the right cupboard, then turns to arrange cups on a tray, trying to hide the strangeness of her thoughts. It’s been so long since they had company, Moira worries she’ll forget something. She tries to remember what Cordelia used to say about Dr Fisher’s mother. They had gone to school together, had perhaps been in the same class, but were not friends. Some people in the town still whispered about the house on the hill and the legacy of witches. Perhaps Mrs Fisher had been one of them.

‘I hope you don’t mind me saying,’ Miss Hawkins says, surprising her. ‘But I noticed that you are, um, in the family way.’ She nods towards Moira’s stomach, and her cheeks flush. ‘Is Mr Brown your . . .?’ Moira shakes her head, and Miss Hawkins nods again. ‘I don’t know if you are aware, Miss Reid, but Dr Fisher could assist you, if you were so inclined.’

Moira is stunned. Not by the suggestion that she might be pregnant with an unwanted child, but that there are options available to her.

‘He could?’

‘Yes. It is legal in Scotland and has been for some time, despite what is said in England. It’s considered a medical matter, which it is, of course.’ Miss Hawkins gives a small smile. ‘I believe one of your ancestors was one of the more forward-thinking doctors in this area.’

Dr Reid. Is this the big secret Charles has been hinting at? The dark cloud over the Reid family? Moira almost laughs. Of course Charles would consider women obtaining necessary healthcare something to be ashamed of. Of course Charles would consider it appropriate for Moira, and her mother, to be ashamed of the actions of a man they never met.

‘Mr Brown and I, we are . . .’ Moira trails off, considering her words. The kettle begins to rattle and she takes it off the heat, pouring the water into the teapot. ‘At the risk of sounding foolish, I believe we are in love.’

‘Not foolish at all, Miss Reid. I saw the way he looks at you.’ Miss Hawkins smiles. ‘You are young, yes, but I would never call you foolish.’

‘I think my mother had me out of wedlock,’ Moira blurts out. She presses a hand over her mouth, as if she can force the words back in. ‘I think my father is not my father,’ she adds, her voice a whisper.

Miss Hawkins comes over to take her hands in hers, fingers cool against her skin. ‘He is not a kind man?’ she asks, but her tone of voice suggests she already knows. This is a small town, after all. ‘Whatever went before, you need not repeat it. You can have a different path, if you choose. With Mr Brown, or without him.’

‘With him,’ Moira says automatically, and she feels something inside her release.

Thirty-Three

AILSA

Now

My fire was more of a slow burn. The heat was gradually turned up, the once-cool water suddenly scalding. But it was too late to jump out.

When I discovered what was happening, I didn’t speak to Andy. Part of me wanted to confront him, as his girlfriend, but instead I chose to put aside my personal feelings and acted as a colleague. I went straight to the headteacher, because that’s what I thought I should do. He was going to look into it; there would be a full investigation, he assured me. In the meantime, I should take some time off. Rest, he said. Recharge. Look after yourself. I trusted him, as I trusted men in general. I wonder whether I would have done so, had I not grown up with Pop as a role model. Had I not been so naïve, so shielded from the world.

It was a hard lesson. I went home, telling no one what had happened. Days passed, blurring together into one as I sat huddled on the sofa, a blanket pulled around me, the TV on mute. Waiting for the phone to ring, to be called in to give a statement to the police, to the board. Private schools work differently, even I knew that, but surely, surely, the outcome would be the same as anywhere else?

It wasn’t. Or perhaps it was. Perhaps he would have gotten away with it anywhere.

It started with that visit to the museum, his arm draped around the waist of a girl young enough to be his daughter. I told myself I’d been mistaken, that it wasn’t him, or the girl was a niece or something. Then I saw the messages on his phone, the ones with the contact names set as an initial only. L and A and E, and probably more. And then I caught him in the classroom, and finally the game was up. I couldn’t hide from it any more. My boyfriend, the man I thought I was in love with, was an abuser.

It began four days after I spoke to the head. It started on Twitter, because it’s always Twitter, isn’t it? Someone posted a picture of me and Andy, a picture I had never seen before but recognised instantly. We are sitting by a pool, legs trailing in the water, my head against his chest. We are smiling; we are happy. We had been together for almost two years by that point, had flown to Greece to celebrate during October half term. It is a benign photo, and yet it sparked a witch hunt.

@AilsaaaR is a lying, green-eyed bitch. She is trying to ruin a good man’s reputation with her lies. #IStandWithAndyWright

It was from an anonymous account, of course, but the replies weren’t. People piled on, my phone buzzing constantly from notifications of another comment, another finger in the wound.

She’s just jealous.

He is WAY out of her league. Dunno what she expected tbh.

She’s a teacher?? She shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near children!

You know what they say, hell have no fury . . .

Why didn’t she ask him before accusing him? Defo something fishy going on there.

They tagged the school, they tagged my colleagues, and anyone I’d recently interacted with online. Then the media picked it up. Someone – Andy Wright himself, possibly – feeding them lies about how I had become jealous of the ‘pretty young girls’ in my classroom, how I had become obsessed with Andy after he’d ended our relationship and decided that those girls, my students, were to blame for his lack of interest in me. They said I was trying to get him fired as revenge.

‘It’s disgusting,’ he wrote on Twitter a few days later. ‘I am not interested in Miss Reid, and her behaviour since our relationship ended has been incredibly disappointing. She should be ashamed of herself.’

I watched in horror as it snowballed. I wrote dozens of tweets and deleted every one of them as I knew that nothing I could say would make a difference. He had me. If I repeated the allegations I’d told the head, I would only add fuel to the fire. If I denied that Andy had ended our relationship before I caught him in the classroom with a girl, they wouldn’t have believed me. It would have seemed like I was protesting too much.

They came after me anyway. My DMs were full of vitriol, hateful words designed to hurt. The worst messages were the ones that were close to the bone, things I’d whispered to myself in the night, berating myself over and over again. Why hadn’t I seen it sooner? Why had I trusted him at all? Was I to blame?

The girls were always pupils known to the teachers. The ones who regularly failed to hand in their homework, who refused to read aloud in class, who bunked off to smoke behind the science block. I expect he thought he was saving them, but really he was gaining their trust so he could abuse his position of power.

I think of Rowan’s explanation of my conception, how she believes she always knew her own mind, and I wonder if any of those girls thought they were consenting too. He probably made them believe they were, so they would blame themselves instead of him. So they wouldn’t come forward when he was accused. So they wouldn’t see themselves as victims.

I called the school repeatedly, but the head refused to speak to me, until I received an email to tell me I was suspended pending an investigation into the allegation against me that I had made it all up. A counter allegation which took all attention away from what he had been doing, as it was designed to do.

I remember the feeling of disappointment when I was told that all of the girls had denied it. Andy and I had tried to keep our relationship quiet at school, but the students had found out anyway, and so the girls were surprised when the headteacher called them in to talk about what Andy had been doing. Some were suspicious, as if they couldn’t believe I would support them over my boyfriend. It made me sad, and then, I confess, annoyed, when they refused to speak up.

Now I know that my emotions were misplaced. Now I understand them. They had probably thought they’d be in trouble, either because he had told them so or because of the way society blames girls who do speak up. I wish I had gone to them privately, spoken to them about what was happening and tried to help in a more direct way. They must have been terrified when they’d been called in to see the head, afraid of what might happen to them, what their parents might say. In the end, I did nothing to help those girls. My career is over, my DMs are still full of death and rape threats, and I have to face the consequences of what I’ve done.

Thirty-Four

MOIRA

While Dr Fisher is finishing up with Rupert, Moira goes up to the attic to collect his pillows and sleeping bag. She cannot hope to drag the mattress all the way down, but she finds an old camp bed that she hopes isn’t too uncomfortable or covered in spiders.

‘Plenty of rest, Mr Brown. Fluids and good, hearty food,’ the doctor is saying as she sets the camp bed up and helps Rupert onto it. ‘And no more going up on that roof.’

‘Yes, Doctor,’ Rupert says with a half-smile. He tries to sit up again as soon as Moira has closed the front door.

‘Lie down,’ she chides him, laying a hand on his shoulder and pushing him back down. ‘You heard the doctor. Rest.’

‘Yes, Ma’am,’ he says in an attempt at an American accent. She fights a smile.

‘I’ll make you some tea. Are you hungry? I’ll bring something through.’ She bustles out of the room before he can answer. Charles is back at the kitchen table, smoking his pipe, while she puts water on to boil.

‘And how will he be paying us now, since he cannae work?’ Charles asks loudly.

Moira glances at the dining room door, which stands open. ‘He’ll get back to work as soon as he can, I’m sure,’ she says quietly, though she knows Rupert will have heard her father’s words.

Charles grunts. ‘Aye, well. We’re not running a charity here. Three days, then he’ll have to go.’

‘A week,’ she snaps, the words coming out before she can stop them. ‘Surely,’ she adds, softening her tone. ‘A week seems reasonable.’

Her father watches her as he scratches his cheek, fingernails rasping against the stubble. She turns her body away.

‘Five days,’ he says, ‘and watch your mouth.’ She drops her gaze, finds a tiny crack in the floor tile beneath her feet to focus on until he leaves the room. ‘And go and get me some more whisky,’ he barks from the sitting room.

Seething, Moira opens the tin she keeps the housekeeping money in and finds enough for a bottle, then takes enough for two plus a fish supper for them all. Rupert could probably do with a drink to take his mind off the pain, and she doesn’t feel like cooking tonight. Shrugging into her jacket, Moira takes the money and heads off back into town. As she’s exiting the shop with two bottles of whisky tucked beneath her arm, she hears someone call her name. She tries to hide the bottles as she turns to find Amelia moving slowly towards her.

‘How is he, my dear?’ the elderly florist asks as she approaches. ‘Stella said the Aussie has broken his leg.’

‘Oh, no, it’s not broken, thank heavens. Just a very deep cut,’ Moira replies. She tries to smile. ‘He’ll be up and about soon enough.’

‘Oh, I am very glad to hear it.’ Amelia pauses, and Moira waits for her to speak again. ‘Moira, dear, I have to ask. Is he . . . related?’

‘Related?’

‘To you, dear. Your family. It’s just . . . Well, people talk, and . . .’

Moira imagines she can feel the child moving around inside her, but no, it is far too early. People would certainly talk about you, she thinks. She pastes what she hopes is a polite smile on her lips and says goodbye, hurrying back towards the house. She hands a bottle of whisky and a parcel of fish and chips to her father. He takes them without a word, which she is grateful for, as she cannot trust herself not to snap at him tonight.

In the kitchen, she finds a plate for Rupert’s meal and fills a glass from the other bottle. His eyes are closed when she enters the dining room, but they pop open as she sets the plate and glass down on the floor beside the camp bed.

‘I can warm this up for you later, if you’d like,’ she says quietly. ‘If you’d rather sleep first?’

He peers down at the offerings before looking up at her with a smile. ‘Is that whisky?’ She nods. ‘And where’s your glass?’

‘Oh, I don’t drink.’

Rupert glances at the open doorway behind her. ‘Because of him?’ he whispers.

She nods again, though of course Charles is not solely to blame. Cordelia’s drinking left its own mark.

‘Then neither do I.’

‘But the pain, Rupert,’ she protests, then blushes. Has she ever used his name before, outside of the dark cocoon of the attic? She takes a breath. ‘I thought it might help.’

‘I’m not on my deathbed,’ he says with a chuckle. ‘Just a few bumps and bruises. I am however bloody starving.’ He glances down at the plate again. ‘And, again, Miss Reid, I must ask: where’s yours?’

‘In the kitchen.’

‘Will you bring it in here, or will you make a poor crippled boy hobble out there?’

Moira laughs then. ‘Oh, you’re crippled now, are you?’

‘If that’s what it takes for you to eat supper with me, then, yes,’ Rupert says with a grin. ‘Is this not the dining room?’ He gestures towards the table in the corner.

Moira hesitates for a moment, glancing back towards the sitting room, Amelia’s words running through her mind. People talk . . . Well, let them, she thinks as she spins on her heel and goes back into the kitchen, grabbing her own food and filling two glasses with water. She tucks the bottle of whisky beneath the sink, where she hopes her father won’t look, before going back into the dining room. Only when she is seated at the table does Rupert pick up his plate.

‘You just cannae beat a good fish supper,’ he says, popping a chip into his mouth. ‘Especially when accompanied by a beautiful lady.’

‘There’s no need for your flattery, Mr Brown,’ Moira says, trying to hide her smile at his atrocious attempt at a Scottish accent, ‘I’ve already brought you your food.’

He chuckles and continues to eat.

‘Tell me a story,’ she says after a moment, wanting to hear his voice. ‘Would you ever return to where you grew up?’

‘Nah, there’s nothing much there. An old mining town on the edge of the desert.’

‘Really? Which desert?’

Rupert smiles. ‘You wouldn’t know it.’

‘Try me.’

He pauses for a moment before speaking. ‘All right. It’s about a thousand kilometres north-east of Perth. There was a mining boom a number of years back, and that’s how I got to be there. My grandparents were following the gold.’

This is new information, and she relishes it. ‘Gold? Did they find any?’

‘Not much, and then they started closing the mines. My granddad worked on the railway for a bit and then became a police officer, and then my dad did the same.’ He makes a face.

‘And he wanted you to follow in their footsteps?’

Rupert nods. ‘But I was never cut out to be a copper.’

‘Why not?’ He looks at her then, and she feels something spark when his eyes find hers. Some kind of connection, as if she can suddenly see into his brain and read his thoughts. ‘Your skin,’ she says quietly, and he nods again.

‘My dad was white,’ he says. ‘But Mum was an Aboriginal. Martu. The government started bringing them in, as they called it, and that’s how they met. They lived on the same street as kids.’

‘Bringing them in?’

‘The Martu are a nomadic people. They live in family groups out in the desert, but someone somewhere decided that they should be brought in to live like good, Christian folk. They were taken from their settlements and the children were torn from their parents.’

Moira feels a wave of horror wash over her at the images his words conjure. ‘And your mum . . .?’

Rupert nods. ‘She was one of the children. They anglicised her, gave her a Christian name, and made her forget about her heritage. But they couldn’t change the colour of her skin. Just like I can’t change mine, I guess.’

They are silent for a moment, Moira considering everything he’s told her. A white father, an Aboriginal mother. She thinks of the horror of those children being torn away from their parents, the only family they’d ever known, and forced into stiff dresses and shoes that pinched. She thinks about them losing their language, their identity. And she thinks of Rupert, a foot in both worlds, unable to fully understand either.

‘They loved each other,’ Rupert says, and Moira looks up at the sadness in his voice. ‘My parents were good people, loving, generous. They didn’t give a hoot what people thought. But I never quite managed to grow a thick enough skin.’

‘Is that why you came here? To escape?’

‘Not escape, so much. More to find myself, my own path. My great-granddad was originally from Scotland. Got shipped over to the colonies.’ He gives a bark of laughter. ‘Strangled someone with the laces from his boots, or so the stories go.’

‘Jesus,’ Moira murmurs.

‘And I told you,’ he says, holding up a chip, ‘that I heard this place had the best fish and chip shop in Scotland. And that was no lie.’

Moira laughs, too loudly, and glances at the door.

Rupert, noticing, frowns. ‘Are you afraid of him?’ he asks, his voice low. ‘Does he . . . Has he ever . . .?’

A familiar chill creeps over her skin then. Nobody has ever asked before, not her teachers when they noticed the bruises, nor her friends when they heard shouting as they stood on the doorstep. Fathers discipline their children, it is their role and their right, but are all children as scared of their fathers as Moira is of hers? And how many children don’t just consider their fathers capable of murder, but truly suspect them of it? She fears – she hopes – she is alone in this.

‘It’s not your concern, Mr Brown,’ she says, abruptly getting to her feet and leaving the room. Her heart flutters in her chest as she sees a shadow disappear into the kitchen, and she wonders how much he heard.

Thirty-Five

MOIRA

While Rupert heals, Moira works alone in The Bothy, cobwebs in her hair, grit beneath her nails. The place is starting to take shape, and she can almost see it as a home. Her body throbs with exhaustion every evening, and sometimes she is too tired to eat the supper she prepares for Rupert and her father. She is not avoiding him, she tells herself, though she averts her gaze when she brings in his meals and leaves as quickly as she can. Her father would not approve of her feelings towards this man, and although he has not lost his temper since her mother died, the threat of violence is always crackling under the surface, like a thunderstorm in the distance. And if he found out the truth, he would kill them both.

A few days after Rupert’s accident, Moira comes downstairs to find him in the kitchen making a pot of tea. It is early, and she’d heard Charles snoring when she passed his room, so she cannot avoid being alone with Rupert.

‘You sit down,’ he tells her with a smile, but his eyes are serious. ‘You look exhausted.’

‘I’m not sure you should be up and about just yet,’ she scolds, but her heart is not in it. She is grateful for his kindness, still unused to being seen so clearly.

Rupert leans on the kitchen counter as he moves around, using it to support himself, and spills drops of tea on the table as he transports it across the room. Moira stifles a grin and, noticing, he laughs. ‘I’d offer to make you some eggs, but I’ve a feeling you’ll be wearing them instead of eating them.’

She laughs then too, the kind of laugh that escapes you unwittingly, as if you have no choice in the matter.

‘What’s all this for?’ she asks when Rupert has safely slid into the chair opposite her.

‘What, this? It’s only tea, Miss Reid,’ he says. ‘You’ve been my nursemaid since I took a tumble, and I wanted to say thank you.’ His eyes soften as he speaks, and he reaches up to rub the back of his neck, something he does when he is nervous or considering something, she has learned. ‘You do everything around here,’ he continues after a moment. ‘And you deserve better.’ His words surprise her. She glances behind her at the open doorway, but it is empty. Rupert nods as if she has spoken. ‘I know you don’t want to talk about it, and I respect that. But I want you to know that you can talk to me, about anything, okay?’

Moira feels her eyes prickle and looks away, shame coursing through her. He knows. Her hands go protectively to her belly and she sees his eyes widen.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ He reaches out, taking her hand in his. ‘Moira, love, you should have told me. And you shouldn’t be working in your condition.’

‘I’m not made of glass,’ she snaps, but he smiles.

‘Aye, I know you’re not. But you are carrying my child.’

The words fill the air between them, settling on their shoulders like a dusting of snow. It feels right, she realises. She could let herself believe that this is her way out of this life, that things will be different, better. But she cannot allow herself to believe that things will work out. She cannot trust that life will let her have anything other than what she’s been given. That she could be happy.

Rupert gently squeezes her hand, jolting her out of her thoughts. ‘I want to take care of you. Both of you. If you’ll let me.’

She nods towards his injured leg. ‘I think you’re the one who needs taking care of.’

He shakes his head, ignoring her attempt to brush him off. ‘We should get out of here, before your father finds out.’

She sighs. ‘And go where? This is my home.’

‘This isn’t a home. Home is where you feel safe, warm, loved. It’s somewhere we can create, just the two of us, if you’d like.’ His eyes flick down to her stomach then back to her face. ‘The three of us,’ he amends quietly.

She pictures them both sitting at a table like this one, in a kitchen of their own, a little one playing at their feet. She imagines him mowing the grass of their small, neat garden, spraying their child with a hose. The picture is comforting, and yet something gives her pause. The future she’d imagined for herself is slipping further and further away, like a ribbon drifting out to sea.

‘Moira Reid, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’ Rupert says, before smiling. ‘I would get down on one knee, but y’know.’

‘For goodness’ sake,’ she says, unable to hide her own smile.

‘Don’t leave a guy hanging here.’

‘You don’t mean it, Rupert. I—’

‘I bloody well do.’

‘Rupert.’ The word hangs heavy between them. She inhales, trying to gather her courage. ‘I can’t. He won’t . . . He’d kill me, if he found out. Just like he killed her. My mother.’

It is the first time she has spoken the words aloud, and she watches his eyes widen in surprise, then harden.

‘He’d have to go through me first.’ His fingers are gentle on her skin as he lifts her chin. She meets his gaze and feels as if she could fall into it. ‘Moira, you’re one of the most remarkable people I’ve ever met. There’s nobody else like you in this world. You’re strong, intelligent, determined. There’s nothing you can’t do. And you’re incredibly bloody annoying.’ She laughs and drops her head again, tears splashing on the table before her. ‘So, I’ll put my heart on the line and ask you, again, to be my wife. No, not wife.’ She looks up in surprise. ‘To be my partner, in love and in life.’

Moira stares at him, his eyes twinkling, and feels his words wash over her. Suddenly she can see it, the two of them together, a marriage of hearts and minds and equality. A marriage born of true, deep love and respect.

She nods, and he squeezes her hand, bringing it up to his lips.

‘Come with me. We can go anywhere, anywhere in the world. We can escape him.’

‘Australia?’ she whispers, picturing baked red sand and a bright, unrelenting sun.

‘Anywhere,’ he repeats. ‘Wherever you want to go. I could build us a house, and try not to fall through the roof this time.’ They both give small, watery smiles. ‘You could have your kitchen garden and chickens and even a goat, if you wanted. Hell, we could run a farm or something, our very own business. Be our own bosses. The children could get involved too, and I could teach them how to read while you cook dinner or have a soak in the bath. We’d have a proper bathroom like here, a brand-new tub big enough to fit us all in.’

She listens to him, enjoying how he is getting carried away. She allows herself to imagine it all for a moment before shaking her head.

‘This is my home,’ she says again. ‘I own this house.’ Rupert’s eyes widen in surprise. ‘It’s the only thing my mother left me,’ she explains. ‘I don’t know how she did it, but I saw the deeds. This house is in her name.’

‘Not his?’ Rupert jerks his head towards the stairs.

‘Not his.’

‘Well then, we just get rid of him. Kick him out.’

Moira smiles. ‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that. Pack his bags for him and throw him out the door.’

She shakes her head again. ‘He’d never allow it. Even if we could get him to leave, he’d come back.’

She remembers listening to her parents argue at night, the words her father hissed at her mother. I’ll burn this house to the ground, and you inside it. She shudders.

‘He’d always come back,’ she whispers.

Rupert squeezes her hand again. ‘Then we need a plan,’ he says, and when she looks up she can see he understands.

*

From that moment, Rupert makes sure Moira is never alone with her father. He stays with her when she is baking or cooking, helping her roll out dough or peeling potatoes. Charles makes snide remarks at this, but Rupert says nothing. He does not rise, and neither does he betray the truth of their relationship, and with each day that passes, Moira can feel that little house with a large bathtub and chickens running around the garden get a tiny bit closer. Except it would be this house, with The Bothy rented out cheaply to men working locally. There is no mortgage to pay, only bills and food, and her wages from the bakery could cover most of those. She has some savings too, and Rupert would find another job to support them. Maybe she could even go back to university, when the baby is old enough. The thought sends a thrill through her. But Charles still looms over them, his empty whisky bottles littering the sitting room, the stench of his unwashed body permeating the house like a disease. There is only one way to get rid of him for good, Moira knows, but she isn’t sure she has it in her, and so she does what she does best: she waits.

Though she knows his leg still pains him, Rupert insists on getting back to work on The Bothy. At Moira’s insistence, they draft in a few local men to help with the roof, Rupert supervising from the ground, where he is installing the kitchenette. Between shifts at the bakery, Moira fills and paints the walls, and scrubs the floor tiles until they almost look new. Her lower back begins to ache, turning into a permanent dull throb. Her body is starting to change in ways she had not expected, which she hides beneath baggy clothes, but she struggles to mask the exhaustion which never seems to leave her.

One morning, she is rolling out dough for a pie when Rupert comes in from the garden. ‘Tim’s asked me to help out on a job,’ he says, running the tap and filling a glass with water. ‘For a week, he said. It’s good pay.’

Moira looks out of the window to see Tim raking over the ground that she will plant vegetables in. She nods. ‘That’s good. You should do it.’

‘But it means a week lost here.’

‘I can finish off the garden. I’ll pop in to see Amelia after my shift one day. She sells vegetable seeds.’

‘And it means leaving you alone,’ Rupert adds, and she looks up to see his face creased with worry.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she says, a sense of frustration washing over her. She is grateful for his kindness and basks in the glow of his company, but she does not need him to save her. It reminds her of one of the rumours about her mother that are still whispered around town, how Charles had ‘saved her from ruin’. Moira has never asked about this rumour, but she suddenly has the feeling that the situation might have been very similar to the one she finds herself in now. Pregnant and unmarried, grateful for a man who is willing to step up. But Cordelia’s white knight had been a demon in disguise, and Moira has no intention of falling into the same trap. Although she believes Rupert to be a good, kind man, she also knows that her father had to have charmed Cordelia in the beginning, at least a little bit. She has to remain confident in herself, firm in the knowledge she could stand on her own two feet, if push came to shove.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she repeats more firmly, and after a beat, Rupert nods.

He leaves early each morning, sometimes before Moira is awake, and on those mornings he leaves a clean cup on the side for her and wraps the teapot in a cosy her mother had knitted years before. His own breakfast things are always cleared away, the draining board wiped clean. She smiles as she drinks her morning tea, enjoying the calm before her father wakes.

One afternoon after her shift, Moira is planting seeds in the kitchen garden. The sun is warm and she longs to take off her jumper, but her condition is starting to show and she daren’t think about what her father would do if he found out. But he will find out, she reminds herself. You can’t hide a baby forever. Shaking herself, she goes into the small kitchen and moves the heavy toolbox out of the sink before twisting the tap. Water splutters out of the spout and she smiles before bending and drinking. She is amazed at all they have achieved in such a short space of time. The kitchen cupboards are all in, though the drawers are waiting for the fronts to be put on, and Rupert has done a good job with the plumbing, despite it being his first time. There is still work to be done, but Rupert seems to be able to turn his hand to anything. ‘God loves a trier,’ her teacher used to say when Moira’s grades weren’t what she’d hoped for, patting her on the shoulder in encouragement.

Her stomach flips at the memory. She misses the bustle of the university grounds, the hush of the lecture hall and the sound of pens scratching against paper. She misses her friends, the smell of the coffee they would grab on the way to lectures, or the hot chocolate cupped between their hands as they took an evening walk after dinner. Her hands find their way to her stomach as she blinks back tears, but they are tears of joy, for finally she can see a light at the end of the tunnel, a new path just for her, Rupert by her side.

The sky is darkening beyond the window, the evening closing in. Rupert will be home soon, and she still has to get supper ready. With a sigh, she turns towards the door and stops, her heart leaping into her mouth. Charles fills the doorway, his face dark, his eyes trained on the hands which still clutch her stomach. She drops them, but it is too late.

‘Whore,’ he hisses, and takes a step towards her.

‘Da, it’s not—’

His fist connects with her cheekbone and pain explodes through her head. She staggers backwards, catching her hip on the edge of the sink, and then he is on her, dragging her up by her hair.

‘I knew it,’ he growls, his breath hot and fetid with whisky. ‘I knew it was a mistake letting that Aussie stay here.’

‘It’s not what you think,’ she protests, but her words are barely more than a whisper. His fingers are digging into her skull and she cries out in pain when he yanks her towards him.

‘Whore,’ he says again, pushing her against the sink. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, sharp knife. The image of the blade slicing through flesh fills her mind and her throat tightens with fear. ‘I’ll be a real Reid man now,’ he says, sneering at her. ‘I’ll cut it out of you like old Dr Reid used to.’

Moira squirms, trying to free herself from his grip, but he slams her against the counter, sending shockwaves of pain through her spine. His knee connects with her stomach and she doubles over, the breath knocked out of her. But terror is coursing through her and she will not, cannot, let this happen.

‘Get off me!’ she cries, fighting him for the first time. She puts her hands against his chest and shoves, and he staggers backwards, his eyes wide with surprise. ‘I won’t put up with it like she did!’

‘Shut your mouth,’ Charles growls.

‘No! I won’t. I won’t keep quiet any more.’ She is breathing heavily, all the years of pain and fear turning to fury inside her. ‘You are to blame, for everything. You hit her, you hurt her for years and then you killed her.’ She watches her words hit him like blows, and she knows that they are true. ‘You killed my mother. She never swam in the sea. I don’t know how you did it, but you dragged her down to the beach and you drowned her.’

Charles stares at her, his eyes wide, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. He doesn’t remember, she realises with shock. He doesn’t remember what he’s done. For the first time in Moira’s life, her father looks afraid.

‘I . . .’

‘I want you out,’ she says, taking a step forward. ‘Pack a bag and get out of my house, and never come back.’

‘This is my house,’ he says, but his words carry no weight. Moira can almost see the thoughts whirling through his head, the haze of whisky cloaking his memories, letting him forget the worst of himself.

‘It’s mine. My mother left it to me, I’ve seen the deeds. It’s the only reason you never sold any of the land – you couldn’t.’

Something changes in Charles’s face then. The familiar glint, the threat of violence lurking in the background coming to the fore. He turns his face upwards.

‘You’d love that, wouldn’t you?’ he bellows before looking at Moira again, his eyes almost popping out of his skull. ‘She worked her magic on you, no mistake. Poor Cordelia, a scared wee girl with a brute of a husband.’ Memories of bruises flash through Moira’s mind, her father’s fingers gripping her mother’s throat. ‘I did what any husband would do, should do! She never listened, never knew when to shut up, to stop.’

He takes a step towards Moira, but she stands her ground, ignoring the trembling in her legs.

‘You’re the same. I should have known you’d turn out just like her. Do you want to know what really happened to your maw?’ He takes another step forward, closing the gap between them. ‘She walked into the sea, just like I told you. Just like her whore mother did. She drowned herself.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ Moira whispers.

‘It doesn’t matter what you believe. The truth is that she killed herself as soon as you were out of the way. She didn’t care about either of us.’

‘You’re lying!’

He laughs then, shaking his head. ‘It would be so much easier for you, for her, if I were lying, wouldn’t it? It would suit you both so bloody well. But it doesn’t matter. You’re my daughter, and you’re going to do as I say. You are mine! This is all mine!’ He raises his voice again, lifting a hand to slap it against his chest. ‘I’m the man of this house!’

Fury bubbles up inside her, turning her fear to ash. ‘You are nothing,’ she hisses. ‘And nothing here belongs to you.’

His lips twist into a snarl and he raises the knife again, lurching towards her. Before she can think, she turns and grabs the toolbox, lifting it high and swinging it towards her father. It connects with a sickening crunch, and then he crumples to the ground, his blood leaking onto the tiles.

‘Oh my God.’

Moira looks up to see Rupert standing in the doorway, a hand over his mouth, his eyes trained on the body at her feet.

‘He’s dead,’ she says. ‘I killed him.’

Thirty-Six

MOIRA

It begins to rain as Rupert digs. It drums against the new roof tiles and soaks Moira as she sits in the doorway, her hand trembling as she brings a cigarette to her lips. Her feet are wet, her skirt splashed with rain and mud, but she does not move. She cannot go back in there. She cannot bear to look at what she has done.

The floor tiles have been ripped up, smashed pieces littering the bottom of the hole Rupert has dug in the middle of the kitchenette. The body, wrapped in a sheet Moira had used to protect the floor from the paint, awaits burial. She feels its presence behind her, and half-expects him to get up and grab her. But he isn’t ever getting up again. The heavy toolbox caved in the side of his head, and he was dead before he hit the ground. And now the makeshift grave is ready, and Rupert is trying to roll the body into it.

Taking a deep breath, Moira pushes her wet hair from her face and stands. She can hear Rupert struggling with the body, for her father had been a big man, and she cannot let him do this alone. She cannot hide from what she has done. Stepping inside, she takes hold of Charles’s feet and, with a nod, helps Rupert lower the body into the hole.

They stare down at it for a moment, and when Rupert opens his mouth, Moira thinks he is going to say a prayer, but then he spits into the hole and begins to shovel dirt on top of it, and she exhales.

Locking The Bothy door behind them, they walk back to the main house. Moira starts making tea, her hands shaking as she spoons sugar into a cup, until Rupert gently takes the spoon from her hand and guides her into a chair. They have not spoken since he found her standing over her father’s body, since her confession, but she has felt nothing from Rupert except a calm determination to get the job done. Now he sits opposite her, steaming cups of tea between them, and he does not press her. She lights another cigarette, passing one to him, and they smoke in silence, the room growing dark around them.

‘He found out,’ she says after a while. Her voice is hoarse. ‘He was going to . . .’

‘I know,’ Rupert says, taking her hand in his, and they say nothing more.

Later, they climb into Rupert’s bed in the dining room, his arms wrapped around her while she cries. In the silence, a pact is formed, a bond which will withstand the test of time and everything life could possibly throw at them. Though she does not know it now, Moira’s path will be entirely different to her mother’s. Cordelia had been trapped by her marriage; Moira will be cocooned inside hers.

*

Their wedding is a quiet affair. The day dawns bright, a pale blue sky full of wispy clouds. She wears her best skirt suit, her hair pinned back in the neat chignon her mother taught her. In the bathroom mirror, she applies a light pink lipstick, avoiding her own gaze.

There is talk of where Charles has gone, though the gossip seems to favour the idea that he’d had enough and decided to find another woman to leech off. They knew Charles had been an outsider, that he’d blown in and married Cordelia when she was pregnant with another man’s child, and for that he had earned a modicum of their respect, but he had always been lazy and more than partial to a drink. Now his daughter was growing up and starting a family of her own, perhaps he had decided it was time to find something else.

Moira says as little as she can about where her father has gone, and once people realise she is in the family way, they ask fewer questions. When her son is born, a few cards come through the letterbox, and a bouquet is delivered by Amelia’s shop girl. By that point, Charles is the furthest thing from Moira’s mind. She gives birth at home with only Miss Hawkins present, her calm, easy manner a balm to Moira’s fear. Doug slips into the world in the early hours of the morning, his umbilical cord cut by Rupert, and Moira knows for certain that she has made the right choice.

One day, while Moira tries to catch up on sleep in the room downstairs which has become their bedroom, Rupert makes a start on the master bedroom. Without Moira having to tell him, he knows that she does not want to sleep with the memories of her father. He removes all remnants of Charles, dumping his clothes and books into black bags and storing them in The Bothy. All work has been abandoned since that night, and Moira hasn’t yet decided what to do with the place, but how could they let anyone live there now there is a body buried beneath it? These are thoughts she cannot find space for, and so she pushes them down, away, buries them in the garden with the body.

When she goes upstairs, Doug nestled in her arms, she finds that the walls in the master bedroom have been repainted, floral curtains hang at the previously empty windows, and a new mattress lies on the bedstead, the old one discarded in the hall.

‘What’s this?’ she asks, startling Rupert who is building a chest of drawers in the far corner.

‘Our new room,’ he says. ‘Do you like the colour?’ It is her favourite colour, a muted sage green, and she wonders how he’d known. He glances at her as he tightens a screw. ‘Do you think you can sleep in here now?’

She gazes around, noting that he has changed the layout too, moving the bed to the wall opposite the window. It looks nothing like the room her parents shared, and even if she tries, she cannot feel either of their presences.

‘Yes,’ she says, looking down at the sleeping baby in her arms and seeing only herself and Rupert, his golden light rippling across their son’s face. ‘Yes, I think I can.’

Life, then, falls into an easy routine. Due to a rapid expansion plan, Rupert gets work on the railways, and though he is bone tired when he gets home every day, he always has a smile for Moira as they eat supper together. They keep no alcohol in the house, save for some cooking sherry in the cupboard, and instead they enjoy a cup of tea together in the kitchen before they go to bed, a cigarette shared between them. There is plenty of physical contact; lips brushing against a cheek, a head resting on a shoulder, fingers entwined, but there is no mad passion between them, no fire which seeks to destroy everything in its path. Their relationship is built on a bedrock of mutual respect, and Moira feels as if she is fused to him, in tune with every thought he has, one heart beating beneath their chests. Her love for this man grows every day, and she sees his love for her in the way he plays with Doug in the bath, carefully mopping up the splashes when they are finished. She sees it in the way he places his wages on the kitchen table every week, when they sit together to count it out, making sure everything is covered. And when she goes back to work, she sees it in the way he walks her to her Saturday morning shift, Doug in his arms and, later, sitting on his shoulders, both smiling happily as she leaves the bakery, three iced buns tucked into her bag.

She sees it in the way he takes her to the maternity unit the day before she gives birth to their daughter, leaving eleven-year-old Doug at home with the TV and a tin of biscuits. His eyes are soft with emotion when she presents him with Rowan, and she fancies she hears him whisper the same promise that echoes inside her own head: things will be different for you.

*

Moira finds the diary after a leaky pipe almost destroys the house. The bath, with its ancient lead pipes, seems to have been dripping for years, until finally it bursts through the floorboards and bits of plaster fall from the ceiling and onto the kitchen table. Rupert prises up the rotten wood around the bath, and there it is, nestled between cobwebs and darkness, waiting for her to discover it. As if Cordelia had known that it would be Moira who would find it.

To my daughter, the inside cover says. Who will be different.

Moira reads while Rupert works, sitting cross-legged in the corner like she did so many times as a child, her mother lying beneath the water. Now Rowan lies beside her, chewing on a teething ring, and Moira reads her mother’s words. Her story is written haphazardly, not in any kind of order that Moira can tell, but the words flow like water and she is immersed.

When I was a child, I had two mothers. I think people knew, or at least suspected, that there was something more between my mother and Aunt Selina, but we lived in a kind of separate world up here, in the house. It was like a utopia, a haven away from the rest of the world. But then Selina died, and Elspeth deteriorated, leaving me alone. Selina drowned in the sea – an accident, and yet the ocean became a forbidden place, a monster to be afraid of. But it was the loneliness that terrified me the most. My mother warned me about the dangers of men too, but I did not listen. Her fears made me defiant, and I paid the ultimate price for that disobedience.

Charles believes he saved me but, in truth, he damned me. I could have borne the shame of being an unwed mother, for truly there is no shame in it. I know that now. I had loved the man who was the true father of my child, and although I knew we could never be together, I also knew he loved me too. For a while, that was enough. Until his wife discovered our affair, and took the children back to her family in Ireland. He was faced with a choice then, between his children with her and the one growing inside me, and he made it. Once again, I was left alone, and I confess I did not know how to be alone. So when Charles arrived – a deserter, I later found out – I allowed myself to believe that he would take care of me. My mother – both of them, actually, though Elspeth more so – would have been so disappointed in me.

I always suspected he might kill me someday. I gave him a home, a name, a new identity away from his past and those who hunted him, and in turn he would take my life. I didn’t believe I had it in me to take his, but now Moira is growing up, and I see the way she looks at me, a mixture of fear and pity in her eyes, and I think, Yes. I could kill him. I should kill him. If not for me then for her. But I am weak, and years have passed before I realised it. I am afraid of him and what he will do to me when Moira is gone.

I learned of both Alastair and Samuel Reid from Aunt Selina. Elspeth would not speak about my father, and once I learned the truth, I understood why. But Selina did not treat me as if I was made from china. She did not shy away from the hard truths. I wish I had known Alastair, my grandfather, better. I wish I could remember him, but he died when I was young. I do not know what happened to Samuel, but Selina told me that I would never know him and need never fear him.

I sometimes wish it had been Elspeth who had died first. Although I loved her terribly, sometimes I would catch her looking at me as if I were a stranger. It became clear that she did not know how to live without Selina. If Selina had survived, perhaps things would have been different. Perhaps she could have taught me how to be alone, how to be stronger. How to protect my own daughter.

Cordelia’s story unfolds slowly, wrapping itself around Moira, and finally, she understands the woman who had been her mother. She keeps the diary in her bedside table, wrapped carefully to protect the fragile pages, and vows never to forget. She tells her daughter about her mother, the woman who did not live to become a grandmother, and the women who went before. She takes her daughter up to the graveyard, teaching her the story of the Reid women and how the men had turned against them, their anger sparking a flame that would burn for centuries.

‘But not our men,’ she whispers as Rowan reaches out chubby fingers towards the iron ring. ‘History need not repeat itself. We can be different. We will be different.’ She believes it at the same time she believes that it is impossible to tell the good from the bad, until it is too late, but she prays things will have changed by the time her daughter grows up.

When Rowan is two, Moira stands on the doorstep, the November air nipping at her ankles. Turning back, she reaches in behind her and pulls out a pair of her father’s old boots, kicking her own shoes off before stuffing her feet into them, tying the laces tight. She looks ridiculous, her long skirt brushing the tops of these ancient steel toecaps, but she doesn’t care. It is dark, and nobody will see her.

Two hundred and seventy miles to the south, women are marching arm in arm through the streets of Leeds. Moira can almost hear them walking beside her as she makes her way down to the seafront. The night is cold, the sea wild and grey as it crashes against the rocks beneath her. It is as if the ocean is crying out, the voices of hundreds of women carried in the sea spray. Thousands, millions of women. All of them from across the globe, from the wains in the cradle to the elderly on their deathbed. Her mother, from beyond the grave. The women who burned on the hill above, their ashes scattered to the wind. In the roar and crash of the ocean, Moira hears them, and she opens her mouth and lifts her voice to meet theirs. Sea sprays across her face and she tastes salt on her tongue.

She goes back to Rupert, who is cleaning a wound on Doug’s knee, carefully picking gravel from between his skin. Rowan is in her highchair, watching her brother try not to cry. Doug’s other foot kicks against the table leg, tap tap tap, in a metronome matching Moira’s own heartbeat. She places a hand on Rupert’s shoulder and leans in to kiss her son’s cheek, where his tears mingle with her own. Salt upon salt.

Part Three

Thirty-Seven

AILSA

Now

I slip out through the side gate without telling Doug or Rowan where I’m going. They’ll have questions about the police calling me back in, questions I can’t answer, so I don’t tell them.

Instead I go down to the beach. I pick up a piece of sea glass, rubbing my thumb over the smooth surface as I make my way down towards the sea. It is freezing, the early winter sun hidden behind a sky of grey, and there is nobody else here. My boot slips on the wet stones and I jolt backwards, losing my footing and crashing down against the sand. I start to laugh, the gulls joining in as they soar above where I lie. The ocean creeps closer, the taste of salt in my mouth as tears leak from my eyes.

I do not know how long I lie there for. It feels like minutes; it feels like years. As I sit up, I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket and pull it out.

‘Miss Reid?’ a female voice says on the other end of the phone.

‘Speaking.’

‘It’s DC Wilkes here. Did you get my messages?’

‘I did. I’m on my way down to the station now.’

‘Well, now I’ve got you . . . I’m going to be leading a search for your gran this afternoon.’

I try to stand, scrabbling against the damp sand. ‘A search? Where? Why now?’ The words fill my mouth and overflow, tumbling over one another in their haste.

She pauses before speaking. ‘We went to see your granda earlier, he said something about a bothy. There’s one up by the loch near you. A holiday let now, I believe.’

Bothy. I feel a thrum of energy pass through me. ‘You think she might have gone there?’

‘It’s worth a look. I’m going to go up with a few officers to check the surrounding area.’

‘Can I come?’

Another pause. ‘I’d rather you didn’t, Miss Reid. Let us do our job, we’ll report back as soon as we’re finished up there.’

She hangs up, and I put my phone away. With a final glance at the ocean, I turn and hurry back towards the house. When I burst in through the front door, I find Doug and Rowan nursing cups of tea at the kitchen table.

‘Do you know of a place up near the loch? A bothy?’ I ask, almost panting from exertion. Brother and sister frown at me. ‘Apparently Pop told them about it. Maybe that’s what he meant by bothy.’

Doug’s frown deepens as he considers my words. I turn to Rowan, impatient. ‘They’re going up there to look for her.’

‘When?’ she asks.

‘This afternoon.’

‘Then we’d better get going.’

‘Hang on,’ Doug says, putting a hand on his sister’s arm. ‘Now this really does sound like a wild goose chase.’

Rowan opens her mouth to argue, but my phone starts to buzz and I pull it out.

‘Hello?’

‘Ailsa?’

‘Pop?’

‘Aye, it’s me. Can you hear me?’

‘I can hear you. What’s going on?’

‘I’m ringing from the nurses’ station. That wee nurse says she wants the bed, so I’ll have to go.’ I hear some muffled voices, what sounds like the nurse’s light-hearted scolding at his words. ‘Can you come and collect me?’

‘Of course, of course we can. Now?’

‘Well, actually I was thinking next Wednesday at three.’

‘Pop,’ I groan. Rowan and Doug are staring at me, eyes wide in the universal signal of hurry up. ‘He’s being discharged,’ I whisper to them, and, as if they have rehearsed it, they stand up in unison, Doug patting his pockets for his keys.

‘Whenever’s convenient, little grub. I’m ready to go.’

‘We’ll be there as soon as possible.’

We hang up and I feel a smile stretch across my face. He’s coming home. The urge to laugh bubbles up inside me as I slide into the back of Doug’s car, and as he pulls out of the driveway, Rowan turns to give me a smile. She is different somehow, as if talking about what happened in her past has allowed her to shed it like an old skin. She turns back, and I follow her gaze until my eyes find the sea. A sense of calm settles around me. Never before have we been so aligned. All my life I have believed Rowan and I to be on completely different pages, our lives and personalities so far apart that we could never meet in the middle. Yet here we are, set upon the same path. Here we are, with everything laid out between us, the truth finally spoken. This way peace lies, if only we can find Gran.

Doug finds a spot in the car park and we get out of the car. The wind whips my hair into my face and I shove it back, tucking it beneath the collar of my coat. I feel something touch my arm and turn to find Rowan holding out a hairband. A simple act, one repeated throughout the history of time; a woman’s silent understanding, something I realise I should not take for granted.

I take the hairband and quickly tie my hair back. Darkness is falling around us; the sky is the colour of a fresh bruise, dark purple and tinged with yellow. Night falls so early this time of year, though the darkest night has passed and soon the sun will start to push back against the gloom. The stars are coming out, bright and twinkling, leading us towards the illuminated hospital entrance.

Doug turns to me, and I can see that same giddiness in his face. ‘Wanna race?’

Rowan gives him a look. ‘What are you, eight?’

‘Last one there’s a rotten egg.’ He sets off at a jog, long legs quickly pushing him ahead of us. I look at Rowan and then we are off, two grown women running after a middle-aged man, laughter bursting out of us. Doug reaches the entrance first, and stands with his legs apart, arms in the air.

‘Champion!’ he croons, then quickly steps aside when an elderly lady comes out of the doors behind him.

I slow down, embarrassment rising, but Rowan skips ahead to stand beside her brother.

‘Rotten egg!’ they cry in unison, pointing at me.

Seeing them there together, bumping hips and giggling, I suddenly want to ask what it’s like to have a sibling, someone with a shared past. But then I realise I don’t need to. The past no longer matters, not in the way it did. We’re together now, all three of us, and we have the future ahead of us.

We find Pop sitting just inside the entrance, his bag resting on his knees, his feet tucked neatly under the chair.

‘Ah,’ he says as we approach him. ‘The Three Musketeers.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Rowan says. ‘I’m beginning to suspect this whole thing is a game to you.’

‘Well,’ he says, glancing at me, as if we share a secret. ‘Not a game, as such.’

‘What’s going on?’ I ask, frowning.

‘Let’s go to the car, and I’ll explain everything.’

Doug helps his father to his feet while Rowan takes his bag. I walk beside him, one arm tucked into his as if he is escorting me somewhere instead of me supporting him. It is a short walk to the car, but it seems to take forever. Rowan and Doug walk on, saying they’ll get the car and bring it to us, while Pop and I pause by a low wall.

‘How are you, really?’ I ask him. ‘What did the doctor say?’

I wonder if we should’ve waited to speak to them, if that’s what a grown-up would do, instead of pissing about out here. But the stress of the last few days has weighed heavy, and I can’t find it in myself to regret that burst of fun.

‘I discharged myself,’ he says, and lifts a hand as I open my mouth. ‘I don’t want to hear it, little grub. I’m perfectly well. And besides, there’s something—’

‘Ailsa!’ I look up to see the car pulling up in front of us, Rowan hanging out of the passenger window. ‘You’ll never guess who we’ve found.’

She jerks her head backwards, and it’s then that I see her, sitting in the back seat as if nothing has happened. Gran.

‘Surprise,’ Pop says, and I have to steady myself against the wall. ‘We’ve got a lot to discuss.’

Thirty-Eight

AILSA

After a tense drive home, Rowan’s mutinous face reflecting my own emotions during Pop’s enforced silence, we pile into the hallway, Rowan standing with her hands on her hips, Doug leaning against the wall. Gran looks tiny, surrounded by all of us. Everyone starts talking at once.

‘What in the actual fu—’

‘Where on earth have you—’

‘You have got to be having a—’

‘But you can’t—’

‘Are you serious—’

‘Shut it!’ Pop booms, and we all fall silent, unused to his raised voice. But as always, his first priority is Gran. He has one arm around her as if for protection, and mutual support.

Suddenly overcome, I fling my own arms around her, breathing in her familiar scent. More words are on the tip of my tongue, demands and rebukes ready to erupt, but I press my lips together and focus on the warmth of her. After a moment I see Rowan shift in the corner of my eye and I reluctantly let go, moving aside so she can embrace Gran. I see Gran’s eyes soften as she holds her daughter, and I wonder if she realises that there is hope for us now. That maybe the Reid women can find what we have always been searching for.

‘You need to tell us what happened,’ I say softly when Doug has released Gran. She looks up at us all gathered around her, her eyes finally resting on Pop. Her face contorts into a mask of pain, her eyes filling with tears as he steps forward and wraps his arms around her. He whispers something to her, the words too low for us to hear. Gran nods once, then steps away.

‘I’ll be upstairs,’ he says louder, looking at Doug. ‘Could you—?’

Doug glances at Gran before nodding. ‘Of course.’ He moves forward to take Pop’s arm and they begin to climb the stairs together.

Wiping her eyes, Gran looks at me and Rowan. ‘Let’s go into the kitchen,’ she says, ‘and I’ll explain everything.’

Rowan helps her to the kitchen table. I squeeze her shoulder gently before switching the kettle on and preparing three cups of tea. We sit around the table together, three generations of Reid women, steaming mugs before us. I think of all the women who have sat at this table – Elspeth, Selina, Cordelia – and how their stories are all but lost to us, if not for Gran’s book, carefully piecing their stories together. How each Reid woman only lived long enough to become a mother, never seeing the next generation come into the world. Until now, until us.

‘Tell us,’ I say softly, and Gran begins to speak.

‘The last few days have been a muddle. At first, I didn’t remember what I’d done. I found myself on a bus, and I thought I was a child again, escaping with my mother. You never knew her,’ she says to Rowan, who bites her lip, ‘and in some ways I’m glad of it. She’d had a hard life, coming from relative comfort and ending up in poverty. Believe you me, in some ways it’s harder that way around, to lose everything instead of never having it in the first place, because then you know what you’ve lost. Anyway, she was a difficult woman, I suppose that’s the right word for her. Difficult to read, difficult to understand. I never felt like I really knew her, I suppose. I only knew her as a mother, but she was so much more than that. She had an entire life before she had me, and I never knew it until long after she died.’

Gran swallows, clears her throat. ‘She kept a diary, you see, though I didn’t find it until years after my father died. You never knew him either, and I’m most certainly glad of that. He was a bully, a drunk, who abused my mother and dragged me home from university after just half a term. I moved back here after my mother died. It’s when I started working in the bakery, to pay for my father’s whisky and attempt to feed us both.’

‘I had no idea,’ Rowan murmurs.

‘You wouldn’t, love,’ Gran says gently. ‘You were never told. By the time you were born, both of my parents had been dead for years.’ She inhales shakily, her eyes dropping to the table in front of her. ‘And that’s where my confession needs to start, I think.’ She reaches out and takes one of Rowan’s hands in hers. ‘My father . . . Charles, he . . . I always believed he killed my mother.’

I see my own emotions reflected in Rowan’s eyes, the horror that is creeping over my skin.

Gran takes another deep breath, her eyes glistening with tears. ‘I have no proof, but I have always known it in my heart. He was a cruel man, violent. I was terrified of him, as was she. He said she drowned herself in the sea, but she always avoided the ocean, since that’s how her mother died. One of her mothers.’

I look up at that and she smiles.

‘Aye, Elspeth Reid might have technically been married to Samuel, but she was in love with Selina. They lived together, here, and raised my mother. There seems to have been more secrets though, a darkness nobody told her about. Samuel Reid was reported missing in action in the First World War, but the records are patchy at best. I suspect there was something else there, a hint of violence.’

I close my eyes as if to shut out the images, nausea rolling over me. Male violence, over and over again, generation after generation. I reach out and curl my fingers around Gran’s hand. Her skin is icy, her hand shaking as she continues.

‘Not long after I moved back here, your da, Pop, came looking for work. Long story short, he ended up staying here with us and we became close. He was kind, funny, and he really listened to me. I found solace in him. I became pregnant, and we planned to marry, but I knew my father would never let me leave. Just like my mother before me, I was destined to remain in this house, under his control.’ She closes her eyes, tears leaking out from beneath her lashes. ‘When he found out, he attacked me. He was going to kill me and my baby. I couldn’t let him. I hit him, hard, with a toolbox. I killed him.’

I wince at the imagery, the symmetry of my own memory. The reason I’m sitting here now.

Rowan is crying, grasping Gran’s hand tightly. ‘Oh, Mum,’ she whispers, and the word surprises us all.

‘Rupert found us like that. Me on the floor, watching my father bleed to death and doing nothing to stop it. He found me and, without a word, helped me to my feet and dug a hole out there, underneath The Bothy.’ She inclines her head towards the back door. ‘And we buried him together.’

We are silent for a moment, letting her words sink in. I feel my own skin turn to ice, a freezing wave engulfing me as if I have been thrown into the ocean. I take a deep, shaky breath.

‘Is he still there?’ Rowan asks.

Gran pauses, then nods. ‘If they’d found him, I wouldn’t be sitting here now. I wouldn’t have had the life I’ve had. And that I could never regret, because it would mean I wouldn’t have you. He would have won.’

I nod, relieved when I glance up at Rowan to see the same understanding on her face.

‘There was a . . . rumour, I suppose, that my father wasn’t actually my father,’ Gran continues. ‘His name isn’t on my birth certificate, a strange thing in that day and age, and he and my mother never actually married, but he took her name.’

‘Why would he do that?’ I ask. I know it was uncommon for Scottish women to change their name upon marriage, but it was still even more so for men to change theirs.

‘It was something to do with the war. I was told he had been injured, but there were other rumours, you know. He’d been trying to escape conscription, or he’d deserted. That isn’t something I’d blame him for, though. War isn’t something I’d wish on anyone, not even him.’

‘What happened the other night, Gran?’ I ask after a few moments of silence. ‘What happened to Pop?’

She looks up at me then, her eyes swimming with tears. ‘My memory has been deteriorating, I know it has. Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier if I lost my mind completely, instead of watching it go, piece by piece.’ She sighs heavily. ‘That night, I suddenly lost fifty years and thought your pop was him, my father. And I hit him.’

Her head falls like a puppet whose strings have been cut, and she begins to sob.

‘Shh,’ Rowan says, rubbing Gran’s arm. ‘It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know.’

‘It was an accident,’ I add. ‘Pop knows that. He loves you.’

‘I know,’ Gran whispers between sobs, ‘and that’s the hardest part. He’s carried me for over fifty years. He’s never once blamed me for what I did, for implicating him in turn. I don’t deserve him. I never have.’

‘Don’t say that,’ Rowan snaps. ‘Don’t you ever say that. You were abused. You did nothing wrong. Nothing.’

Gran looks up, her eyes wet with tears. ‘But I killed him. My own father.’

‘An abuser,’ I say, my voice sharp. ‘And he fucking deserved it.’

Rowan nods. ‘You did the only thing you could have done. And this time, you made a mistake, that’s all. You didn’t mean it.’

‘I didn’t,’ Gran whispers. ‘I truly didn’t. I was just so confused.’ She sighs, freeing her hands to blow her nose. ‘Of all the memories I have, why can’t the dementia take that one? Why can’t I spend my last months without remembering what he did to me, to my mother?’

‘You’ve given it to us now,’ I say, reaching out and taking her hand again. Rowan does the same, then reaches across the table towards me. After a moment’s hesitation, I take it, squeezing her fingers in mine.

‘We’ll carry it for you,’ Rowan says. ‘You can let it go now.’

We sit at the table, hands linked, for what feels like hours, our limbs growing stiff in the chairs, our tea long gone cold.

‘How did you find out where Pop was?’ I ask after a while.

‘I heard some people talking about it on the train. I don’t remember boarding a train, but a young ticket inspector woke me up in Edinburgh. I was terrified. For a long time I couldn’t remember where I’d come from, but as soon as I did, I got back on the train and headed straight to the hospital.’

She takes a deep breath. ‘Seeing Rupert as a stranger broke me. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten who he was. I still can’t believe it. But I knew I had to go straight to him. I knew, despite my fear and my guilt, that he would understand. I stopped off and bought some flowers – lilies, his favourite – and then the soppy sod gave them to the blonde nurse when he discharged himself.’

She smiles, her eyes watery, and I squeeze her hand.

‘That reminds me, Ailsa brought you some flowers,’ Rowan says. ‘They’re lovely. I’ll go and get them.’ She stands, her chair scraping against the tiles. ‘Are your keys in your bag?’

‘Hmm? Oh, yeah.’ I blink, suddenly remembering the bouquet I’d picked up on the way here. They must be wilting by now. I concentrate on the feeling of Gran’s fingers in mine. ‘I can’t believe it,’ I whisper as I hear the jangle of keys and the front door opening. ‘I can’t believe you’ve been carrying this for all these years.’

She gives me a look. ‘You were just a bairn,’ she says, rubbing her thumb over my knuckles. ‘I could never have burdened you. And I . . . I didn’t want you to look at me differently, you know? I didn’t want you to think any less of me.’

I shake my head. ‘I wouldn’t have. Gran, I wouldn’t have,’ I add more forcefully as she smiles knowingly. ‘You did what you had to do, to survive. God knows . . .’

I trail off as a thought bursts into my mind, panic flaring in its wake. Before I realise what I’m doing, I’m up out of the chair and running down the hallway, out of the front door to where Rowan stands with a hand pressed against her mouth, her eyes fixed on the boot of my car and the body lying inside it.

Thirty-Nine

AILSA

Pop might have been the storyteller, but it is the story of the witches that has followed me through life. The women Rowan told me about, the memory of her telling the story not quite enough to make up for her absence. But because it was the only thing she ever gave me, except life, I kept it close, murmuring the words to myself as I drifted off to sleep.

I have no idea if it’s true. It is a story full of fear and flames, and yet, a part of me wants it to be true. Not because of the violent way in which those women died, but because it would explain the curse. The mother had been torn, but her hesitation cost her on both sides. Her son had feared the judgement in his mother’s eyes, and her daughter had been sickened by her refusal to act.

This is the true Reid curse. We are forced to endure violence and flames, and vilified if we try to take justice. If we fight back.

Rowan’s eyes are wide as she stares down at his body, blood caked across his forehead. Gran is silent too, her right hand fiddling with the ring on her left. I try not to look at his eyes staring up at me, try not to remember the way he’d glared at me as we stood in my kitchen, the air fizzing between us. Do all women have the ability to sense danger? Is it something we are born with, or is it something that develops as we age, as we experience it from all angles? Fathers, brothers, boys in the playground, men on construction sites, boyfriends, colleagues, friends. Women are not born, but made, formed of flesh and flame.

‘What happened?’ Rowan asks quietly, and I take a deep breath.

I’d been at home, as I had since the day I’d knocked on the headteacher’s door and let the words spill from my lips. The messages were haunting me like insistent ghosts, every vibration of my phone setting me on edge. I was waiting for the call, or the email, to let me know that my report had been taken seriously. To confirm they knew that what Andy Wright had said about me was all lies, a cheap attempt to turn me into an unreliable witness. That they believed me over him, and they would protect the girls he had been hurting.

And then he turned up at my flat.

Rowan’s mouth is a thin line as I tell her and Gran about that night. God, was it only a few days ago? So much has happened since then, it feels like a lifetime has passed.

It was about eight o’clock when the buzzer rang. I was in the middle of an episode of The One, a bowl of pasta on my lap, and ignored it, but about five minutes later, there was a knock on my door. I’d spoken to a friend earlier that day before switching my phone back off, and felt better than I had in weeks. I’d told her everything, and she had reassured me that I was in the right, that justice would be done. Maybe it was her, popping round to check up on me. After another knock, I paused the show, leaving the bowl of pasta on the coffee table, and opened the door without checking through the peephole.

That was my first mistake.

Before I could speak, Andy had pushed his way past me into the narrow hallway and was moving into my flat. Stunned, I let the door fall closed and followed him into the kitchen.

That was my second mistake.

He started off calm, his hands tucked into his pockets, leaning against the counter and looking around the small space.

‘Nice tiles,’ he said, nodding towards the dark green metro tiles I’d painstakingly installed myself the week before in an attempt to distract myself. ‘You’ve got great taste in interiors; I’ve always thought so.’

I could feel myself shaking, and wanted to believe it was from anger, but I knew it was really from fear.

‘What do you want?’ I asked, my voice small.

Andy laughed. ‘Really? You’re going to play innocent?’ He crossed one ankle over the other and looked around the room again. ‘I’ve always wondered how twenty-somethings can afford to buy a place around here. Bank of Mum and Dad, is it?’

I bristled. ‘You know I’m thirty.’

‘Still just a baby,’ he said in a weird cooing voice, pouting his lips. ‘I suppose I could believe this is all because you’re too young to understand what you’re doing. Just a silly little girl. Like the others.’

I felt nausea rise. Silly little girl. Like the others. The girls, the children, he had been abusing.

And still he smirked. ‘I think you know what you need to do now, Miss Reid.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

He laughed again, raising his hands as if in surrender. ‘Threatening you? Of course not. Why would I do that?’ His face changed then, his eyes flashing with malice. ‘You’re just going to tell them it was all a mistake, aren’t you, Miss Reid? Just a silly girl making things up for attention.’

‘No,’ I said, but he spoke over me.

‘I’m sure you’re just too young to understand what you’re doing. Because accusations like this, well, they can ruin a man’s life.’ His gaze pinned me to the spot. I stared at him, fear and hatred making me mute. He wagged a finger. ‘Come now, we all know what this is about. Green isn’t a good look on you, Miss Reid, but everyone knows I’m a bachelor for life. We always knew that what we had was temporary, just a little bit of fun.’

‘What? No. You know what this is really about. Those girls—’

‘Which girls, precisely?’ he interrupted, his voice sickly-sweet. ‘Because as far as I’m aware, nobody has corroborated your story.’

‘They’re young,’ I spluttered, trying to stay calm. ‘They’re scared. You probably threatened them.’

He laughed. ‘Oh, now we’re really getting into tin-foil hat land. I did nothing of the sort. I thought you knew me, Miss Reid. Ailsa.’

He moved closer and I backed away until I felt the counter smack into my spine. My body was frozen as he leaned down to whisper in my ear, his breath tickling my cheek.

‘Those girls won’t talk. They know better. Sadly, the same can’t be said for you.’ He leaned back, his mouth twisting in a mask of false sympathy. ‘Oh, dear. What a shame for your career to be over before it’s really begun. All those messages, those posts on social media. How terribly upsetting for you.’

I shifted away, hands gripping the counter behind me, but he followed, keeping pace with me as I tried to escape.

‘But that’s just what happens, isn’t it, Miss Reid? When people make allegations. They need to be prepared for what comes next. For the scrutiny. For every tiny detail of their life to be analysed. Trial by social media.’

He was right. I was the one on trial, the villain, the girl who cried wolf. I was the one whose social media was being flooded with horrible messages, who switched her phone off and hid in the dark, while he, the real villain, carried on as normal. I was under investigation at work, while he was protected.

Andy brought his hand up to my face and I flinched. He smiled, white teeth gleaming, as he brushed my hair away from my face, his touch making my skin tingle with disgust.

‘You weren’t to know what you were taking on. Who you were taking on. But now you do. Now you know what you’ve got yourself into. So what are you going to do, Miss Reid? Are you going to be a good girl?’ He whispered this last sentence and I looked up, into his eyes, seeing the truth there, and hating it. Hating him. He smiled again, running the tip of his tongue across his lips. ‘Good.’

As he turned away, I felt emotion bubbling up inside me, like water trickling over the edge of a bath. It had filled up slowly, from the moment a man first looked at me like a wolf watches a hare. Or had it started before then, back when I was on the cusp of puberty and a man shouted something at me from a passing car? Was this the culmination of all those catcalls and stares and dick pics? The glass ceiling, the percentages, the gaslighting. The protective ring around men like him. There was no room left in the bath; the water was spilling over, and soon the ceiling would come crashing down.

As he turned away from me, believing he had won, because he always won, I moved without thinking. The saucepan with the residue of pasta sauce in the bottom was in my hand, and then he was on the floor, face pressed against the tiles, blood seeping out of his head.

Rowan bends at the waist as I finish speaking, as if she is going to vomit, but Gran is staring at the body in the boot of my car, an unreadable expression on her face.

‘How did you get him out of your flat?’ she asks, and the question is so surprising that it almost makes me laugh. I’m five foot two and I’ve never set foot in a gym, and my flat is on the third floor, but the building is old and used to be a factory before it was converted into flats.

‘Service lift,’ I tell her. ‘Round the back. No CCTV.’

She nods once as if I have passed some kind of test. ‘You did the right thing,’ she says, and, after a beat, Rowan nods, though her face has not yet regained any of its colour.

‘What are we going to do?’ she murmurs.

Gran’s lips are pursed, and she is silent for a few moments before speaking. ‘The only thing we can do. We need to get rid of the body.’

*

The moon is full and bright as I reverse the car into the driveway. I inch as close to the side gate as possible, then jump out and run around to the boot. Rowan is there, hands covered by gardening gloves I recognise as Pop’s. She gives me a look and I nod, understanding passing between us, and I suddenly want to burst into hysterics again. This is what it took – a dead body, a common ground – to bring the remaining Reid women together.

No, it was Gran who brought us together. The scars she has borne for so many years reopening to hurt her once again. But no more. The words seem to echo across the otherwise silent sky. No more. No more.

Rowan wrestles a bin bag over Andy’s head and then we heave him out of the boot, wincing as he drops to the hard ground. We carry him between us, noticing the wheelbarrow tucked beside the gate only once we’ve moved past it. Despite the chill, I can feel sweat pouring down my face from the exertion of digging a hole in the garden, drenching me as we struggle with the body of the man who I had once trusted, once loved. Do I feel guilty? I look up at the hill, picturing the women chained to it, and decide that I do not. Andy never felt guilty for how he behaved. He’d never once looked in the mirror and told himself to do better. He believed that the world, those girls, were his for the taking, and that justice would never come for the likes of him. A part of me knows that Gran was right. I did the only thing I could have done. I never meant to kill him but, at least this way, he’ll never hurt anyone again. This way, those girls will be safe.

We try to lower the body gently into the ground, but the hole is deep and Rowan drops his legs in a way so sudden it makes me lose my grip on his shoulders. He falls in, landing face-down.

I straighten, glancing back at the upstairs window in case Pop or Doug are watching, but there is nothing but darkness. I stare down at the makeshift grave, and wonder if this is how Gran felt when Pop helped her bury the body of her father. Perhaps he and Andy are lying next to each other, though Charles must be no more than a skeleton now. Did she feel guilty for what she did? Part of her must have done, for the dementia to affect her in such a way that she’d attack her own husband. Or, rather, the horror of what her father did, to her and her mother, was strong enough to echo through the years, and now, decades later, she’d do the same thing again if he walked through the door. She’d kill him over and over again, because it is what he deserved. Because she had no other choice.

She is looking at me as I shovel earth on top of the body, and I feel something crackle between us, a new connection that can never be broken. Rowan pauses too, leaning on her shovel, and we stand in a semi-circle beside the makeshift grave, tendrils snaking between us, stronger than any blood ties, any grudge or bitterness or resentment. Stronger than the heat of flames and iron rings fused into stone.

Acknowledgements

My eternal thanks to my infallible editor, Florence Hare, for her insight and attentiveness, and to my inimitable agent, Emily Glenister, for her unfailing support. Huge thanks also to the wider Quercus team. I couldn’t wish for a better group of people to champion my books.

To the Authors with Disabilities and Chronic Illnesses (ADCI) group, thank you for the solidarity and support. Special thanks to Penny Jenkins, Kate Kenzie, and Chloe Timms for giving feedback on Selina’s chapters, and also to Chloe for the weekly Zoom writing club that has become a vital part of my writing process. To all the author friends I’ve made along the way, thank you for being there through it all. Thanks also to Len Pennie and everyone on Scottish Twitter who answered my Scots language queries.

Thank you to everyone who read my debut historical suspense novel, The House at Helygen, and left a review or got in touch, especially the bloggers who do so much for the book world. Shoutout to the independent bookshops and my local libraries for their incredible support and encouragement.

And last but never least, to my wife, for wandering around old graveyards with me and being a sounding board for my increasingly ambitious book ideas.

Authors’ Note

Perthes Disease

Though it is not named, Selina suffers from a condition called Perthes Disease (or Legg-Calvé-Perthes, named after the doctors who first identified the condition), which I was diagnosed with when I was about four years old in the early 1990s. It is a condition which disrupts the blood flow to the femur, causing the bone to deteriorate through a process called avascular necrosis. Perthes was officially discovered in 1910 through the use of X-ray (though it was apparently first described by the Austrian doctor Karel Maydl in 1897), making Selina too old to benefit from the discovery, as it was and still is more often diagnosed in young children, and the long-term effects of Perthes disease are still largely unknown.

At one point, my femur was in seven separate pieces, and the femoral head is still slightly misshapen today, which has caused mobility issues throughout my life. I was treated with the so-called ‘wait and see method’, meaning there was no surgery but rather pain relief as needed and complete rest from exercise to begin with. I was treated as a child at Great Ormond Street Hospital and then discharged to my local hospital, where I was sent for ultrasound therapy and intense physiotherapy. The exercises Selina undertakes are similar to those I have been doing for most of my life and which I still do today, in order to strengthen the muscles around the hip and help support the joint. I was told throughout my life that I would need a hip replacement by the age of 25, but I have just turned 31 and that hasn’t yet come to pass.

The cause of Perthes disease is also unknown, but I was extended breech during birth and my left hip (the joint which was later affected by Perthes) was dislocated. It may just be correlation, but this is also a possible explanation Dr Reid gives for Selina’s condition, during a time when Perthes disease would have still been a mystery.

When I was writing this book, I spent a portion of time in bed with hip pain, punctuated by trips to a physiotherapist. As a disabled person, it is never my intention to write a character who is miraculously cured and can ‘finally live their life free of illness’; instead, I wanted to focus on Selina’s acceptance of the aids she has access to and how they are a positive thing, as they allow her to live alongside her disability.

Women, Wives & Witches

Thousands of people were tried and executed as witches in Scotland under the Witchcraft Act of 1563-1763, the majority of whom were women. The Witches of Scotland campaign has been working towards justice for those accused and convicted under this act in the form of an apology (which was issued by First Minister Nicola Sturgeon in March 2022), a legal pardon, and a national monument. I knew I wanted to write about the early modern witch trials – shortly before I got my first publishing deal, I’d almost embarked upon a Masters with the ‘women as witches’ theme central to the dissertation – but the setting for this story came to me via Instagram. I still lived in England at the time, but I followed a lot of Scottish accounts, knowing we would make the move north at some point. @seasidevictorianhome shared a story of a walk around Kinghorn, Fife, where they came across an old iron ring fused to the rock (thank you, Fiona, for answering my strange DMs!). This is known as the witches’ ring, where it is believed they burned those accused as witches. I have taken liberties with the area in which this story is set, but the iron ring exists and can be found near Kinghorn cemetery.

Unlike their English counterparts, Scottish women would often keep their original or birth surname upon marriage. This can be seen on gravestones across the country, as I learned when I moved north of the border in 2021. Similarly, ‘irregular’ or ‘informal marriages’ were legally valid in Scotland until 1940. They did not have to take place within a church building, and so many of these marriages were performed at home. Generally, an exchange of consent was sufficient for these marriages to be considered valid, and it is this ambiguity – along with the ‘boom in matrimony’ experienced around the First World War, whereby 40% of all marriages in Edinburgh were registered by the Sheriff Court in 1915, and the relative anonymity of an ‘irregular marriage’, since a public announcement was not necessarily required – which is exploited by Dr Reid in this book. Although the word ‘illegitimate’ was discontinued on Scottish birth certificates in 1919, babies could still be registered under their mother’s original surname, with the space for the father’s name left blank.

Abortion

Abortion was not criminalised in Scotland as it was in England and Wales under the Offences Against the Persons Act 1861. Scottish common law was more in line with what would become the law across Great Britain under the Abortion Act 1967, in that a doctor could perform an abortion if they acted in good faith and that the continuation of the pregnancy would likely harm the woman’s health. Sir Dugald Baird, who became the Regius Professor of Midwifery at the University of Aberdeen in 1936, is said to have ‘adopted an active policy of therapeutic abortion’ (Davis, 2005), which resulted in a more liberal approach to abortion and family planning in Aberdeen than in other areas of Scotland. Despite this, it is unlikely that many women were aware of the procedure being available to them, particularly in areas that were heavily influenced by religion, as abortion was seen as one of the ‘social evils’ of the time (and indeed, of ours).

Although this story is set in Fife and not Aberdeen, Dr Reid’s attitudes are based on those demonstrated by Sir Baird, particularly his view that ‘the decision-making powers should rest with women, who could best assess their own situation’ (Davis, 2005), and that abortions being performed by a medical professional were far safer than those performed under the cover of darkness – something that apparently still needs to be said today.

Such practices in Scotland allowed me to take artistic license in order to shape this story. Any deviations or errors are entirely my own.

References

Gayle Davis, ‘The Great Divide: The Policy and Practice of Abortion in 1960s Scotland’, online publication, Royal College of Physicians of Edinburgh (2005) https://www.rcpe.ac.uk/heritage/great-divide-policy-and-practice-abortion-1960s-scotland

Edwin van Teijlingen, ‘The man and the vision Sir Dugald Baird: three decades of transforming work in reproductive health’, online publication, The Dugald Baird Centre for research on women’s health, University of Aberdeen (2005) http://eprints.bournemouth.ac.uk/20439/5/DBC1008%20man%20and%20vision%20plus%20picture.pdf

Eleanor Gordon, ‘Irregular Marriage: Myth and Reality’ Journal of Social History, Volume 47, Issue 2, Winter 2013, Pages 507–525 (2013) https://doi.org/10.1093/jsh/sht041

Perthes Kids Foundation: http://www.pertheskids.org/

International Perthes Study Group: https://perthesdisease.org/2016/09/08/getting-to-know-the-four-stages-of-perthes/

Witches of Scotland: https://www.witchesofscotland.com/

Witches’ Hill, Kinghorn: https://www.burntisland.net/churches-article9.htm