I close my eyes and imagine the Virgin laying her cool hand on my forehead. I understand, my child.

  ‘Cecily.’

  My eyes snap open. Instead of a heavenly presence, Ambrose Stone looms over me, his narrow face concertinaed in anxiety. ‘I don’t want to interrupt your prayer,’ he says, although he already has. ‘I just wanted to say that I’m glad to see you. And if you’d like me to pray with you, I’ll be happy to kneel alongside you.’

  I bet you would, you dirty old man, I think. But I shake my head and close my eyes again, waiting for him to go away. I have a horrible feeling that he knows what’s in my heart. He looks at me as if he can see all my secrets. Did I speak my prayer out loud?

  31

  ALICE

  Saturday morning. Gabriel gets back from his run and has a shower. I’m in the kitchen eating a piece of toast with my coffee. He comes in and helps himself to a cup. He’s flushed and damp from the shower. ‘Hey.’ He touches my shoulder, smiling. ‘Morning.’ He puts some bread in the toaster. ‘I’m glad you’ve started to eat breakfast again,’ he remarks.

  I stop chewing, remembering that I’m not supposed to eat until lunch. I swallow. Cecily spent most of her childhood worrying about her weight. She thought Daddy would only approve of her if she was thin, but both of us had the same rangy, bony frames we’d inherited from our parents. She used to prod her stomach, asking, ‘Do you think I’ve got fat?’ and Henry would say, ‘I can see the wind whistling through your ribs, you nitwit.’

  Gabriel sits opposite me and tucks into his toast and marmalade. He wipes his mouth. ‘Last night,’ he says slowly, and I brace myself for questions about my screams into the dark street. ‘When we kissed… it felt different.’

  The give of his lips, the push of his tongue against mine. My heart bangs out a warning. I twitch one shoulder. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Can’t explain that.’ Then, aiming for humour, ‘Was it worse, or better?’ Trying to make light of it. But I want to know.

  He laughs again, a throaty wicked laugh. ‘Let’s just say I liked it. Actually, when I say it felt different, really it reminded me of how things used to be between us.’ He gives a self-deprecating laugh. ‘It’s been a long time, and I suppose I’d forgotten how passionate you were.’

  I let out a breath. He’s so close to knowing the truth. I can sense it in his thoughtful, searching expression; he can feel the change in me, the differences that go deeper than a more passionate kiss. But he can’t possibly know that Cecily has a mirror-image twin. The answer he’s looking for will always evade him.

  I want to shatter the mirror, tell him the truth. I want him to know who I am so that I can claim his feelings as my own. But he’d feel tricked and betrayed. His love doesn’t belong to me. Except, it does. It’s me he’s reacting to, not her. She doesn’t want him.

  ‘You’ve got a mark in your left eye,’ Gabriel is saying.

  ‘What?’

  He’s leaning towards me, squinting. ‘A tiny black mark. Like a scar. Have you done something to your eye recently?’

  ‘Have I?’ I place my palm over my cheek. ‘Oh. No. That was a long time ago. An accident when I was little.’

  ‘I love the colour of your eyes.’ He’s smiling. ‘All the shades of autumn are in them. Conkers and turning leaves, wet grass. Mud.’

  ‘Mud?’ I slap his arm and laugh, relieved. ‘Very romantic.’

  I make parsnip and apple soup, a simple recipe from one of her cookbooks. I add seasoning and leave it on the stove ready for lunch and go upstairs. Cecily’s bunch of keys is lying on the dresser. It occurs to me that she could easily have copied them before she gave them to me – she could have let herself in, she didn’t need to climb through a window to take the money. Maybe she just wanted it to look like she had, making us think a casual thief had broken in, an opportunist who’d spotted an unlocked window. I pick up the jangling bunch, examining the small key that dangles amongst the other three. One for the front door, one for the back door, one for the garden gate, and this smaller one that I’ve never considered before. I’d vaguely thought it might be for a bicycle lock – there is a bike under a cover in the garden. My eyes fall on the ornate dresser with the locked bottom drawer. I’d assumed she would have hidden the key in her room somewhere, but she could have hidden it in plain sight.

  It fits, turning easily, and the drawer slides open. Below me, something coils in the shadows. I flinch away, but it’s motionless, inanimate. Pulling it out, I find a rough, woven handle attached to seven cords, each with a knot tied tight at the end, knobbly and fibrous, like the knuckles of a small, fighting creature. A scourge. It flops across my palm, and I think of the white shirt with the bloody streaks across the back. What was my sister atoning for? It makes me shudder to think of her here in this room, kneeling with her arm raised, clutching the handle, and then a flick, a twist of rope over her shoulder, the bite at her back.

  There’s something else at the bottom of the drawer, a clump of green. I reach for it, and I’m holding a handful of a wilted, pointed yew needles, dark and musty with age. I suspect that they come from our ancient yew on the front lawn at Hawksmoor, and she’s kept them here for some reason, perhaps a memento of home.

  The scent of soup jolts me, returning me to the normality of the ordinary day. It seems impossible and dreadful that Cecily whipped herself here in this room like an old-fashioned martyr, while her husband and child moved through the neighbouring spaces, unaware.

  I sniff the air. Gabriel must be reheating the soup for lunch. I put the yew leaves away and coil the ropes on top of them. I worry that the poisonous scent clings to my hands, and rub my palms over my jeans, but when I sniff my fingers, there’s no odour.

  In the kitchen, the soup is bubbling on the stove, Gabriel busy getting spoons and bowls out. The back door is unlocked and ajar, letting in cool air and a splash of sunshine.

  ‘Good idea,’ I say, gesturing towards the garden. ‘It’s almost warm enough to have it open all the time.’

  Gabriel is ladling the soup into bowls. ‘I didn’t open it. I thought you did,’ he says.

  Till death do us part.

  I stare at him, watching as he dips a crust of bread into a bowl and brings the liquid up to his mouth.

  DIE, DIE, DIE.

  ‘Stop!’ I shout, and grab the bread from his hand, sweeping the bowls of soup onto the floor. They hit the ground, exploding, shattering, coming apart in fragments that bounce and slide, a swill of pale, boiling liquid flooding across the surface, dripping down the cabinets, pooling on the flagstones.

  He makes a startled exclamation, and stares at me. I look back, open-mouthed. Time opens like a sinkhole, a smooth, long tunnelling into darkness, with us teetering on the edge. I am dizzy with vertigo.

  He crouches, beginning to pick sharp remnants of broken pottery out of the pale-yellow puddles. I squat on my haunches near him, but when I touch a shard, the edge catches my skin, I wince, putting my finger in my mouth, tasting blood. I’d been certain, a second ago, that Cecily had poisoned the soup. But I don’t know anything any more. Would she murder her husband to be free of him? My sister? Would she really do that? Would she, in cold-blood, plan to poison Gabriel? We were all going to eat the soup. She wouldn’t kill her own daughter, or me – would she?

  I push onto my feet and slump over the kitchen surface, faint, confusion spinning inside, my head in my hands. She’s tricked me into taking her place. If she’s planning his murder, perhaps she needs me to be her lookalike alibi – or her scapegoat. ‘I think I’m going mad,’ I whisper.

  I feel his arms around me, and I’m leaning into him, my face pressed into the solid shape of his shoulder. My head whirls, and I close my eyes tightly and take deep breaths to fight the rising tide of nausea. He doesn’t move, providing a sturdy prop to my trembling limbs. When the giddy feeling drains away, I straighten and step back, attempting to arrange my features into a reassuring expression.

  He picks up my hand and examines the small cut, then leads me to the sink like a child and holds it under the cold tap. It stings. The tiny mouth oozes red. He wraps a piece of kitchen towel around it. ‘You’ll live,’ he says. He scratches his head as he stares at the mess still dripping over the kitchen cabinets and gleaming on the floor, viscous splashes sliding down the walls. ‘I’m sure the soup would have tasted delicious,’ he says. ‘I know you’re a perfectionist, but…’

  He’s trying to make a joke out of it. I manage a quivering smile. ‘Yeah. Forgot to salt it,’ I say.

  We kneel together with a bowl of soapy water and cloths, soaking up the soup, wiping the flagstones clean; behind his veneer of calm, he shoots puzzled glances at me, and I sense a storm of unanswered questions inside him. He doesn’t know that I’m rocked by them, too.

  32

  CECILY

  Finally, after a day’s travel, a night in a B & B, and more driving today, we were nearly there. The landscape either side of the motorway had grown familiar in its tumbled shades of green. I could see mountains in the distance, dark peaks pushing into a hazy sky. Excitement fizzed in the pit of my stomach. Home. It had been so long. I hadn’t been back since becoming pregnant. As Gabriel turned the car off the main road and we negotiated narrow lanes, I stared out of the passenger window at drystone walls running like grey spines across vast valleys and hillsides, sheep grazing peacefully, a hawk hovering above a verge.

  There’d been no murmur from Bea for hours, strapped into her seat in the back. I slipped out of my safety belt to lean between the front seats, craning my neck to check on her. She was asleep, her small, red face scrunched and flickering with unknown dreams. As I watched, she began to whimper and snuffle, turning her face from side to side, rooting for food. In response, my breasts tingled with a warm rush of milk. ‘Damn.’ I hauled myself back into my seat, feeling slightly sick from the motion of the car. ‘Can we pull over somewhere? I need to feed her before we get there.’

  ‘Sure,’ Gabriel said. ‘I need a pee, too. But we’ve made good time.’

  We had to drive for another five minutes, Bea howling, before we found an open gate into woodland, and Gabriel parked under a beech tree. He got out, hands flat on his lower spine, groaning. ‘Back’s stiffened up,’ he said, stretching his muscles. ‘Need any help?’

  ‘No.’ I smiled. ‘I’ll get her out and perch somewhere. Warm enough. You go and do what you’ve got to do.’

  He disappeared into the trees, and I unclipped a crying Bea from the car seat and took her over to a fallen oak. Sitting on the broad, knobbly wings of its back, I unfastened my bra, and tucked Bea’s head under the loose folds of my shirt. I winced as she latched on, the agony of the baby’s suction still a shock. I tried to relax. Bea had been fretful and colicky since getting back from hospital, weeks ago. Every night was one long round of feeding and pacing the bedroom with a screaming baby. I had never felt so exhausted and overwhelmed – part of me somehow lost, the rest of me weakened, uncertain. But I was going home. Hawksmoor would return me to myself.

  Gabriel appeared out of the bushes. He sat beside us, staring down in wonder at Bea’s downy head. ‘She’s been a good traveller, hasn’t she?’

  ‘It’s been a miracle to have hours of peace.’

  ‘You should have slept too. I kept telling you to.’

  ‘I didn’t want to desert you. It’s a very long drive.’

  He smiled and kissed my forehead. ‘Such a stubborn creature.’

  We sat together in the sunshine, under a fall of birdsong and leaf shadow. In the distance, sheep baaed, and between us, the contented suckling noise of our child carried on softly. Gabriel put his arm around my shoulder, and I leant into his chest and sighed. All my blank exhaustion and my flaming nipples were worth it for this.

  ‘We’re here,’ I inched onto the edge of my seat, craning my head to take it all in. The tall, rusted gates were closed for once, and I got out to heave them open. We drove through, wheels crunching along the drive. The grounds were a wild riot of tangled trees, thick with creepers, and long grasses.

  ‘It’s like entering Sleeping Beauty’s palace,’ Gabriel said, as he changed down a gear. ‘Good grief, does all this land belong to your family?’

  ‘Most of it’s been sold off over the years,’ I said. ‘But I suppose the grounds are still pretty big.’

  ‘Grounds?’ he laughed. ‘Normal people have gardens, if they’re lucky.’

  Thorns shrieked along the sides of the car. Overhead, twigs reached with stiff fingers towards the roof. As we turned the final corner, the house rose before us like a fortress, and there was the yew tree, its familiar spreading branches welcoming me home. But it was cordoned off with a square of electric fencing. And there was the surprise of sheep cropping the lawn, wandering across the weedy gravel. The animals turned yellow eyes towards us, unconcerned, twitching stumpy tails.

  Gabriel parked next to the old Volvo and turned the engine off.

  ‘Darling,’ I said, putting my hand on his thigh, ‘when you meet my father,’ I paused, choosing my words, ‘just be aware that he’s a bit old-fashioned. Manners are important to him.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Gabriel grinned. ‘I won’t let you down – I’m not a complete heathen.’

  But I was filled with sudden doubt. When we were children, Daddy made us practise shaking hands with him, ‘Keep eye contact,’ he’d say. ‘Firm grip.’ ‘Don’t be a sissy, Henry,’ he’d say. ‘Press harder. You won’t make anyone respect you with a grip like that.’ And Henry would grimace and try again. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Gabriel ducked his head, tilting it so that he could stare up at the high, grey walls beyond the windscreen. He let out a low whistle. ‘I know you explained it was big, but I never imagined this. It’s like a castle.’

  The stone lions regarded us with implacable gazes. It was a shock to understand that I’d misremembered the details of the brickwork, forgotten the exact silver and charcoal shades inside the slate. I’d revisited the house in my mind every day since I left it, so much so, that I sometimes thought there must be a part of me here, a spirit, a dream of myself wandering the corridors.

  Mummy appeared on the steps in her tweed skirt and brown stockings. She looked older, her hair almost entirely grey, shoulders stooping. It was the strain of losing two children, I knew, not just the effect of time passing.

  Gabriel squeezed my hand. ‘Ready?’

  I nodded. ‘Let’s introduce Beatrice to her grandparents.’

  And then we were standing outside the car, Bea in Gabriel’s arms, and my mother exclaiming and smiling. Mummy put an arm around me and touched Bea’s cheek with an uncertain finger. ‘What a beauty,’ she said, but turned back to me. ‘Darling, I’m so glad to see you.’

  I kissed her thin, cold cheek, inhaling the familiar scent of Elizabeth Arden face power, and something sour underneath, the rotten aroma of the house itself, and old-dog stink.

  ‘This is Gabriel,’ I said.

  Mummy put out her hand with polite formality, but Gabriel ignored it and kissed her on the cheek. I saw astonishment widening her eyes. ‘How lovely to meet you at last.’ She held herself upright. ‘Please, do call me Emmeline.’

  ‘Where’s Daddy?’ My gaze searched the open doorway, trying to penetrate the gloom of the hallway.

  ‘He’s been in his study all morning,’ Mummy said. ‘Now, do come along, darling. We’ll have lunch straight away, after you put your bags in your room. I’ve put you in one of the guest bedrooms. More space for you all.’

  Gabriel took our bags and Bea’s carrycot from the boot. Trailing after Mummy, I felt like a visitor. A lump came into my throat, a suppressed anguish. I was being ridiculous. ‘Cilly.’ The nickname came back to me in Alice’s voice. Henry laughing, ‘Nitwit.’ But it was Alice and I that were the pair, so why had the other two sometimes made me feel like the odd one out? I swallowed down the old rivalry. There was no need for it any more.

  I looked at the thin ribbon of daylight underneath Daddy’s study door, hoping he’d come out, arms wide to greet me. But we were walking on, up the first staircase, past wallpaper peeling in strips and crumbling plaster, under the portraits of my ancestors. I thought I could hear a faint babble of voices pressing against my ears – the ghosts welcoming me back – the same ones I’d known all my life, the ones that came to me when I needed them most, slipping inside me, whispering words of comfort.

  ‘It goes on forever,’ Gabriel said, a note of awe in his voice. ‘You must have got lost here. Just one little girl in all this space.’

  I saw Mummy stiffen, and after a faltering step, stride on. The fiction would be maintained, I realised, passing the empty spaces on the wall where Henry’s team photographs used to hang.

  We unpacked in the Pink Room, hanging up clothes in the hulking monstrosity of the wardrobe. Gabriel rattled the empty hangers as he put his head inside. ‘This is the kind of furniture that must have inspired C.S. Lewis,’ he said. ‘Did you read those books?’

  I nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Must have been lonely for you here. Bet you wished for siblings,’ he said gently as he changed Bea’s nappy on the faded rose-coloured eiderdown. Released from her confines, the baby gurgled and kicked her legs in the air.

  ‘Not really,’ I said, sitting on the bed and watching him skilfully dealing with our daughter. I took Bea from him after he was finished, kissing her cheek and tucking her up inside the carrycot. ‘Be on your best behaviour, little one,’ I whispered. ‘We should go down,’ I told Gabriel. ‘Lunch is on the dot in this house.’

  I was nervous going down the stairs. My legs were weak, and I had a sick feeling in my belly. Daddy would be waiting for us in the dining room. I felt like the prodigal daughter. Daddy’s pride had been hurt by my marriage, and I needed Gabriel to make a good impression. The next hour or so could determine my father’s mood for years to come, let alone the rest of our short visit.