Gabriel comes into the kitchen slowly, holding his head upright with deliberate caution. He doesn’t move his eyes and swallows a couple of painkillers with a gulp of water; he leaves most of his breakfast untouched and disappears without even saying goodbye. I feel stupidly hurt by his coldness.

  I take the map Cecily left for me and spend the day walking about Exeter, looking for her. There are a surprising number of women with short dark hair. But none is Cecily. I go home in time to greet Bea when she gets back from school. The soles of my feet ache from walking, and I’m frustrated by my failure to find her, but at least I’m getting to know the layout of the town.

  Gabriel is home late that evening; choir practice, I suppose. When I go to bed, I notice that Cecily’s icons have been turned the right way round again and rearranged on her dressing table. It unnerves me to know that Bea, or Gabriel, has been in here, poking around while I’m out. I wonder, with a chill, if one of them suspects something. I open the wardrobe and pull out my rucksack, checking inside it. I can’t tell if it’s been rummaged through; it wasn’t exactly neatly packed in the first place. But I reassure myself that this is the only thing in the room that would give me away and shove it back into far the corner of the wardrobe and close the doors.

  Friday, he is cool with me again, doesn’t meet my eyes, slips in and out of the house without speaking. When Bea is there, he and I conduct awkward, minimal communication. I catch her looking at me, disappointment deadening her eyes, or is it suspicion? It doesn’t matter – only four more days to go – if this whole plan goes to hell, it’s Cecily’s fault for leaving me alone. My job is to fill a gap, a cardboard cut-out propped up in her place, until she comes back. But there’s a gnawing unease in my guts. She’s supposed to be organising a divorce, finding a job, not drinking alone in pubs. An idea hits me, taking my breath away – maybe she doesn’t intend to come back at all? I shake my head. I’m being paranoid. She wouldn’t abandon her daughter or betray me like that. And she knows I’d never agree to stay here forever.

  11

  CECILY

  I don’t know how long that wretched woman was spying on me across the pub before she couldn’t resist sauntering over to get her dig in – ‘Enjoying yourself, Cecily?’ she said with a smirk, casting an eye on my drink.

  I raised my glass of vodka and nodded. ‘To life,’ I said. ‘To getting our heart’s desire.’

  The drink burnt my throat, and it felt good, that scouring, cleansing hit of alcohol. Necessary, even. Someone like Rebecca would never understand what I’d lost, the magnitude of it. The only person who could is Alice, but I can’t talk to her now; I can’t risk her finding out what I’m about to do – she could never follow me into this darkness. She thinks she’s tougher than me. But I’m the rotten apple.

  ‘You should watch it.’ Rebecca wouldn’t let it go. ‘Alcohol’s ageing.’

  ‘Just leave me alone,’ I muttered, turning away from her, slumping across the bar.

  The rest of the evening is a blur. I can’t remember how I got back to my room or falling into bed. But I remember my dream.

  I was at Hawksmoor again. The locked gates rose above me, speckled with rust. But when I touched them, the heavy halves creaked open, the chain snapping as if it was made of sugar paper. I ran through, feet pounding the gravel drive, stones spitting from my heels as I gulped the loamy smell of dank undergrowth.

  A tangle of lofty, overgrown trees blocked my view of the house, the path ahead scrawled with ivy and brambles. On I ran, turning the corner by the stables, past the great yew, its ancient branches shielding nesting goldcrests, sleeping creatures curled inside its knotty hollows. At last, the beloved shapes of tall chimneys and flinty-faced turrets rose before me, the square tower of the left wing soaring out of tree shadows, battlements grimacing at the icy sky.

  It began to snow as I surged towards the front door, pale flakes falling and twisting through darkness. Before going up the steps, I trailed my hand over the heads of two old friends, their snarling stone teeth worn and pocked. The flakes were settling, and the lions were already covered in a soft white mantle. Inside the house, the air was frigid, my breath billowing in smoky puffs, but I didn’t feel cold. My heart was lit with flames of joy. A name rushed through me, the name I carried in my blood, hissing syllables to curl my tongue around: Hawksmoor. I was back where I belonged, bare feet slipping across the grain of weathered floorboards. I inhaled the rising scent of beeswax, the tender perfume of lilac blossoms wafting from the Chinese vases in the entrance hall.

  Glancing into the dining room, panelled in English poplar and bog oak, I regarded the familiar gilded portraits of men and women with the same fine, slightly long nose as my own, the same pouting lips raised in secret smiles. I sniffed at the memory of breakfast kippers and scrambled eggs waiting on the silver heating tray, hearing my mother telling me not to forget to put the covers back. And my father, lost behind his newspaper, watching me without taking his gaze from the printed page. Daddy.

  Heart thrumming, I entered my old bedroom on the first floor, its two leaded windows overlooking the frozen rock garden, a tumble of shadows, blue-lit by starlight. I could hear Alice and Henry calling to me, their laughter as they ran across the whitened lawn. Pressing my nose against the glass, I watched them disappear into the cover of the beech trees and suddenly I knew where they were heading. I gazed towards the cold eye of the tarn. I had to stop them. I turned and dashed out, towards the main staircase and the wide-open front door, certain I could turn back time, erase a tragedy.

  But I’d gone up, not down. I was in the old servants’ quarters under the eaves, outside the priest hole. My pulse hammered out a warning, yet I couldn’t stop myself sliding my palm gingerly over the chalky wall, bubbles of blown plaster fragile under my touch, creeping my fingers over the solid oak beam. I knew the place that gave if you pressed at the top corner, the beam swinging out, revealing a crawl space.

  The heavy limb of timber moved, rising slowly, trailing cobwebs. I squatted on my haunches to peer inside the hole, and the cramped, dank interior breathed out its mildewy, rotten smell of fear and betrayal.

  ‘What have you done?’ Alice’s voice whispered in my ear.

  I reeled back, staggering to my feet, and with one bound I was flying down the staircase, out, out into the river of the night.

  Have pity on me, most merciful God.

  12

  ALICE

  On Friday evening, I decide that if Cecily isn’t going to contact me, I’ll have to make another effort to find her. The blonde woman said she’d seen her in The Royal Oak. I go to bed early, telling the others I’ve got another headache. It’s not a lie, the back of my head is tender. I wince when I tentatively press under my hair; my scalp feels bruised as if I’ve been struck by something hard. At about nine thirty, when I hear the taps running next door, I take a chance and slip out onto the landing. I creep warily, pausing to listen, hoping to avoid creaking joists and boards. I’m not sure who’s having a bath, so I slip quietly down the stairs, aware that either Gabriel or Bea is somewhere in the house. The radio is on in the kitchen. Radio Four. It must be Gabriel. I sidle along the wall, past the coat rack, grabbing Cecily’s old puffer jacket, then ease the front door open and shut it softly behind me.

  It takes half an hour to walk to The Royal Oak. I push into a thrum of noise, chatter and clink of glass, the heat of bodies and breath. I feel invisible as I squeeze past groups of people, drinks in hand, chatting with flushed faces. I’m scanning the crowded room but can’t see my sister. I make my way to the bar and try to catch the eye of the busy barman. He nods in my direction, and calls over, ‘The usual, love?’

  A jolt of understanding goes through me, and I nod. He places a vodka and ice on the wooden surface with a can of tonic. I hand over the money and pour all the tonic into the glass. I sip my drink and glance at the door every time it opens. An hour passes. Maybe she’s not out tonight, or maybe she’s at another pub. The thought makes me despair, imagining all the other pubs in Exeter, but she’s obviously a regular here, so this is the most likely place to find her. Then I spot the back of a familiar head, a dark woman with short hair sitting across the other side of the bar, talking animatedly to someone. I slip down from my stool and hurry over, reaching out my hand to touch her shoulder. ‘Cecily!’

  The woman turns, surprised. A large mouth, lipstick bright, opens over crooked teeth. She raises one eyebrow.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mutter.

  I slink back to my drink. A middle-aged man squeezes onto the bar stool next to me. He leers at me, squinting eyes wandering towards my chest. Saliva gathers at the corners of slurring lips. I turn away, hunching my shoulders, hoping he’ll take the hint. People jostle me as they attempt to push past to get a drink, but I keep my bottom stuck to the stool, determined not to give up my position. It’s got the best view of the door. I try to make the drink last as long as possible, but I’m getting funny looks from the barman, so I end up ordering another. The liquid fizzes at the back of my throat. I eat the slice of lemon, stripping flesh from the peel with my teeth.

  A man ordering drinks on the opposite side of the bar looks my way. When he sees me, recognition spreads over his face. He grins and winks. Hope fires in my chest. I slip from the stool and jostle my way through the packed crowd around the bar. I catch his elbow as he’s walking away with two drinks and packets of crisps balanced in his hands. He turns and frowns at me.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I just wanted to talk to you. You know me, don’t you?’

  He shakes my fingers off, his frown deepening. ‘Not now,’ he says in a low voice. ‘I’m here with my wife.’

  ‘What?’ I move my head. ‘I just want to ask…’

  ‘Look. This isn’t the time,’ he says, glancing towards a woman sitting at a corner table.

  I persist, holding on to his sleeve. ‘I just need a moment…’

  ‘Piss off,’ he hisses with sudden ferocity, and my grasp falls away. The woman at the table is looking in our direction with narrowed-eyed curiosity.

  I go back to my bar stool, feeling disorientated, but it’s been taken by someone else. There are no other free seats, so I loiter awkwardly in corners, getting in the way of drinkers. I slink over towards the exit, and hover there, anxious I might miss her in the crowd now that I’ve lost the vantage point of my stool. Strangers trample my toes and elbow me in the ribs. Last orders are called, and she’s a no-show.

  Saturday morning, I’m tired and my stomach is queasy. I have no tolerance for drinking, especially vodka. Last night was strange. The man’s reaction when I attempted to talk to him has released a thought in my head, an unnerving possibility that won’t go away. What else has she been doing on her nights in The Royal Oak? That man at the bar didn’t want to be seen talking to her in front of his wife. It doesn’t make sense. Cecily is the last person I’d expect to be unfaithful to her husband. She may not love Gabriel any more, but she always cared deeply about her vows. My sister, the devout Catholic.

  I have so many questions for her. But if I can’t track her down, there’s nothing I can do except hope she’ll contact me eventually. I consult the black book to see what guidance she’s given me for weekend routines.

  Saturday. Bea often sleeps in. Gabriel goes for a run. You can do whatever you want. I usually put a wash on and then go to my Step aerobics class. But you can skip that.

  I close the book and tuck it back under the bras and knickers in Cecily’s underwear drawer. My fingers touch a rustle of paper and I pull out a small bag. It takes me a second to understand that the tiny, green balls inside are dried peas. Perhaps they’re a guard against moths. Mummy had us collect conkers every autumn to sprinkle in drawers and between folded jumpers. An old trick, although in our case, it didn’t work. I scrunch the paper bag back into its original twist and slip it into the corner of the drawer.

  I envy Gabriel his run. I’d like to go for one too – stretch my legs, get my heart pumping – it might release stress from my body. Yoga hasn’t done the trick. Frustration and anxiety have tied hard knots inside my chest, made my head hurt. My muscles feel stiff and tight from lack of exercise. Big gulps of fresh air are what I really need. I could at least go for a long, brisk walk.

  I should never have swapped places with her, but I trusted her, believed it would bring us closer. I thought it would create the opportunity to meet again at last. I imagined I was her knight on a shining steed galloping to save her. I’m beginning to feel like a mug.

  Bea hasn’t come out of her bedroom. I know Gabriel left early, I’d heard the front door close, the slap of his feet hitting the pavement. Now he’s back. The shower starts up in the bathroom, and there’s the hum of the boiler. A hiss of water hitting shoulders and limbs. If he keeps avoiding me, maybe I can make it through the weekend without ‘the talk’. On Monday I’ll be free. It’s only two days. If necessary, I’ll go for countless long walks.

  I tiptoe past the bathroom door, inhaling the steamy scent of orange blossom soap and shampoo. He’s singing loudly, belting out a song, and I recognise the tune to ‘Knock On Wood’, the lyrics interrupted by humming when he forgets the words. It makes me smile. Downstairs, I remember my domestic duties, and shove some dirty clothes from the overflowing basket into the washing machine, then empty the dishwasher as quickly as possible, before I pull on the puffer jacket again and leave the house.

  A chilly breeze is slicing through the warmth of the sun, and leaves shine in a green that’s almost lurid, brazenly hopeful. I get halfway down the street when I hear my sister’s name being called.

  My heart sinks. I turn. Gabriel is pounding along the pavement, his wool jacket flying behind him, the one I wore at the beginning of the week. He reaches me, panting, his face flushed and shiny, hair in wet curls over his forehead, strands dripping onto his collar. I notice his shirt is mis-buttoned, his collar turned the wrong way.

  ‘Cecily,’ he says, his voice breathless. ‘Let’s get this talk over and done with, shall we? We can’t put it off for ever. Can we?’

  Trapped, I move my head slightly, eyes sliding left and right, as if I could find an escape route. A gull screams over our heads.

  ‘I heard you leaving the house,’ he’s saying. ‘And I thought, this just can’t go on. Avoiding each other every day. It’s ridiculous.’ He gestures to the open road before us. ‘Walking and talking is easier than facing each other over a table, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘And this way Bea doesn’t have to overhear anything.’ He falls into step next to me. He nods towards the river. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was just going to let my feet take me.’

  He gives a short laugh. ‘Not like you.’

  ‘You decide then,’ I say. ‘I don’t care. I just wanted to get some fresh air.’

  ‘Right.’ He shoves his hands into his pockets. We keep walking, and I can sense his breath slowing, his stride matching mine.

  ‘So? I’m listening,’ I say, needing to break the tension snapping between us.

  ‘It’s you that needs to talk, Cecily,’ he retorts. ‘You’re the one who’s unhappy. You’re the one who changes every five minutes, who warms towards me one minute and then pushes me away. I don’t know what I’ve done. Except,’ he rubs his forehead briefly and puts his hand back in his pocket, ‘except I know you’re disappointed that I don’t want to live at Hawksmoor.’

  Hawksmoor. A shiver of recognition ignites a new understanding inside me. I force myself to keep walking. ‘But Daddy’s still alive,’ I say cautiously, feeling my way.

  ‘Exactly,’ he says with a force of feeling. He pushes a hand through his hair. ‘We can’t live there yet. The old goat will probably live into his nineties. Cecily, I understand how much you love that house, I really do, but apart from the practical and financial difficulties, do you really want to try and save it at any cost? To us, to Bea? This is home to her,’ he waves a hand around. ‘Exeter is all she knows.’ He shuffles his feet against the pavement. ‘Do you realise, you’ve never said you had a happy childhood? You’ve never shared good memories of Hawksmoor with me. In fact, you hardly talk about your life there. And yet,’ he swallows, ‘sometimes I think you’re possessed by the place.’

  I walk on beside him, recognising the truth in everything he says. I agree with him, but Cecily wouldn’t. ‘I know we can’t move there yet,’ I mutter. ‘But I can’t stop thinking about it. It wasn’t a happy childhood. But that’s not the point. It’s my ancestral home – my inheritance. And now it’s Bea’s.’ It’s odd, voicing an opinion opposite to my own. The words are reluctant on my tongue.

  ‘If saving it was a viable option…’ he lets the sentence trail away. ‘But we’re talking crazy money. Impossible money. And when your father dies, there’ll be death duties.’

  ‘I know,’ I say quietly.

  He shoots me a puzzled glance. ‘So, what changed?’ We walk on in silence. ‘You’ve always been unpredictable,’ he says, as if he’s talking to himself. ‘I used to find it intriguing. Then when you told me we couldn’t sleep together any more – that you needed time alone – I respected your decision. But, Cecily, we’ve been living separate lives in the same house ever since, and you never talk about it. There are times when I see the woman I first fell in love with, then you’re cold again, or angry.’

  I can’t think what to say, so I say nothing. It’s uncomfortable to be forced to listen to such private revelations. I wish I could stop him from saying more.

  ‘And then there’s the drinking,’ he says in a low voice. ‘It’s not helping you – or us. You know I’ll support you if you try and stop.’