# The Language Of Spells

Sarah Painter

When you are ready, seek, and you shall find. It is your gift.Gwen Harper left Pendleford thirteen years ago and hasn’t looked back. Until an inheritance throws her into the mystical world she thought she’d escaped. Confronted with her great-aunt’s legacy Gwen must finally face up to her past.The magic she has long tried to suppress is back with a vengeance but gift or burden, for Gwen, it always spells trouble. She has to stay – she has nowhere else to go – but how can she find her place in the town that drove her out after branding her a witch…?Praise for Sarah Painter"Sarah Painter is a talented new writer, and her debut is a charming, romantic and intriguing story, with a little touch of magic. It had me enchanted." - Clodagh Murphy'This really was a fantastic debut novel… The language was also simple but elegant and meant that the story flowed seamlessly. I honestly could not put it down.' - Laura's Little Book Blog'The plot had great twists and turns and when I thought I had the story figured out, the story would go in a different direction and surprise me. I didn’t want to put it down and the further I got into the book, the harder it was to stop reading… A wonderful debut novel and I’m looking forward to reading the next one.' - Novel Kicks'I thoroughly enjoyed The Secret of Ghosts. It was just as magical and just as enjoyable as The Language of Spells and I am soooooo glad Sarah Painter decided to go back to Pendleford. … I really do love magical fiction and I think Sarah Painter is one of the best at giving you a realistic look at magic and all that comes with it.' - Chick Lit Reviews on The Secrets of GhostsDon't miss the second book in this sparkling duet: The Secrets of Ghosts out now!

When you are ready, seek, and you shall find. It is your gift.

Gwen Harper left Pendleford thirteen years ago and hasn’t looked back. Until an inheritance throws her into the mystical world she thought she’d escaped. Confronted with her great-aunt’s legacy, Gwen must finally face up to her past.

The magic she has long tried to suppress is back with a vengeance but, gift or burden, for Gwen it always spells trouble. She has to stay – she has nowhere else to go – but how can she find her place in the town that drove her out after branding her a witch…?

The Language of Spells

Sarah Painter


Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013

Copyright © Sarah Painter 2013

Sarah Painter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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

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

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

E-book Edition © May 2013 ISBN: 9781472017062

Version date: 2018-10-30

Sarah Painter has worked as a freelance journalist, editor and blogger for the last thirteen years, while juggling amateur child-wrangling (aka motherhood) with her demanding internet-appreciation schedule (aka procrastination).

Born in Wales to a Scot and an Englishman (very nearly a ‘three men walked into a bar’ joke), she now lives in Scotland with her husband, two children and two cats. She loves the work of Joss Whedon, reading in bed, salt and vinegar crisps, and is the proud owner of a writing shed.


Sarah gives writing advice at www.novelicious.com and writes about craft, books and writing at www.sarah-painter.com

A book is not a solo effort and this novel would not exist without the support and guidance of the Best Agent in the World; Sallyanne Sweeney.

Huge thanks, also, to Sally and Victoria, and the rest of the team at HQ Digital.

And, finally, thank you to my friends for believing in me, encouraging me and keeping me (mostly!) sane. Special thanks to the We Should Be Writing crew for their wise words, thoughtful critiques and boundless enthusiasm.

For my mum and dad for bringing me up with love, laughter and books.

For Holly and James for their all-round brilliance.

And for Dave. For everything.

## Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Prologue

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

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Endpages

About the Publisher

## Prologue

The voices in the living room were getting louder. Suddenly the man’s voice wasn’t just loud, it was shouting. A big, frightening sound that sent Gwen out from under her quilt and into her sister’s bed. Ruby was awake. Her eyes were shining in the light that came in under the door. ‘It’ll be over soon,’ Ruby whispered.

‘Who is it?’ Gloria had at least two boyfriends at any time and an endless stream of people came to have their cards read. Gwen felt Ruby shrug.

Gloria’s voice had risen. She sounded really angry. Gwen shrank down until the duvet covered most of her face.

There was a burst of noise as the shouting people moved into the hallway. ‘Tell me a story,’ Ruby said.

Gwen stretched her legs. She shut the angry voices out and thought for a moment. ‘Once upon a time, there were two sisters, Rose Red and Snow White, and they were walking through a thick forest—’

‘Not that one,’ Ruby said. ‘One with a prince. A really handsome prince. With loads of money.’

The front door slammed. ‘My story does have a prince.’ Annoyance broke through Gwen’s fear. Ruby was always complaining.

‘It has a bear,’ Ruby said.

‘That turns into a prince.’

The bedroom door opened. ‘Girls?’

Gloria was framed in the doorway, her face hidden in shadow. ‘You have to get up.’

‘I’m tired,’ Ruby said.

‘I know, I’m sorry.’ Gloria didn’t sound sorry. She never did. ‘We’re moving on. Get your things together. Don’t leave anything—’

‘Because we don’t look back,’ Gwen and Ruby joined in. ‘We know.’

## Chapter 1

Gwen Harper had been brought up in the sure knowledge that everything in life came as a pair. Every coin had two sides, every person had an angel and a devil lurking inside, and every living thing was busy dying. Gwen couldn’t imagine a good side to returning to Pendleford but, since she had no choice in the matter, she hoped that Gloria had been right about all that ‘light and dark’ business. She crested the hill and Pendleford spread out beneath her. The town was caught in a basin of land as if cupped by giant green hands, and the yellow stonework glowed softly in the winter sunshine. The dark river cutting through the centre was like a worm in an apple.

Gwen passed a sign that had ‘Pendleford: Historic Market Town’ in smart black lettering and then a smaller yellow one that said ‘Britain in Bloom’. Slung in front of this was a collection of broken-looking dolls, their long hair tied together in a big knot. Gwen slowed down to take a closer look at the creepy faces with their dead eyes and pink Cupid’s bow mouths.

She shuddered, trying not to think about broken things, dead things, or the icy water of the river. Her Nissan Vanette made a crunching engine noise which she decided to interpret as sympathetic nerves. She patted Nanette’s dashboard reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry. We won’t be staying.’ Gwen glanced at the legal documents on the passenger seat that said otherwise but, before she could start worrying in earnest, her thoughts were derailed by the sight of Pendleford. The town looked eerily the same as it had when she’d left thirteen years ago.

Gwen took a couple of deep breaths and tried to calm her racing heart. There was no need to panic. Her mother was on the other side of the world and Pendleford was a full eight miles away from Bath and her exasperating sister. Not even Ruby could shout over that distance.

Navigating her way out of the town centre, past rows of Edwardian villas with tasteful ‘bed and breakfast’ signs, Gwen turned to logic. She was going to spend one night in her great-aunt Iris’s house. Take a bath. Get one decent night’s sleep before she headed to the solicitor’s office in the morning and found a way around the stupid ‘can’t sell for six months’ clause. Then she’d be out of Pendleford. Again.

Gwen carried on with the pep talk as she drove. She had a dodgy moment when she thought she saw Cam and nearly drove up onto the pavement. It was a tall man with messy dark hair, but as soon as she passed him and looked in the rear-view mirror, her heart in her mouth, she saw that it wasn’t him at all. Cameron Laing was long gone. Probably in London. Or prison.

The big houses gave way to row upon row of traditional stone cottages and a town hall with a triangle of grass outside. A man in head-to-toe tweed was changing parish notices on the board outside. Pendleford’s surface was as pretty and as tame as she remembered. If it hadn’t been for the daily taunting at school and a very bad memory that began with the river and ended at the local police station, then perhaps she wouldn’t have hated the place quite as much.

At the very edge of town, there was a row of box-type houses. Council – or more likely ex-council – houses, with neat gardens and freshly painted windows that did nothing to hide the brown pebbledash and the nineteen-sixties municipal architecture. Then the town petered out into farmland and Gwen almost missed the turning for Iris’s road; the small wooden sign was weathered and only the word ‘End’ legible. After four hundred yards up a single track road, Gwen turned a corner and the house came into view. Stone-built, square and bigger than she expected. Gwen got out of the car and pulled on her fleece. The sky was pearl-grey and the weak November sun drooped in the east. It was quiet. ‘Too quiet,’ she said aloud, trying to make herself laugh. It didn’t work.

Gwen hesitated at the front gate, her body rebelling against setting foot inside the boundary of the property. Which was ridiculous. She was homeless and she’d been given a house. It was crazy to be anything except insanely grateful. Crazy.

The front door had once been dark green, but was sorely in need of a paint job. To her left, fields stretched out to the horizon and a flock of black birds swooped down to the frozen earth.

Gwen spent five minutes attempting to unlock the door before realising it was already open. The porch was cleanly swept and a neat pile of mail sat on the windowsill.

The inner door opened and a woman wearing narrow black trousers and a yellow blouse looked at her in surprise. ‘Yes?’

‘Um, is this End House?’

‘Yes.’ The woman’s pale blonde hair was cut in layers and she shook her head slightly to flick her fringe away from her eyes.

‘This is my great-aunt’s house. Um. That is, I think this might be my house.’

The woman’s face changed and what could charitably be described as a smile appeared. It displayed a disturbing number of teeth. They were small and white, like baby teeth; alarming in an adult-sized mouth. ‘You’re Gwen Harper. I wasn’t expecting you yet.’ She took a step back. ‘I’m not ready for you, but I suppose you’d better come in.’

‘Thanks.’ Gwen stepped over the threshold. The hall was large and square, floored in red quarry tiles. The walls were whitewashed, but patterned with tiny black cracks, like something dark was trying to break through.

‘I’ll show you around.’ The woman turned to go, but Gwen stopped her.

‘I’m sorry, but … Who are you?’

‘Oh, bless you. I’m Lily Thomas. I’ve been helping out your poor auntie for years.’

‘Helping?’

‘Cleaning and cooking, that kind of thing.’ Lily frowned at Gwen. ‘She was very old, you know.’

Gwen looked at the woman’s frosted-pink fingernails. They didn’t look like they’d scrubbed anything in their lives.

The woman followed her gaze. ‘Falsies.’ She waggled them. ‘Aren’t they brilliant?’

The doors off the hallway were all shut, but the staircase of polished dark wood curved invitingly and Gwen took an involuntary step towards it.

‘She needed help with all kinds of things towards the end, bless her.’

Lily’s voice seemed to be coming from far away and Gwen could hear a rushing in her ears. I must be holding my breath, she thought. Good way to faint. She made herself take a lungful of air, but the rushing continued and the stairs seemed to be glowing just for her. She walked towards the bottom step, confused when yellow silk appeared in her vision, eclipsing the lovely warm wood. It was Lily, barring her way.

‘The upstairs isn’t ready. I’ve not had a chance to clean. I wasn’t expecting you—’ Lily hesitated. ‘Not yet, I mean. I wasn’t told—’

‘That’s okay.’ Gwen stepped around Lily and took the stairs at a jog.

Weird, she decided, already on the landing. The door on her right was wide open, like someone had come out in a hurry. Through the gap she saw a double bed with a flowered wash bag lying on the quilt.

Lily appeared behind her, puffing slightly. ‘It’s a mess. I haven’t had a chance—’

‘Don’t worry.’ Gwen opened the other doors from the landing and discovered a small bedroom with a single bed and a desk underneath the window and another double with a brass bedstead suffocated by layers of blankets and a patchwork quilt.

‘Let me show you the kitchen,’ Lily said firmly.

Gwen allowed Lily to usher her back down the stairs and into a long room lined with 1950s cream cabinets with pale green trim and lemon Formica worktops. A red enamel coffee pot and an electric kettle were the only things visible on the spotlessly tidy work surface. A small table with two chairs tucked in was at the end and the small window above the stainless-steel sink was cracked.

‘What’s through there?’ Gwen gestured to the door behind the table.

‘That’s the pantry. It’s very small.’ Lily smiled again. ‘Go and take a look at the garden. I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.’

‘Right.’ Gwen left Lily moving comfortably around the kitchen and walked into the cold, dead air. Place must be well sheltered; there’s no wind at all. The garden was separated from the fields by a stone wall on one side and a line of trees at the bottom. Gwen identified rhododendrons in the corner, a giant spreading conifer thick with cones, holly, ash and hornbeam. A few fruit trees were dotted about the lawn. A lot of work, she found herself thinking. Around the corner was an untended vegetable plot. It had been cared for at one time, though, that was easy to see. Stone paths led along rows and the edges were defined with old red bricks. There were willow wigwams for peas or beans and fruit canes, but one was half pulled down by a mutant rhubarb that had clearly got ideas above its station.

The front garden offered more grass, many bushes, and wide borders filled with the seed heads and brown plants of a dead summer.

The crisp evening air cleared Gwen’s mind. What was Lily Thomas doing in her aunt’s house? The way she seemed so at home wasn’t that odd – especially if she’d been working for Iris for years – but why on earth was she here now? She hesitated, wondering whether she was overreacting, when some bundles of greenery caught her eye. Half-tucked behind the water butt, three tied-together collections of foliage. She recognised branches of ash and broom, and remembered her mother fixing something similar above the door to their flat; to ward off malignant forces, she’d said. Gwen dropped the bundle as if it were hot, and went back inside.

Lily was squeezing a tea bag against the side of a mug as if it had personally offended her.

Gwen sat down at the table, feeling slightly dazed.

‘I’ve made you a casserole but it’s down at my house. I’ll bring it up later.’

‘That’s very kind,’ Gwen said, ‘but I’m not sure—’

‘No need to thank me. Least I can do for Iris’s niece.’

‘Great-niece.’

‘Right.’ Lily popped open the lid on a plastic tub and arranged slices of fruitcake on a plate. ‘So, are you from the area?’

‘Not really.’ It was true. They’d lived in Pendleford for three years, but had moved around a lot before that. Gwen had never really felt like she was ‘from’ anywhere.

Lily frowned. ‘Somerset?’

Gwen shook her head.

‘Where do you live?’ Lily pressed on.

‘I’ve been in Leeds for the last six months.’ Gwen had a rule for dealing with people: Never give away more than strictly necessary.

‘But where do you come from? Originally.’ Lily’s inquisitive tone reminded Gwen of every bitchy queen bee at every new school she’d ever had to start. ‘We moved around quite a bit.’

‘Oh you poor thing,’ Lily pulled a face. ‘I wouldn’t have liked that.’

‘It was fine,’ Gwen said automatically.

‘I didn’t see you at the funeral,’ Lily said. ‘Were you close to Iris?’

‘No.’ Gwen didn’t feel like explaining that she’d barely known her great-aunt and had no idea why on earth she’d been given her house. She tried to gain control of the conversation. ‘Do you live in Pendleford?’

Lily nodded. ‘Just on the corner. I’m your nearest neighbour.’

Gwen opened her mouth to say that she wouldn’t be staying, but Lily was still talking, listing names of neighbours that Gwen knew she would instantly forget even if she were paying proper attention.

Lily stopped listing and said, ‘You look tired out, if you don’t mind my saying.’

Gwen felt a yawn coming on. She put a hand to her mouth and then apologised. ‘This is all quite sudden.’

Lily shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t say that. She’d been poorly for ages.’ She took a generous bite of cake before adding, ‘Bless her,’ through a mouthful of crumbs.

‘Why are you…?’ Gwen stopped. ‘I mean, did you have some sort of contract with my aunt? For this, I mean.’ She waved a hand, taking in the freshly cleaned kitchen, the tea, her presence.

‘A contract?’ Lily laughed, a bizarre high-pitched laugh. ‘We didn’t need anything like that. She was more like a sister – well…’ she wrinkled her nose ‘…a mother – to me than an employer. I know she’d want me to keep an eye on the place. Welcome you properly.’ She paused, giving Gwen an appraising look. ‘I’d be very happy to stay on and clean for you, too.’

So she was angling for a job. Fair enough. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I’m not sure what I’m doing about the house yet. And even if I did stay, I wouldn’t be able to afford to pay for cleaning.’

Lily shrugged. ‘No problem. Just offering.’ She pushed back her chair. ‘I’ll let you get settled in and pop back later with that casserole.’

‘Well…’ Gwen thought about navigating the winding road back to the nearest shop and realised how tired she felt. Plus, she’d been surviving on cheap takeaways and supermarket sandwiches; a home-cooked meal sounded wonderful. ‘That would be lovely, thank you very much. If it’s not too much trouble.’

‘We’re neighbours now. That’s what it’s like around here.’

Gwen opened her mouth to say she wouldn’t be staying, but yawned instead.

After Lily left, Gwen took her tea and wandered through the house, opening doors and getting her bearings. There were two large front rooms, both with big bay windows. One was a living room, complete with overstuffed brocade sofa and a riotous carpet of flowers, vines and leaves. The vast dining room looked forlorn and unloved by comparison. An oak dining table with twisted spindle legs and six chairs was marooned in an otherwise bare room and covered in a thick layer of dust.

Behind the kitchen there was a downstairs bathroom, tiled in black and white and with what was probably the original washbasin and tub. A small back bedroom completed the downstairs, with three bedrooms upstairs.

Big house, she thought, looking around at the triple wardrobe, dressing table and chest of drawers that fitted comfortably in the master bedroom. Something was missing, though. The flowered wash bag. Either she was imagining things or Lily Thomas had swiped it while she was in the garden. Odd.

Gwen got her suitcase from the van and lugged it upstairs. She was bone-tired. She wanted to run a bath and get clean. She’d been making do all week – taking her toothbrush and flannel into public bathrooms and splashing out for a shower at a motorway service station just the once. But she was so tired. So tired that she actually felt sick.

Although that could be nerves. Being in the house felt so wrong. Illicit. Growing up with her free-spirited mother, Gloria, there had only been one rule: stay away from Great-Aunt Iris. Her mother had described Iris as ‘evil’, and since she herself was known around town as ‘Crazy Gloria’, Gwen had seen no reason to disobey her. She’d always figured that Iris didn’t want to know them, either. The thought gave her a jolt of guilt.

Gwen yawned again and lay on the bed, meaning to test it for just a moment. It was gloriously comfortable and after five nights on a camping mat it felt like heaven. She pulled the quilt over herself and closed her eyes. Just for five minutes.

Gwen woke up disorientated and very hot. She executed an ungainly quilt-wrestle and went downstairs. The curtains had been drawn and a casserole dish sat warming in the oven. Lily had clearly been and gone. Gwen ignored the creepy feeling that gave her. She was being a suspicious modern urbanite; things were different in the country. People obviously still looked out for each other. Gwen still felt disorientated from her nap. The week of sleeping badly and the weirdness of the situation had caught up with her and she couldn’t summon up enthusiasm for food. Gwen turned off the oven and went back to bed. Tomorrow she would visit the legal people and straighten out the will. If she could sell the place straight away, she’d have the deposit to rent a flat and could get her business back on its feet. The money would save her life and she’d be duly grateful to Iris. She just wasn’t going to live in Pendleford. Not even for six months.

She dragged herself back up the stairs, every step an effort, and by the time she’d unpacked her overnight bag, she was yawning so long and so hard it was difficult to brush her teeth.

Some time later, she sat bolt upright. The room was pitch-black and her eyes strained with the effort of trying to see. Her heart was thudding as she struggled to work out what had woken her. A scratching noise almost made her cry out until it happened again and she realised it was the sound of a tree branch against glass. She forced herself to breathe deeply, to snuggle back down into the bed. Silence. No traffic, no sirens, no late-night revellers vomiting or fighting outside her window. It was probably the quiet that had spooked her. And the scratching. She clicked on the bedside lamp and climbed out of bed. The window was open and a brisk stream of night air flowed inside. Gwen swallowed. She had closed that window earlier. She had definitely closed it. Forcing herself forward, Gwen approached the window, feeling the cool air on her bare arms. She pushed the window open further and leaned out. The moon was riding high in the clear sky. She couldn’t see the offending branch, but there was plenty of greenery along the side of the house. She shut the window and latched it before getting back into bed and falling instantly asleep.

The next day, Gwen awoke to the sound of hammering on wood. She stumbled downstairs, trying to shake off the fug of sleep.

Her sister’s voice cut through two doors like a razor blade through trifle. ‘Gwen? I can see your van!’

Gwen opened the door and stepped smartly back into the hall, the full force of Ruby being too much to take in a confined space.

‘Oh for goodness’ sake. You were still in bed.’ Ruby shrugged off her jacket and put down her leather handbag. ‘You can’t open the door like that. I could’ve been anyone.’

‘Not really.’ Gwen turned and headed back up the stairs. ‘Put the kettle on.’ She had to be dressed to deal with Ruby.

After hastily pulling on jeans, a shirt and hoodie, she found Ruby in the kitchen.

‘This place is a museum.’ Ruby frowned at the painted walls. ‘It’s not even tiled.’

‘I like it,’ Gwen surprised herself by saying.

‘Really?’ Ruby raised her eyebrows. She looked around. ‘I suppose you could knock through and make a proper family kitchen.’ She wandered through to the dining room next door, then hastily returned. ‘Did you know the ceiling’s sagging in there? It looks like it’s about to come down.’

Gwen concentrated on pouring hot water onto tea bags.

Ruby opened some cabinets, ran a finger along the shelves. ‘She was very clean, anyway.’

‘She’s got a cleaner. Or a housekeeper. I’m not sure of the difference.’

‘Fancy.’

‘I think she needed someone at the end. I wish we’d known.’

‘It’s not our fault,’ Ruby said robustly. ‘She could’ve called.’

‘She might not have known you lived in Bath.’ What an awful thought. Iris all alone out here, her great-niece just down the road.

Ruby shrugged. Then she said, ‘It’s weird that she left you the house, though.’

‘I know.’ Gwen said, feeling awkward.

‘She always liked you the best.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ Gwen said. ‘I actually can’t remember her at all. It’s a bit odd.’ Which was an understatement. Ever since getting the letter from Laing & Sons, she’d been thinking about Iris and finding a strange blank, like typed words snowed over with Tippex.

‘God, do you remember that chicken she had?’ Ruby paused, hand on hip and a faraway expression on her face.

Gwen shook her head.

‘Oh, you do. It was like her pet or something. You nearly stood on it, remember? Iris went mental, but it wasn’t your fault. I mean, who keeps a chicken in the house? Bloody disgusting.’

‘I don’t remember.’ Gwen closed her eyes. A wave of nausea, like she was riding a roller coaster, swooped through her stomach and she opened her eyes again.

‘You must,’ Ruby was saying. ‘You cried all the way home and Gloria took us for ice cream. She never did that. You must remember.’

Gwen’s mouth filled with saliva. She tasted strawberry at the back of her throat and almost gagged. ‘I remember the ice cream. Just not Iris. Not the house.’ She gestured around. ‘I don’t remember any of this. Not at all.’ And that couldn’t be right.

‘Well, we only came here once or twice. And you were young.’

‘Not that young. Thirteen, maybe?’ Gwen had a horrible feeling she knew why there was a blank in her memory. She’d probably asked too many questions and Gloria had solved the problem with a memory charm. Charms and hexes and simple casting were the kinds of thing Gloria had taught Gwen while other mothers were showing their kids how to bake fairy cakes.

Ruby shrugged. ‘Well, you’re not missing much. Apart from the chicken, it was pretty boring. Gloria and Iris talking and pretending they weren’t arguing.’

‘I don’t remember,’ Gwen said again, hating that she sounded so forlorn, hating that being back in Pendleford was reminding her of all the things she’d tried so hard to forget.

‘I don’t care,’ Ruby said robustly. ‘It’s all in the past. Gloria’s escaped to Oz and Great-Aunt Iris is dead; what does any of it matter?’

Gwen pulled a face. ‘I just feel guilty. I don’t deserve this place. I hardly knew the woman.’

‘Well, according to Gloria, we were better off without her.’

‘I guess.’ Gwen handed her a mug, then sat down at the table to sip from her own.

‘It’s not our fault,’ Ruby said. ‘Gloria’s the one who cut contact. We were just kids.’

They had been forbidden from having anything to do with Iris. In fact, sitting in her house was probably still a capital offence. Whether she had passed on or not. Gwen was just going to ask Ruby if she had any idea what had caused the schism between Gloria and Iris, when Ruby said, ‘Look, she was a grown woman with her own friends and family and life. We weren’t part of it, through no fault of our own, but that doesn’t mean we missed out or that she missed out.’ She looked around the kitchen again. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘Then why leave me her house?’

Ruby frowned. ‘How the hell should I know? Dementia?’

‘That’s not funny,’ Gwen said. After a moment, she added, ‘She sent me birthday cards.’

‘Did she? When?’

‘Every year after I turned thirteen. After we stopped visiting.’

Ruby opened her eyes wide. ‘That’s weird. What did she write?’

‘Nothing. Just her name. Just her initial, actually. I used to hide them from Gloria. Did she—’

‘No. Nothing.’ Ruby shook her head. ‘She never sent me anything. Didn’t give me a house, either. It’s not fair.’

Gwen thought that Ruby was only half-joking. ‘Good thing you married rich.’

Ruby looked around. ‘Can you imagine what David would do to this place?’

Gwen shuddered. David was a good man, but he was an architect and didn’t seem able to appreciate a house unless it had weirdly big windows or a glass atrium in the middle or a roof made out of turf.

‘Well…’ Ruby had stopped assessing the house and focused on Gwen. It was disconcerting. ‘I see you’re still dressing like an art student. People will think you’re mad.’

‘I look fine,’ Gwen said. ‘For my job, this is normal.’

Ruby pulled a face. ‘If you say so.’

Gwen thought about telling Ruby about the people she knew from the art fair circuit. Next to Bonkers Brenda, who crocheted bikinis and embroidered them with little faces, and often wore her creations on the outside of her clothes, she was positively conformist.

After a moment of silence, Ruby said, ‘Are we going to pretend the last year didn’t happen?’

Gwen realised that she didn’t have the energy for a showdown with Ruby. The stress of the last few weeks and the oddness of being back in Pendleford crowded everything else out. ‘I really don’t want to argue. I’m too freaked out by all this.’

‘Fine with me,’ Ruby said. She pursed her lips. ‘It’s unseemly.’

Gwen laughed. ‘Unseemly?’

‘And it’s bad for my chi.’

Gwen stopped laughing.

‘I’ve had a course of colonics and I don’t want to retox.’ Ruby spoke as if expecting a medal of some kind.

‘You had what now?’

Ruby gave her a withering look. ‘You know perfectly well what it is.’

‘And you paid for that?’

‘Mock away. I feel lighter.’

‘I bet you do.’

‘In my soul,’ Ruby said and the shock of hearing Ruby saying a word as loaded and mumbo-jumbo as ‘soul’ shut Gwen up.

‘I’m doing yoga now, too,’ Ruby said.

Gwen looked at Ruby in disbelief. ‘Yoga?’

‘It’s transformed my life,’ Ruby said. Her expression was a mix of anxiety and defiance, exactly the same as when she’d brought home a copy of Smash Hits magazine, aged ten. ‘Marcus says I’m a natural. He says I’d be able to take the teaching course if I wanted, set up my own classes.’

‘Marcus?’ Gwen instantly pictured a bendy-limbed Lothario leaning towards her sister, his long fingers reaching for her golden hair. She suppressed a shudder.

‘He’s been brilliant,’ Ruby said. ‘And the yoga really helps with stress.’

Gwen refrained from snorting at the idea of Ruby being stressed. Ruby led a charmed life straight from the pages of a John Lewis catalogue while she’d been living like … Well. If she was being kind to herself, she’d say a free-spirited artist. If not, she’d have to go with hobo.

‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Ruby said, as if reaching into Gwen’s mind and plucking her thoughts clean out. ‘You’ve never faced up to responsibility. As a mother—’

‘Here we go,’ Gwen said, irritation leaping to the surface. ‘I’m not a mother so I don’t understand.’

‘Well, you’re not. And you don’t.’

This was why she shouldn’t spend time with her sister, Gwen thought. At a distance she felt almost fond, at close quarters she could happily strangle her. ‘Do you meditate?’

Ruby looked startled. ‘Of course. The mind–body connection is fundamental to—’

Gwen shook her head and then found she couldn’t quite stop. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into the palms. A tight ball of anger lodged in her stomach and, all at once, she realised why. ‘Let me get this straight,’ she said, surprised at the venom in her own voice. ‘All this time, I’ve been keeping away from you, not wanting to infect your precious life, your precious family with my “alternative” ways and you’ve been doing bloody yoga.’

‘You make it sound like a bad thing. I thought you, of all people, would be pleased.’

Gwen closed her mouth. There was nothing she could say to fill a pit of ignorance that deep. The unfairness of it burned bright and Gwen was surprised that Ruby couldn’t see the raw energy sizzling under her skin. She counted to ten to stop herself from saying something she would regret later and then settled on, ‘You must’ve had quite the epiphany.’

‘It’s not the same as your … stuff,’ Ruby said. ‘Yoga has been around for hundreds of years; it’s a spiritual thing, it’s not dangerous, it doesn’t ruin people’s lives,’ she counted the points off on her fingers, finishing with, ‘and it doesn’t mark you out as a weirdo. Not these days. I mean, you can buy yoga pants at The White Company.’

‘Well, if that’s what’s most important to you. The look of things—’

Ruby shrugged. ‘It’s a factor. Especially for Katie. You remember what school was like.’

Gwen repressed a shudder. Millbank Comp had not been a friendly place. Not for either of them. ‘I haven’t seen you in ages. I don’t want to argue with you,’ Gwen said. She pushed the anger and hurt back down and forced out, ‘If yoga makes you happy, I’m happy for you.’

Gwen couldn’t look Ruby in the eye, though. Instead she began to explore. She opened the door to the larder. Old newspapers were stacked neatly in a cardboard box on the floor, a broom hung from a nail on the back of the door and there were empty glass jars filling the top shelf. A spider ran across the floor.

Ruby called across from the living room. ‘It’s got the original fireplace.’

Gwen joined her, trying not to shiver. The living room was misnamed. The walls were painted in oppressive purple which, combined with the patterned carpet and sofa, made Gwen’s eyes itch. She sniffed. There was the shut-in house smell, but with something else underneath. A herb of some kind?

‘Good cornicing.’ Ruby pointed upwards.

Gwen pulled the curtains back, revealing big sash windows. ‘These are nice.’

‘Original?’ Ruby said.

‘I think so. I don’t think Iris got around to doing a modernist makeover.’

Ruby prodded the sill. ‘Probably rotten. Nightmare to look after, but people lap up this kind of thing. Very saleable.’

‘Mmm,’ Gwen said non-committally. She showed Ruby the upstairs, pausing underneath the loft hatch. ‘I suppose I should look up there.’

‘I’m not doing it. That’s what a man is for.’

‘How very 1950s of you.’

‘Oh please. Spiders, itchy insulation, low ceiling. Why keep a dog and bark yourself?’

‘True romance indeed. How is David?’ Gwen asked, smiling as she pictured her brother-in-law. He was married to his work somewhat, but a good guy nonetheless.

‘Busy. As usual,’ Ruby said.

‘But still utterly besotted.’

Ruby grinned. ‘Of course.’

He and Ruby had met at the same time Gwen was putting in regular time in the back seat of Cam’s car. When Ruby found out she was pregnant, David didn’t hesitate to drop to one knee and, this was the part that would endear him to Gwen for ever; he made it look like he’d been planning to propose for months. Ruby had believed him and so she’d said yes and then he’d worked like a dog to finish his architecture degree while supporting his new wife and baby. Nobody could resent the beautiful house they now lived in, their Audi and healthy bank balance. Well, Gwen corrected herself, someone would. Someone always did.

The third bedroom at the end of the corridor was filled with cardboard boxes and black bags. ‘What a mess.’ Ruby wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t envy you this.’

Gwen barely heard her. Ruby’s voice had retreated, become thin and insubstantial, leaving space for the all-too familiar sensation of Finding. Not now. Not in front of Ruby. Not when she was being so friendly and yoga-calmed.

It was no good. She couldn’t fight it. The tunnel vision had arrived, the edges of the room filled in with black shadows and she knew that the only way to get things back to normal was to obey the impulse. One of the bin bags was calling to her. Inside there was a tangle of old handbags, shawls, scarves and gloves. Gwen’s hand plunged in and her fingers closed around something slippery and cool. A Liberty-print silk scarf with the peacock design it was almost impossible to find these days. She stared at the scarf and saw it on the stall, knew it wouldn’t stay there long. Then her hand itched again and she reached back into the bag. A matching clutch purse. Barely able to breathe, Gwen clicked open the clasp and checked the lining. Immaculate.

Gwen didn’t believe in signs. She knew she had an uncanny knack for finding lost things, but she didn’t believe it meant anything. Not like Gloria reading palms and tarot cards and – on one memorable occasion – an oil leak from a red Volvo. She turned the purse over in her hands and tried to ignore the feeling that the house was trying to tell her something.

‘Gwen? Gwen?’ Ruby was frowning at her. Then understanding dawned across her face and her scowl deepened. ‘Oh God. You’re not—’

‘No! It’s nothing. I just found this—’

‘I don’t want to hear it.’ Ruby put her fingers in her ears, just like when they were kids.

Gwen felt sick. She didn’t want to think about it, either. She pushed aside memories of Gloria parading her like a performing monkey. People’s gratitude for their lost car keys overlaid with a shrinking back, a look of fear and horror and, above all, disbelief. ‘How did you do that?’ Like she was conducting an elaborate and pointless scam.

Ruby’s lip was curled. ‘I hoped you’d grown out of that.’

She marched down the stairs and Gwen stayed back for a moment, trying to calm herself. She didn’t want to fight with Ruby. It wasn’t Ruby’s fault that Gwen had inherited the Harper family curse while she’d got to be normal. She headed downstairs, trying to think of a neutral subject. ‘How’s Katie?’ People loved to talk about their kids.

Ruby shrugged. ‘Fourteen. My days of being God-like are over.’

‘That must be a relief.’

Ruby gave her an odd look. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘That’s right,’ Gwen said, in familiar territory. ‘I don’t understand true exhaustion, responsibility or In the Night Garden. Thank God.’

Ruby gave a grudging smile. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a BlackBerry. ‘I’ll give you the number of a good estate agent. David’s used him before.’

‘I’m not selling,’ Gwen said. Yet.

Ruby frowned. ‘What do you mean? You can’t stay here.’

Gwen had been about to explain that, barring some kind of financial miracle, she might be stuck in Pendleford for the foreseeable future. Ruby’s response pissed her off, though, so she said, ‘I like it. It’s homely.’

‘You can’t,’ Ruby said, her face suddenly pale.

At once, her joke didn’t seem so funny. Ruby looked genuinely horrified. Nice.

‘What? You think I’ll embarrass you? You live in Bath. You don’t have to have anything to do with me,’ Gwen said. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t bother you.’

‘I can’t believe you’re thinking about staying here. You hated this town, don’t you remember?’

Of course I remember, I’m not an idiot. ‘I didn’t hate it,’ Gwen lied. ‘And maybe I feel like settling down.’ She wasn’t going to give Ruby the satisfaction of knowing her business was in trouble.

‘I really don’t think it’s a good idea,’ Ruby said, still looking thoroughly spooked. ‘I mean, we’re only just speaking again. It might be too much, too soon, you know?’

And there it was. Her typically selfish sister. ‘This isn’t about you, Ruby. I can’t make every decision in my life based on you, or the horrible things you think and say about me.’

‘I was just being honest,’ Ruby said.

Gwen felt her eyes prickling with tears and she willed herself not to think about their argument. A year and a half of avoiding Ruby hadn’t soothed the raw emotion one tiny bit. She still felt like a gigantic bruise. This was why she kept her distance, Gwen remembered with painful clarity.

‘You only ever think of yourself. What about Katie? What about me? David’s business?’ Ruby said.

A part of Gwen wanted to placate Ruby, to make nice. A larger part was almost blind with fury at Ruby’s unfairness. This. Shit. Again. Gwen stared at Ruby and realised something: nothing had changed. Yoga or not, Ruby still thought she was the anti-Christ in tracksuit bottoms. She didn’t trust her and didn’t want her near her precious life. It hurt. She blinked. This was why you didn’t get close to people. They turned their backs on you. Better not to give a damn in the first place. She straightened her shoulders. ‘Go away, Ruby.’

‘We’re in the middle of a discussion,’ Ruby said. ‘We need to sort this out.’

‘I didn’t ask you to come round today, you volunteered. Now I’m asking you to leave.’

Ruby took a step back. Her eyebrows drew inwards as she processed the words.

‘You don’t want to be around me, you don’t trust me or whatever the bloody hell this lovely conversation is about, but I’m not going anywhere. This is my house and I’m telling you to get out.’

Ruby plucked her coat from the rack and slung it around her shoulders. ‘Gladly.’

Well, that went well. Gwen leaned her head against the glass panel in the front door and willed her heart to stop hammering.

To calm herself, Gwen looked at the Liberty purse again. An item like that would sell quickly, she knew, and if Iris had a few more gems like that scattered around the place, she might be able to scrape together enough cash for a deposit on a flat. Not back in Leeds, but somewhere different, somewhere new. Her heart lifted as it always did when she contemplated a flit. There was always the wild hope that this next place would be the one, her forever home.

She clicked the catch on the purse and caught her breath. Nestled against the silk lining was a tiny cylinder of rolled paper and a key. She swallowed. They must’ve been there before. She’d been distracted by Ruby. Nothing weird to see here. Move along.

Gwen smiled grimly. She’d spent thirteen years quashing magic nonsense like this, and she wasn’t about to lose control now. The paper would be an old receipt. The key was a dull silver and had simply been hidden against the grey of the lining.

Still, she couldn’t help herself. She unrolled the paper, which was soft with age, and felt vomit rise in the back of her throat. It said:

For Gwen. When you are ready, seek, and you shall find. It is your gift.

‘Sod that,’ Gwen said and went to brush her teeth.

## Chapter 2

Gwen had taken a long bath and eaten the bread that Lily had left with the casserole and, by the time she headed into town, she felt almost human again. All she had to do was remain focused. The next time she felt the Finding, she’d just ignore it. Simple as that. Just because she’d inherited one of the Harper family powers, didn’t mean she had to use it. She’d managed to stand up to Gloria all those years ago and refuse any more training, and she’d kept magic out of her life for the last thirteen years. Being back in Pendleford for one night wasn’t going to undo that. No matter how many creepy little notes Great-Aunt Iris had left for her.

The solicitor’s office occupied an imposing Georgian townhouse on the main street. Of course, all of the buildings were impressive, so that diluted its effect somewhat. Gwen hesitated outside the building. It was ridiculous. She had no connection to the Laings, not any more, and she’d never met Mr Laing Senior. There was nothing to worry about. Gwen found the reception and was directed straight into Mr Laing’s office.

‘He’s waiting for you,’ the secretary said, her rose-pink lips pursed.

Gwen opened her mouth to explain that the parking in this undeniably quaint and picturesque town was satanic and the unexpected twenty-minute fast walk had made her late, and then closed it when she caught sight of Mr Laing. The man didn’t look like he had much time left on this earth and probably didn’t want to waste it listening to excuses or parking zone rants.

‘Ms Harper. You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up.’ Mr Laing gestured to his wheelchair. ‘Please sit.’

Gwen sat and tried not to stare at the ancient being opposite. He must have been at least ninety. Well preserved, for sure, his nails freshly manicured and eyes bright, but surely someone who had earned retirement. What kind of firm was this? The kind you could only leave in a box?

Mr Laing picked up a sheet of heavy-weight cream paper and held it out. ‘This is the original of the document that we sent to you. Your great-aunt’s will. I understand there is some confusion on your part.’

Gwen kept her hands in her lap, refusing to touch the paper. ‘Not confusion exactly.’

‘How can I help?’ Mr Laing steepled his fingers.

‘I wanted to know if I could sell the house straight away.’

‘The terms of the will state that the property cannot be placed on the market for six months. After that, you can sell as quickly as you like.’

‘Right. I read that.’

Mr Laing waited.

‘I was wondering, though.’ Gwen swallowed. ‘Is there a way around it?’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Can I put it up for auction, or something?’ Gwen wasn’t going to embarrass herself by explaining that she needed cash right now. Or that she couldn’t stay in the house because Iris appeared to be talking to her from beyond the grave.

‘Ms Harper was very clear in her instructions. She updated her will six weeks prior to her passing and instructed us to send it to you.’

‘But how? How could she do that?’

Mr Laing’s white eyebrows crept upwards again. ‘She was an exceptionally organised woman.’

‘I mean…we weren’t in contact. How did she know my address?’

‘She was your great-aunt. Isn’t it possible that she spoke to another family member?’

Gwen shook her head. That was most definitely not possible.

‘Is there no way to release equity from the house or something? Immediately?’ Gwen realised that her voice was getting louder and she snapped her mouth shut again. Shouting at a defenceless old man was not cool. It wasn’t his fault he worked in a soulless leather-and-oak hell and looked like an extra from The Godfather.

Mr Laing looked back at her calmly. ‘I see.’

Gwen sank back.

‘If you will excuse me, I will get my grandson in here.’

‘Sorry?’ Gwen sat forward.

‘He prepared this file but…’ Laing paused ‘…became overscheduled and passed the baton to me, as it were.’

‘Okay. Fine.’ Gwen remained perched on the edge of the padded leather chair and waited. She thought of her beloved minivan. It was stuffed full of her possessions and business stock and she barely fitted amongst the boxes. She didn’t want to stay at End House, but she didn’t want to sleep in the van again. Then she processed the word ‘grandson’. It couldn’t be—

The door opened behind her and Gwen turned.

The man in the charcoal-grey suit was both older and taller than she remembered. His face was tense, though, and that sadly fitted her last memory of him to a tee. She gaped, then, realising that she probably looked like a village idiot, closed her mouth.

‘Hello, Gwen.’

‘Cam.’ The word felt odd in her mouth. Wrong.

‘Don’t get up.’

Gwen realised she was suspended, half out of the chair like she was poised to run a race.

‘Is there a problem?’ Cameron Laing had been twenty-three when she’d last seen him and thirteen years was a long time. Which would explain the blank and professional expression he was levelling in her direction.

‘You’re a lawyer,’ she said stupidly.

‘So it would appear,’ Cam said.

‘Ms Harper wishes to contest the Harper will,’ Mr Laing senior said.

‘No. I’m not saying that,’ Gwen said, suddenly desperate to appear reasonable. She had a good idea that ‘reasonable’ was probably not the first word that Cam would use to describe her. She wanted to show him she’d changed. Not that she needed to. There wasn’t going to be any antagonism after thirteen years. Probably no emotion at all. ‘I was just wondering if there was a way to convert the house into cash. Quickly.’

It hardly seemed possible, but Cam’s expression became more rigid. ‘Let me see.’ Cam ran over the same details, then plucked the paper from Laing’s desk and put it into Gwen’s hands. She took it to stop it sliding off her lap onto the floor and, despite her intentions, glanced down. Iris’s signature was there at the bottom of the sheet. The same looping writing that was on the note in the purse. There was no mistake: Iris wanted her to have the house. She really wanted her to stay in Pendleford and had even put an instruction not to sell into a legal document. A part of Gwen felt flattered. It was nice to be wanted, even if it was by a woman she’d been taught to avoid like the plague.

Cam was frowning as he flipped through the file. ‘Where are the title deeds? They should be here.’

Mr Laing senior shrugged.

‘Great. Iris must’ve left them at the house.’ He looked at Gwen. ‘You’ll need that when you come to sell. In May.’

Gwen looked into Cam’s brown eyes and felt something thud inside her chest. ‘Six months. Right.’

‘You’ll need to find it,’ he said. ‘It’s pretty important.’

‘Right. I’m just not sure if I can—’

‘What? You’re too busy?’ Cam shook his head as he handed her the file. ‘This isn’t the usual way people react when they find out someone has given them a house.’

‘Oh?’ Gwen couldn’t stop looking at Iris’s handwriting. She felt as if the walls had shrunk, and when she looked up at Cam, the room swooped to the left.

‘They usually say “hooray”.’

‘Cameron!’ Mr Laing was shocked. ‘Ms Harper has lost her aunt.’

‘It’s okay. I didn’t know her,’ Gwen said.

Just as Cam said, ‘It takes more than that to shake Gwen.’

‘Hey!’ Gwen said. So, a little hostility still.

‘Spare keys.’ Cam plucked a brown envelope from the desk and tipped it upside down.

‘Thank you.’

‘Well, if that concludes our business?’

Cam’s face was older, harder. Gwen didn’t think it was possible, but she actually found him even more attractive than the Cam of her memory. Which was inconvenient.

‘I don’t want to keep you,’ Gwen managed.

Cam bowed his head slightly and left the room.

‘Well…’ Laing senior looked baffled. ‘What was that about?’

Gwen shook her head. She felt sick. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that Cam’s grandfather didn’t know about them; not many people talked in-depth to their grandparents about their relationships but, still, it hurt.

She shook Mr Laing’s hand and thanked him for his time. It wasn’t his fault that she couldn’t convert the house into money and go rent a flat in Leeds or London or on Mars. Six months. How bad could it be?

Back at End House, Gwen closed the door, then leaned her head lightly against it. Perhaps the country air was getting to her, but it felt as if the house was breathing with her. She closed her eyes and saw Cam. Frowning at her.

She went to the kitchen and flicked through the file that Cam had given her. There was a white envelope with her name on it, written in Iris’s handwriting. Inside, there was a small key and a single folded sheet of paper:

My dearest Gwen. I’m sorry I never got to know you. I hope you are all that I believe you to be. With power comes responsibility. I want you to accept all that I bequeath you but, by doing so, you accept all that it brings. Yours in haste, Iris.

Nicely cryptic, Iris. Thanks for that.

The back door swung open. ‘Knock, knock.’ Lily appeared, her spike heels gouging chunks out of the worn lino. ‘Only me.’

‘What can I do for you?’ Gwen asked, pushing the letter back into the file and flipping over the brown cardboard cover.

‘It’s what I can do for you. I have such happy memories of helping your auntie, I’m willing to offer you a discount.’

‘Sorry?’

‘To help you out.’ Lily looked pointedly at the mess of papers, used coffee mugs and plates on the table. ‘Looks like you could do with a hand.’

Gwen felt pressure around her temples. ‘I don’t need any help, thank you.’ She stood up and tipped crumbs from the cake plates into the bin. ‘And I couldn’t afford it if I did.’

‘If I clean, it will free up your time for—’ Lily paused ‘…well, whatever it is you do.’

‘I’m fine, really.’ Lily didn’t appear to be listening and was unpacking her bag on the table. A flask appeared. And a brown paper bag that smelled of yeasty goodness.

‘I brought you some soup and bread.’

‘You don’t have to—’

‘Just while you settle in. Bless you, I’m sure you haven’t been shopping yet.’ She gave Gwen a disconcertingly direct look. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not staying. I’m not one of those nosy neighbours. Always popping in. Some people like to be social and some people don’t. We respect that round here.’

‘Right—’

Lily gave a little tinkling laugh that lifted the hairs on the back of Gwen’s neck. ‘Watch out for Janet, though. She runs the Honey Pot and is the town gossip.’

There was a pause as Gwen wondered how to get rid of Lily. ‘I was thinking about sorting through things today.’

‘Don’t forget to check the list.’

‘The list?’

‘The list of contents. Everything is in its place. I don’t want you thinking I have light fingers. You have to sign to say everything is as it should be.’

Understanding dawned and Gwen blushed. ‘I didn’t mean I was checking. I didn’t—’

‘That’s all right. You don’t know me, after all. You aren’t local. You don’t know what a good friend I’ve been.’

‘I’m sure you’ve been wonderful.’ Gwen wanted Lily to leave. She hadn’t sat down, which was a good sign, but good manners overtook her mouth. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Idiot.

‘I won’t take up any more of your time. You’ve got your work cut out for you here.’

Gwen smiled. Relief made her giddy. ‘I’m quite looking forward to it. I’ve never had my own house before.’

Lily looked at her curiously. ‘You’ve never bought a house?’

‘No. Just rented. Usually just a room in a shared house, actually.’

‘Oh?’ Lily pursed her lips. ‘Isn’t that a bit cramped?’

‘A bit. I’ve always moved around so much – for my work – my domestic arrangements haven’t mattered much.’ Gwen had always felt safest moving around. Pendleford had been the last place she’d called home and that hadn’t ended well.

‘You’re not working now, though.’

‘Not right at this second. No.’ Gwen didn’t feel the need to explain Curious Notions to Lily. She seemed like the type who would turn her nose up at second-hand, let alone ‘craft’.

‘You’re going to stay, then?’

‘Yes.’ For now.

Lily made a face. ‘Make sure you find that list. I don’t want any trouble.’ She picked up her bag and headed out of the door at a clip. ‘And make sure you have that soup tonight. It’s chicken.’

Okay, Gwen thought. So Lily was a bit odd. A bit intense. She opened the file again and plucked out the sheaf of stapled A4 paper with ‘End House, Contents’ typed on the top sheet. It was handily split into rooms, but after a minute of reading: one candlestick, pewter, broken base; one wool rug, red; three fountain pens; one wastepaper basket, her will to live fled. She was sure Lily hadn’t taken anything, anyway. She flipped to the last page and signed the declaration at the bottom. She made another mug of tea and drank it at the kitchen table. Why would she be so anxious for Gwen to check the list if she had? Unless she was looking for something. Gwen shook her head to release the ridiculous thought, but instead found herself staring at the small grey key.

A key for a locked door. Gwen didn’t have to pause; the knowledge jumped to the front of her mind; an extrovert piece of information that couldn’t wait for its turn in the spotlight. She ventured outside to the small outbuilding beyond the vegetable patch and tried the whitewashed door. It was locked. The key turned smoothly and the door swung inwards. The room wasn’t big, but it was obviously well used. A scrubbed wooden bench sat against one wall, a chair pushed neatly underneath. Another wall was filled by shelves and these were crowded with jam jars, neatly labelled. Gwen picked one up and read ‘Wolfsbane’. Okay.

There were bunches of herbs hanging from the ceiling and a butler’s sink in the corner with a wooden draining board to the side. There was a tartan-print cat bed in the corner. Gwen sighed with relief. That explained the noises in the night. The poor thing could be shut in somewhere or was hiding out of fear. Odd that Lily hadn’t mentioned a pet. Her heart clenched as she imagined it hungry and afraid, clenching harder when she realised that she was now responsible for it.

Her eye was caught by a notebook. It was spiral-bound and had a plain cover. She flipped it open and was confronted with tightly packed writing in black Biro. Iris’s writing sloped violently to the right and she seemed to have little regard for the spaces between words. Gwen pulled out the chair and read a page at random.

M D came again today. I knew she would’ve been drinking to get up the courage and by the smell of her it was sweet German wine. Not surprising that she has the palate of an illiterate eight-year-old. I gave her the usual prep (2 x WB, 1 x F, 1 x LLB).

Okay. So Great-Aunt Iris had an acerbic streak. She flipped to another page.

That bloody woman was sniffing around again. There’s nothing worse than a frustrated witch.

Witch. Gwen felt sick. If the cat’s black, she thought, I’m out of here.

That night, Gwen didn’t even pretend to consider sleeping in Nanette. Yes, she didn’t want to be in Pendleford or inside End House, but it was forecast minus six and too late to drive very far. Gwen knew she could be irrational, but she wasn’t about to sleep in her van when she owned a perfectly good, warm bed. And food. She poured the soup from the flask into a pan to heat it. Rich smells of leek, garlic and chicken rose up. Gwen got down a bowl and cut a thick slice of the fresh bread. She managed a couple of mouthfuls, but tiredness mugged her and she put the spoon down. She trailed upstairs to the master bedroom and the enormous bed. Her mind and heart were trying to reconcile the coldness from Cam. Coldness that she’d expected. It was exactly what had stopped her from picking up the phone so many times over the last thirteen years. She’d heard that the anticipation of pain was usually worse than the pain itself. Well, not in this case. Gwen couldn’t believe how much it hurt to look into Cam’s face and see nothing. Nothing but a chilly disdain. She closed her eyes and a spiral of colour twisted in the darkness. She watched it turn and writhe until sleep took her.

Gwen opened her eyes. The darkness pressed against them as she struggled to wake up. She’d been dreaming about the river. Black water, icy-cold. Stephen Knight’s pale face emerging from the thick depths as if he were floating in oil, not water. His eyes open and accusing. His mouth opening, filling with the black liquid.

Scritch, scratch. There it was again, the sound that had woken her up. Gwen forced herself properly awake. She ignored the window that had inexplicably opened and tiptoed onto the landing. She peered over the banister and there, sitting squarely in a patch of moonlight on the hall floor, was the skinniest cat she had ever seen. She crept down the first couple of stairs, watching carefully to see if the cat would bolt. It stayed motionless, watching her with unblinking eyes that were nothing more than reflections in the half light. Gwen looked casually away and then back, showing that she wasn’t a threat. The cat hadn’t moved and it looked reasonably relaxed. In fact, it looked like it was waiting for her, so she tried a couple more stairs. Then it meowed. Instinctively, Gwen put her hands over her ears. The noise that split the air wasn’t feline. It was like a rusty saw being dragged over corrugated iron. ‘Jesus!’

The cat regarded her with disgust. Perhaps it didn’t like blasphemy. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘You startled me.’

The cat got up and walked into the kitchen, its bottle brush tail high in the air.

Gwen followed obediently and then realised there wasn’t any cat food in the house. She took down a tin of tuna and mashed up a little on a plate, while the cat wound its wiry body round and round her legs. ‘You’re going to trip me over,’ she said.

The cat screeched.

‘All right, all right.’ Gwen put the plate down in front of it.

While the cat made short work of the tuna, she filled a saucer with some watered-down milk. ‘You shouldn’t really have dairy, but you look like you need the extra calories.’ I’m talking to a cat. God help me.

The cat sniffed the liquid, then lapped. Gwen felt a ridiculous sense of achievement.

She fetched one of the sad-looking cushions from the living room and put it on the floor of the kitchen. ‘You can sleep in here tonight.’ Then, shutting the kitchen door, she went upstairs. She went to the bathroom and washed her hands. There was no knowing what the animal had. Worms or fleas or, quite possibly, scurvy. She would need a litter tray, food, a new cat bed, and to get it checked by a vet.

Gwen paused on the landing, looking at the moonlight on the hallway tiles and listening to the night-time sounds of the house.

The cat was curled up on the foot of the bed. Gwen looked at it for a long moment. The cat looked steadily back at her. Then she got into bed.

Gwen opened her eyes. Two yellow ones hovered about an inch from her nose. She stifled a scream and blinked. The cat stretched lazily and jumped off the bed, landing with a thud. ‘I thought cats were light-footed.’ The cat paused, looking at her with an expression of disgust. In the daylight, Gwen could see that it was most definitely not a black cat. It had a mix of markings, not tortoiseshell or black and white or marmalade, but all of them. Like several cats had been put in a blender. Which was a horrible image and one Gwen instantly tried to whitewash over. The cat regarded her sternly as if mind-reading. ‘Sorry,’ she said, and then felt ridiculous.

She fed the cat some more tuna, bulked out with bread soaked in water. Then she remembered the leftover soup. She took it out of the fridge and sniffed it. Chicken. The cat started to wind around her legs, crying out and purring. ‘Smells good, huh?’ She poured a tiny bit into a saucer and put it on the floor. The cat dived for the dish, then stopped. His hackles rose and his fur stood on end. He hissed at the dish, then disappeared through the door, a streak of fur and fury.

Gwen picked up the saucer and sniffed it again. Maybe the cat objected to herbs. She began clearing up.

The back door, that Gwen would’ve sworn blind was locked, swung open. ‘Knock, knock. Only me.’

Lily Thomas smiled, her tiny teeth sparkling. ‘Soup for breakfast?’

Gwen realised she was still holding the Thermos in one hand. ‘Just washing up.’ She plunged it into the sink full of soapy water. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Just come to pick up my dishes.’

‘Of course.’ Gwen finished rinsing the flask and dried it on a checked tea towel. Then she fetched the ceramic casserole and handed them over. ‘Do you know the name of Iris’s cat?’

Lily frowned. ‘Iris didn’t have a cat.’

Gwen decided not to mention the cat bed in the outbuilding. It would be like directly calling Lily a liar, which probably wasn’t the way to be a friendly neighbour. Besides, there was something snake-like about Lily’s eyes. She kept her voice mild: ‘Well, I’ve got one now. He seems pretty at home.’

‘Must be a stray. Don’t feed it or you’ll never get rid of it.’ Lily paused. ‘Have you had a chance to check that list yet?’

‘Kind of. Yes.’

‘Did it mention a notebook?’ Everything about Lily was casual – her stance, leaning against the kitchen counter, her voice, her open expression – but Gwen could feel the tension thrumming in the air.

She shook her head. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s completely fine. Just a little thing. Silly, really, but I was so fond of Iris and it would be something to remember her by.’ Lily wiped delicately at her dry eyes.

‘A notebook?’

‘With recipes,’ Lily said quickly. ‘I always admired Iris’s tomato chutney and she promised to leave me the secret.’

Gwen frowned. ‘Why didn’t she just give it to you?’

Lily laughed. ‘I keep forgetting that you didn’t know your auntie at all, did you? She was very protective of her recipes. Adamant that they should be passed down through family —’ She broke off, perhaps realising what she’d said, then continued smoothly, ‘And she always said I was her closest family, that I was like a granddaughter to her.’

‘Well, as soon as I find the recipe I’ll pass it on.’

Lily smiled properly, her face lighting up and becoming pretty. ‘Thank you. I’d appreciate it.’

Gwen drove to the big supermarket on the outskirts of town and stocked up; she couldn’t rely on handouts from the neighbours for ever. She picked up cat food and a red velvet collar and put the receipt into her bag without looking at it. She was close to the limit on her emergency credit card and hoped, fervently, that the cat didn’t eat very much.

Back at End House, she set up her iPod dock and put on Johnny Cash at full volume. She stacked tins and packets and jars, filling the kitchen cupboards, then cleaned through the house, swiping away dust and cobwebs and muddy paw prints.

The cat appeared and pronounced the cat food a success. ‘Don’t get too used to that stuff. It’ll be value tins next time.’

The cat tilted his head and regarded her disdainfully.

‘And then I’ll have to re-home you, I suppose.’

The cat blinked slowly.

‘Unless I stay here. And adopt you.’

The cat began licking itself.

‘Great,’ Gwen said. ‘Is that supposed to be a sign?’

The sun had disappeared by four o’clock, making Gwen think about an early dinner. She pulled out pans and knives and started cooking. It was such a treat to have a kitchen again. And no annoying housemates to share it with. A spark of happiness flared as she followed the ritual of making pasta sauce. The movements were soothing. They calmed the feelings stirred up by the shock of seeing Cameron Laing.

Gwen chopped a handful of fresh basil, almost cutting off the tip of her pinky in the process. ‘Damn it.’ She ran her finger under the cold tap and told herself off for thinking about Cam while in possession of a sharp object. She threw the basil into the tomato sauce simmering on the stove and tried not to think about him in his dark suit. Cam in a suit was weird. When they’d been together, she would’ve sworn his Ramones T-shirt was surgically attached to his body. Except when he was peeling it over his head that time on the beach. She shivered, remembering the way his eyes had turned black, holding her like he was a drowning man. It had always been like that. Something wild and desperate and, with hindsight, probably not all that skilful. She closed her eyes and imagined what Cam might’ve learned in thirteen years. She leaned against the worktop, breathing in garlic-and-wine-scented steam and feeling the pressure against her suddenly thrumming and alive body. Her eyes flew open. Someone was knocking on the back door.

Gwen knew her face was flushed, but figured she could blame it on cooking. She wrenched open the door, ready to tell Lily Thomas politely but firmly to sod off, only to find a woman she didn’t recognise peering at her anxiously in the dusk. She was wearing a navy trouser suit and carrying a matching handbag, but she still looked a little ragged around the edges. Her skin was pale and there were dark circles around her eyes.

‘You’ve got to help me,’ the woman said and pushed past Gwen into the kitchen and sat in the biggest chair.

‘I’m sorry?’ Gwen managed.

‘You’re Gwen Harper, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Gwen tried to smooth out her frown. Manners cost nothing, after all. ‘Do you live next door?’

‘Of course not. I’m Marilyn Dixon.’

‘Right,’ Gwen said. It was official; the people in this town were insane. She gestured to the stove. ‘I was just about to eat. Are you hungry?’

Marilyn opened her eyes wide. ‘Will that help?’

Gwen gave up on reason and took the chair opposite. ‘Can we back up a bit? Speak slowly; I feel like I missed a memo or something.’

Marilyn’s fingers gripped her handbag on her lap, her knuckles bright white. ‘You are Iris Harper’s granddaughter, aren’t you?’

‘I’m her great-niece.’

‘Oh.’ Marilyn looked ridiculously disappointed. Her bottom lip stuck out like a toddler. There was a short silence, broken only by the soft popping of the simmering sauce.

‘Did you know my great-aunt well?’ Gwen tried for some polite chit-chat.

‘Not really. She kept herself private. Not a mixer.’

‘Right.’

‘But she always helped.’ Marilyn sniffed. ‘Wasn’t very nice about it, but she helped.’

‘I thought she was quite infirm herself.’ Gwen couldn’t imagine what Iris had been doing for Marilyn Dixon. Marilyn was no spring chicken, but she was easily thirty years younger than Iris.

‘Ha!’ Marilyn said and Gwen jumped a little. ‘She was as strong as a horse. Healthy as anything. Never got ill. Well…’ Marilyn paused and Gwen could almost hear her thinking ‘…until she died, of course.’ Another pause. ‘God rest her soul.’

Gwen frowned.

‘I’m sorry. Should it be goddess rest her soul? I was never really sure on that,’ Marilyn said.

‘I’m still confused.’ Gwen shook her head to clear the fog. It didn’t help. ‘Can we start with the basics? Who are you and why are you here?’

Colour flushed up Marilyn’s neck. ‘Your great-aunt was known for helping people. She said you were going to move in after she was gone.’

Gwen frowned. That made no sense. ‘The last time I saw my great-aunt I was thirteen and she said no such thing.’

‘Don’t shoot the messenger,’ Marilyn snapped. ‘And besides, I would’ve thought you’d be a little more grateful.’ She waved a hand. ‘She left you her house.’

‘Does everybody know my business?’

Marilyn looked at her in surprise. ‘In Pendleford? Of course.’

‘God help me.’ Gwen raised her eyes skyward.

‘Well, I can see I’m not wanted.’ Marilyn began to rise.

‘Don’t go. I’m sorry if I was rude. I’m just a little confused.’ And frightened. Gwen took a deep breath. ‘Can you talk me through the kind of help my great-aunt dished out?’

Marilyn sat back down. Her face softened in sympathy. ‘You really don’t know?’

‘I really don’t know,’ Gwen said, although she was starting to suspect. The secret room full of jars. The weird noises. The cat. Great-Aunt Iris had been a bit eccentric. And it seemed that the Harper family reputation for ‘weird’ was alive and kicking.

‘She was magic.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Gwen hoped she’d misheard.

‘She could help with stuff.’ Marilyn shrugged. ‘Like if your hens stop laying or you’ve got a cold that won’t go away. She’s got a brilliant medicine for that.’

‘Like homeopathy?’ Please let it be homeopathy. No flipping tarot cards.

Marilyn’s face brightened. ‘Exactly. People are always using homeopathy or reflexology or having someone stick needles in their sore bits. Seeing Iris was no different.’

‘And you paid her?’

Marilyn’s face fell. ‘It wasn’t like I didn’t try. She wouldn’t take it.’

Well, that was different. Gloria had had a price list printed up. Gwen got up and stirred the sauce. The motion was soothing and so was not having to look at Marilyn Dixon, who had popping blue eyes and a determined set to her mouth.

‘I always knew I owed her a favour, though. She didn’t take money, but you knew she’d ask you for something, some time.’

Okay. Enough nonsense. Gwen stirred the sauce faster. She couldn’t help this woman. She didn’t make potions or cast spells or even give good advice. And she wasn’t about to start.

Gwen turned to face Marilyn. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just not sure how I could help you. I’m not Iris.’

By the door, Marilyn gave her a long sweeping look, up and down. ‘No.’ And then she left.

## Chapter 3

Gwen ate her pasta and drank a glass of red wine, but she didn’t feel any better. Marilyn Dixon. The name seemed oddly familiar. Against her better judgement, Gwen fetched Iris’s notebook and opened it at random. It was disturbing how easily she found an entry about Marilyn. Almost as if the book was being deliberately helpful.

Marilyn Dixon was here again about dry patches on her cheeks. That woman sees problems where there are none. I gave her tincture of rose for her nerves and told her it would give her the skin of a fourteen-year-old.

Gwen flipped the book shut and put it in the bread bin so that she couldn’t see it any more. If she couldn’t see it, she wouldn’t be tempted to read it. She needed to stay strong. Don’t get sucked in.

She also needed to repay Lily for the casserole and the soup, and something told her that a packet of HobNobs wouldn’t cut it in Pendleford. She baked a couple of fruit cakes, steadfastly ignoring the siren song of the notebook. She vacuumed the living room and plumped the thin cushions on the sofa. It just looked sadder and quieter, and the cat wouldn’t settle. He kept crying to be let out and, sixty seconds later, crying to be let back in. By the tenth round, Gwen was losing her patience.

‘For the love of—’ Gwen flung open the back door, ready to sit the cat down for a serious heart-to-heart vis-à-vis the wisdom of pissing off his source of food and shelter. ‘Oh.’

‘Don’t leave me out in this cold; I’ll catch my death. And you’re letting all your heating out.’ The man was at least a hundred years old, his face scrunched-up like a used Kleenex.

Gwen stepped back and he made his way up the step and into the warmth of the kitchen.

‘I need Iris,’ he said, taking the comfy chair.

‘Course you do,’ Gwen said. She flicked the switch on the kettle. ‘Tea?’

‘This isn’t a social visit.’

‘Fine.’ Gwen sat opposite him. ‘You are aware that I’m not Iris?’

‘I’m not senile.’ The man glowered at her. ‘I went to her funeral. You don’t get up after one of those.’

‘Not usually, no. What can I do for you?’

The man looked down, his face abruptly red. He didn’t answer.

‘The thing is, as we’ve already established, I’m not Iris, so I probably can’t help you anyway. You’re better off going to the chemist. Or the doctor. Or A&E.’ Not my bloody kitchen.

He looked up. ‘You’re turning me away?’

‘No. It’s not like that. But I can see it’s something you’re embarrassed about and if you do tell me, I’m not sure it’ll be worth it as I don’t know how I could help. I run a crafts and antiques stall and I barely knew my great-aunt and I’ve just moved in and people keep turning up and won’t leave me alone.’

The man chewed his lip. ‘Iris mixed me a cream. It soothed my chilblains.’

‘Chilblains?’ What was embarrassing about poor circulation?

He nodded defiantly.

‘The problem is, I don’t know how to make the cream. And there wasn’t anything left in her work room. It was cleaned out as far as I could tell. I don’t even know what’s in it. I don’t know where to start.’

The man got creakily to his feet saying, ‘I won’t bother you again.’

Gwen felt like hell. ‘Won’t you stay for a cup of tea, at least?’

‘I won’t bother you,’ he said again, his mouth set into a stubborn line.

‘I really am sorry.’ Then Gwen spotted the fruit cakes she’d just taken out of the oven. She got one of the tins down from the cupboard.

‘Take this.’

‘What is it?’

‘Fruit cake. Drop the tin back to me when you’ve finished.’

‘Will it help my chilblains?’

‘No, no. I just feel bad about you coming out in this cold and—’

The man had the tin and was tucking it noisily into a carrier bag that had appeared from his coat pocket.

He stuck out his hand and they shook awkwardly. ‘I’m Fred Byres. Number six Meadowmead.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Gwen said.

He raised a hand and disappeared down the path at a surprisingly fast clip, rustling.

Gwen took a deep breath and then dialled the number on the solicitor’s letterhead and asked for Cam. When she heard his voice, she sagged against the wall.

‘It’s Gwen. Harper.’

His voice changed, went tight. She couldn’t blame him. He’d made it quite clear that he was still angry with her for the way she’d left things all those years ago. Time heals was a big fat lie. ‘I was wondering if I could talk to you about my aunt.’ She looked around the hallway; the doors leading off were like eyes watching her. ‘I feel a bit weird living in her house when I didn’t know her. I’ve been sorting through her stuff and it just feels wrong. I feel like an intruder.’

‘So go home.’ Cam’s voice was flat.

‘I don’t want to,’ she said carefully. No need to explain that she didn’t have one. Or, rather, End House was it. ‘I’m going to stay.’

Cam didn’t say anything and Gwen could almost hear his sneer down the line.

‘At least for the time being,’ she added, wishing with all her being that he wasn’t so hostile. Or that it didn’t bother her so much.

‘Why don’t you ask your family? What about your mum?’

‘They didn’t get on. Something happened when I was a kid and we weren’t allowed to see her any more. We weren’t allowed to use her name, actually.’ Gwen forced a laugh to show she knew it sounded overblown and ridiculous. Not the kind of way that she, rational, normal, Gwen Harper would ever behave.

‘I didn’t know her very well,’ Cam said. ‘Just in a professional capacity.’

‘Please. Anything at all would help.’

‘Didn’t you say you live next door to her old carer? She’d know more than me.’

‘Cleaner. And I’d rather get a different viewpoint. I know it’s an imposition, but I won’t take up much of your time. I’ll come into town and we could have coffee. Or lunch. I’ll buy you lunch.’

‘Bribery is illegal, you know.’

Gwen smiled, relieved at the lightening in his tone. ‘Whatever it takes.’

There was a sudden loaded silence. Then she heard him sigh. ‘Tomorrow. One drink after work.’

‘That’s brilliant, thanks so much—’

He cut across her. ‘And you’re buying.’

The next day, Gwen parked Nanette as close as possible to the town centre, realising too late that she would’ve been better off just walking from the house. She ended up in a small pay and display car park, and trekked the mile to Cam’s office. Irritatingly, he was waiting inside his Lexus at the kerb. She pulled open the passenger door and he jumped slightly. ‘Hello.’

‘Is the pub far, because my car is practically back at End House, closest I could get.’

‘Oh, yes. Sorry. Parking is a pain.’

‘It’s fine,’ Gwen said, and got into the car. She needed to dial down the hostility, get things with Cam onto a polite, grown-up footing. He wasn’t looking at her, though, which was annoying. Then he spoke to the steering wheel. ‘I was just about to call you and cancel, actually.’

‘Oh?’

A high-pitched chiming noise interrupted them. Gwen winced and looked around for the source of the awful sound.

‘Yeah.’ He frowned. ‘That’s the seat belt warning.’

‘But we’re not moving.’

‘We could get rear-ended and you’d fly through the windscreen.’

Gwen put the belt on.

‘Anyway,’ he said, in what could only be a deliberately casual tone, ‘it’s been a mad day and I’m knackered.’

‘But this is the time we’re meeting. You couldn’t call to cancel at the exact time of the appointment. That’s not cancelling, that’s cutting the meeting short.’

‘Okay. Then I’m cutting our meeting short.’

Gwen made a show of looking at her watch. ‘One minute. That’s very, very short.’

‘I’m exhausted. We can do it another time.’

‘Fine,’ Gwen said tightly.

His shoulders sagged slightly. ‘I’ll give you a lift back to your car.’

‘Thank you.’

Cam drove carefully and in silence, keeping his eyes on the road. Gwen looked at him once, clocked the set of his jaw, the faint brush of stubble and the dark shadows under his eyes. He did look tired and he didn’t owe her a thing. He looked so familiar, she had to stop herself from reaching out and brushing a stray hair from his jacket. It was as if she’d been carrying around his image, tucked safely in a corner of herself, without even knowing it.

She looked out of the window instead. The tail end of the shopping crowd was straggling home and they passed a bus queue so full it was spilling into the street.

‘I don’t remember there being so many people.’

‘We kept different hours.’

That was true, she thought. She’d been half-halfheartedly completing her A levels while Cam was doing whatever mysterious things he got up to in the hours they were apart. She’d been out with a couple of friends, going from pub to pub, waiting for the clubs to open, and everywhere was packed. She’d gone to the beer garden in the Pig and Fiddle to see if she could find a seat and there he was. Sat on top of a bench, reading a paperback copy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. If he’d looked like a student from the university on the hill she’d have thought he was a pathetic poser. But he didn’t. He had scuffed black boots and narrow jeans that looked genuinely old and not ‘artfully distressed’ by some designer. He was wearing a faded black band T-shirt and his dark hair was falling into his face. He was completely absorbed in the book and didn’t look up when his companion spoke. His friend nudged him and he finally glanced up and Gwen realised that she had been standing still and gawping like a lovesick teenager. Which, she’d abruptly realised, was exactly what she had become.

It would always be something that Gwen would be grateful for. No agonised waiting, no sleepless nights, no wondering. One moment she was staring at Cam with the full knowledge that her world had tipped forwards, propelling her towards the man on the bench, and the next moment she was so close she was touching him and his hands were on her face, holding her gently while he kissed her, the paperback discarded on the bench next to them. At least, that was how she remembered it.

‘We did,’ she managed. ‘I don’t remember a lot of shopping trips.’

‘No,’ he said, his voice clipped, and she wondered if he was having a memory-fest, too. Probably not.

‘I need a drink,’ he said.

‘I would love a drink,’ Gwen said.

‘I have alcohol.’

That was more like it. ‘Is your place far?’

‘You know it: Widcombe Street.’

Gwen looked at him in horror. ‘You live with your mother?’

‘No!’ Cam said. ‘I have a flat. It’s self-contained. Separate entrance.’ He collected himself. ‘I have the top floor.’

‘Oh.’

‘Those houses are too big.’

‘Okay.’

‘And I needed somewhere to live while I was getting qualified.’

‘Right.’

‘And then I got the job at the firm and it seemed easier to stay.’

‘It’s really none of my business.’ Gwen paused. ‘How is your mother?’

He gave a wry smile. ‘The same.’

‘Super.’ She looked at her watch. ‘You know, I’ve just remembered I’ve got to be up early in the morning. I think I’ll just head home.’

‘Coward.’ Cam was smiling.

Gwen pulled a prim face. ‘I’m a very busy woman.’

‘You made this date.’

‘And you broke it. We’re even.’

There was a pause. ‘So, you’re really not coming for a drink? I have Southern Comfort.’

‘So do I and mine doesn’t come with a chaser of abject terror. Sorry.’

‘That’s okay,’ Cam said. ‘I’d forgotten how much you disliked her.’

Gwen sucked her breath in. ‘That’s it. Stop the car.’

‘What? No. We’re nearly there.’ And he was right; the entrance to the car park appeared. Cam flicked the indicator and slowed down.

‘Pull over. We need to talk.’

‘We’re already talking,’ Cam said, but he steered the car into the nearest available space.

By the time he cranked the handbrake and half-turned in his seat, an expression of patient confusion on his face, Gwen was furious. The words came out distinct and calm, though; she enunciated each one carefully. ‘It isn’t a question of my disliking your mother. She hates me.’

Cam smiled and shook his head slightly. ‘Come on now. She’s not a very warm person, but that’s a bit over-the-top.’

Gwen bit her tongue to keep the words She told me I was no good for you inside. She tasted blood. These things only worked if you did them for real.

Cam fidgeted, reaching into his pocket before withdrawing his hand empty.

‘You gave up, then,’ Gwen said. ‘Smoking.’

‘As soon as I realised I wasn’t actually immortal,’ Cam said, the corners of his mouth turning down in a sardonic smile.

Why did he have to look so good? ‘Yeah, that’s always a tough one,’ Gwen managed, after a pause.

There was silence again. Then Cam said, ‘It’s really weird to see you again.’

Weird. Nice.

‘It’s going to take a bit of adjustment.’

Gwen felt angry again. Something about his sensible phrasing pissed her off. ‘I didn’t ask to come back here. And I didn’t do it to mess with you or anything.’

Cam raised his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t say that you did.’

And there was that tone again. Gwen felt words building up, but she knew she wasn’t going to voice any of them. He was a stranger to her now. The silence stretched on. Gwen realised that she was physically incapable of looking at him. Incapable of speaking. And that if she stayed in that car for one second longer, she was going to start crying.

Across town, it was lunch break at Millbank Comprehensive and Katie was getting the third degree.

‘Does she turn people into frogs?’

‘Shut up.’

‘I heard she dances naked when it’s full moon.’

‘Seriously. Shut up.’

Katie stretched her long pale legs, inched her navy school skirt a little further up her thighs. She was sitting with her back against the gym and Imogen was lying flat out, face down, her head cradled in her hands.

‘Are they turning brown yet?’ Imogen asked.

Katie squinted at the backs of her friend’s calves; they were goose-pimpled in the cold air. ‘Not really.’ She didn’t know why they were attempting to tan in November. Imogen had said something about classy people getting brown in the winter.

‘It’s so hard to get the backs to turn, I wonder why.’ Imogen lifted her head and squinted at Katie. ‘You should start on them now.’

‘The fronts of mine haven’t changed yet. I don’t think I’ve got the kind of skin that goes brown.’ Katie looked at the smooth golden skin on Imogen’s wrists, then closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall.

‘We need baby oil. That’s what Leila uses,’ Imogen said. ‘Speeds up the tanning process.’ Leila was Imogen’s older sister. At sixteen, she was the fount of all Katie and Imogen’s knowledge regarding beauty tips, boys and sex.

‘Like basting a chicken,’ Katie offered.

‘Yuck. You’re gross.’ Imogen sat up cross-legged and began re-tying the sparkly black scarf around her neck. ‘Don’t you have Italian blood? You should tan in, like, two seconds.’

‘I take after my dad.’ Katie’s father had strawberry-blond hair, wide shoulders and a goofy smile. She hoped her colouring was their only similarity. ‘We shouldn’t be doing this, anyway.’ Katie said. ‘Sunbathing gives you cancer.’

‘Not in November. And we’re too young to get cancer, anyway,’ Imogen said, her voice full of certainty.

This was one of the things Katie liked best about Imogen. She was so pleasingly definite.

‘If they don’t turn in a week or so, I’d go for some fake tan, though. Otherwise you’ll have milk bottle legs.’

‘Can’t afford any.’ Katie said this automatically and felt a funny itch behind her left ear. She shook her head to dislodge the feeling. Truth was, she didn’t want to use fake tan. It had become bound up in her mind with girls-who-should-know-better and cheap clothes. Probably from her mum, who had a less pleasing kind of certainty.

‘You could get your aunt to magic you brown.’

This was something Katie liked less about Imogen. Her inability to leave a subject alone. She peered at Imogen’s exposed knees. ‘It might be the goose bumps, but that mole looks funny.’

‘Shut up,’ Imogen said, but she sat up and tugged her skirt a little lower. ‘So. What’s she like, anyway? My mum says she was a complete mental case at school.’

‘Boy alert,’ Katie said. She’d been trying to distract Imogen but, on second glance, she realised that the pack of boys crossing the yard contained the delicious form of Luke Taylor. Katie felt the familiar dipping sensation in her stomach.

Imogen followed her gaze. ‘Yum,’ she said. ‘I usually prefer older men, but even I have to admit that Luke is a Class-A hottie.’

‘I do have excellent taste,’ Katie said. ‘Now I just need him to realise I exist.’

‘You will,’ Imogen said. ‘And then he’ll fall for your extreme cuteness. And you and Luke can double-date with me and Gavin. It’ll be perfect.’

Katie smiled. It was a nice fantasy.

## Chapter 4

Having spent the previous two days cleaning and moving bin bags around End House, Gwen had a touch of cabin fever. She also had to face the horrifying truth: she couldn’t ignore her business any longer. Gwen didn’t want to parcel up the customer’s order. She didn’t want to look at the last shadow box that she’d made, and she certainly didn’t want to remember how hopeful she’d been when she made it, before the final demands piled up and her eviction notice arrived like the Grim Reaper, but she didn’t have a choice. Curious Notions might’ve been as-good-as bankrupt, but she wasn’t going to let a customer down. The shadow box was a rare commission and the woman had wanted ‘something about love’ for a wedding anniversary. Gwen had created a miniature apothecary shop with rows of tiny bottles and jars. You needed a magnifying glass to read the labels, but there was ‘tincture of true love’ and ‘heart’s desire’ in amongst the foot powder and cough mixture.

Gwen was filing off the back edge of the box, making sure it was perfectly smooth, when a familiar figure appeared at the back door.

‘I’m going out,’ Gwen said, standing up. ‘Sorry.’

Lily stepped into the kitchen anyway, her smile as bright as ever. She ran one hand protectively over the Formica worktop as she looked around the room, seeming to take every detail in. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Fine.’ Gwen put down her file.

‘What’s that?’ Lily peered at the shadow box.

Gwen wanted to say ‘my art’, but didn’t want to sound like a pretentious twat. ‘It’s kind of an assemblage thing,’ she said. ‘It’s what I do. For money.’ Kind of.

‘What’s it for?’ Lily leaned over, her nose almost touching the Perspex front of the box.

‘Nothing. It’s just a decoration.’

‘Oh.’ Lily straightened up. ‘How much do you charge?’

Gwen blinked. ‘Sixty-five pounds. This one’s more because it was commissioned.’

‘Nice little earner.’ Lily gave her an approving nod.

‘Not really,’ Gwen said. The apothecary shop had taken over sixteen hours to make and the miniature till was an antique that had cost ten pounds. Gwen had a sudden flash of fury at herself. No wonder she was broke. What was wrong with her? The new-yoga-obsessed Ruby would probably say that her chakras were unaligned or something.

She put tissue paper over the box, added a ‘thank you for your purchase’ card and began folding layers of bubble wrap.

Still Lily lingered.

‘I’m going into town to post this,’ Gwen tried.

‘That’s fine,’ Lily said. ‘I’ll come with you. I can show you around.’

Gwen knew that she should explain that she used to live in the town and that she probably knew it as well as Lily did, but the words remained stuck in her throat.

She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and locked up the house.

‘Iris never locked her back door,’ Lily observed.

‘That was very silly of her,’ Gwen said.

Lily laughed her unnatural tinkle. ‘I keep forgetting you’re a city type. You don’t know what it’s like in Pendleford; we all look out for one another here.’

Fed up, Gwen snapped, ‘I suppose there’s no crime at all, then? If I buy the paper, it’ll be completely blank.’

Lily looked away, but she didn’t say anything. They walked past the frost-touched hedgerows in silence, reaching the end of the track and joined what probably counted as a main road in Pendleford.

‘You have a lovely garden,’ Gwen said as they passed it. A peace offering.

‘Not as big as yours.’ Lily’s voice had real bitterness in it, but a moment later she said brightly, ‘Have you looked at the town bridge yet?’

‘I’ve driven over it,’ Gwen said, adding silently: And, a lifetime ago, I snogged Cameron Laing underneath it.

Lily slid her a sideways look. ‘But have you really looked at it?’

‘Why?’

‘You’ll see,’ Lily said with satisfaction.

Gwen breathed in, enjoying the crisp autumnal air, the sunlight that lit the trees into beacons of flame. Within minutes, the roads narrowed and they entered the town centre. ‘Some of the buildings are medieval – like the Tithe Barn,’ Lily said, pointing down a side street. ‘That’s a big attraction.’

A queue of cars inched slowly down Silver Street, spoiling the olde worlde effect somewhat.

Lily saw Gwen looking and said, ‘We weren’t built for cars, that’s for sure.’ She spoke as if the town were alive.

‘Mmm.’ Having walked down the winding street, balancing on the cobbles and narrowly avoiding pitching into a silver sedan, Gwen stopped outside a small shop called The Crystal Cave. It was filled with crystal balls, decks of tarot cards, and a tabby cat. It was the kind of place Gloria loved to browse in for hours and she breathed in, half-expecting the scent of incense to permeate the street.

‘It’s for the tourists,’ Lily sniffed. ‘Wiltshire is known for its ancient stones, ley lines and mystical energy.’

Gwen didn’t ask what a fake crystal ball had to do with a prehistoric stone circle.

‘It’s silly really,’ Lily said.

Gwen hadn’t been paying proper attention, but now she realised that Lily was watching her carefully. ‘Silly,’ she said, hoping that agreeing with Lily would make her stop staring at her in that unnerving way. She added, ‘Harmless, though.’

‘One woman’s cupcake is another’s shit sandwich,’ Lily replied.

‘Pardon?’

Lily gave her a calculating look. ‘That’s what your aunt always said. She said it was impossible to do no harm. One hungry family’s roast dinner is the sad demise of a chicken.’

‘Right.’

‘She was full of them. Said everything was a war and that there could only be one winner.’

The cold air was making Gwen’s nose run and she pulled out a tissue. She was getting the creeping sensation that she might not have liked her aunt very much. Question was: should that make her feel more or less guilty about inheriting from her?

‘Look…’ Lily pointed down the street. ‘There’s the roundhouse.’

At one end of the bridge was a round stone structure. Its shape was a cross between a minaret and a beehive and there was an ornately carved fish mounted on the roof.

‘The bridge is thirteenth century, but the roundhouse was added in the eighteenth. It was used as a lock-up for drunkards and criminals.’

‘There’s a fish on the roof,’ Gwen said. She was working on automatic pilot, her voice handling conversation while her brain concentrated on ignoring the river rushing under the bridge.

Lily nodded. ‘A gudgeon. Round here we still say “over the water and under the fish” when we mean in jail.’

‘That’s colourful.’

‘Oh yes. We’ve got colour coming out of our arses round here,’ Lily said and walked onwards, her heels clicking on the pavement.

Gwen stamped down on her rising panic. She’d spent so long squashing all thoughts of Stephen Knight that she wasn’t prepared for the assault of memories. He’d been a funny-looking boy. One of those awkward teens that look both younger and older than their age all at once. A baby face that somehow carried the gruff, sun-burned features of his farming parents at the same time. Until they fished him out of the river, of course. Then he’d looked exactly, tragically, his sixteen years.

They reached the main shopping street. A steeply sloping affair, lined with self-consciously pretty painted wooden fronts and chichi window displays. It was all much more upmarket than Gwen remembered.

‘What do you need to do?’ Lily was showing no signs of leaving and Gwen couldn’t think of a polite way to extricate herself.

‘Um. Post office?’

‘At the bottom of the road, turn left. It’s next to the Co-op.’

Lily paused, a sly look flashed across her face and then disappeared. ‘You should go and see the green. It’s a little further along the river.’

‘Okay.’

‘And the Red Lion does bar meals if you fancy a bite.’

‘Thanks.’ Gwen shifted her weight, preparing to walk away.

‘It’s haunted, mind, but I’m sure that won’t bother you.’

Gwen forced a laugh. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’

‘Quite right. It’s probably dreamed up as a lure for the tourists.’

Despite herself, Gwen asked, ‘What is?’

‘Ghost of Jane Morely. She was tried as a witch on the green outside the pub.’

Lily’s stare had become disturbingly intense and Gwen decided the best policy was a polite smile.

‘It’s in the town records if you don’t believe me. She was executed in 1675. They strangled her and burned her.’

‘Better than the other way around, I suppose.’

Lily looked at her sharply. ‘I would prefer neither, myself.’

‘Well, yes,’ Gwen stumbled. How did she end up in a conversation about preferred methods of execution? ‘Obviously.’ She stepped aside to let a woman laden with shopping bags pass. The woman stopped, turned, and retraced her steps. ‘Excuse me? Aren’t you Gwen Harper?’

‘Um. Yes.’

‘You’ve just moved into the big house, haven’t you?’

‘Sorry?’ Gwen felt panicky, as if she were in the middle of an exam that she hadn’t revised for.

‘Off Bath Road? End House, is it?’ The woman had a thoroughly freckled face topped with a teal beret.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Amanda. I’m in number twelve on the main road. We’re neighbours.’ She shifted her clutch of carrier bags from one hand to the other. ‘I’m so sorry we haven’t been by to welcome you. We’ve all had the sickness bug that’s going around.’

‘Oh don’t worry,’ Gwen said. Then there was a pause, so she added, ‘It’s fine.’

After another, lengthening, silence, Gwen realised that Amanda was waiting for something. With a flash of understanding, Gwen dragged up the words, ‘You’re very welcome to pop by any time. Come for tea.’

Amanda smiled. People were too happy in this place. It was unnerving.

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

Gwen stared at Amanda’s wide grey eyes and freckled skin, something tickling the back of her mind, and then it came to her. ‘Biology,’ she said, just as Amanda said, ‘We were in sixth form together.’

‘God. I’m sorry. It’s been ages. How are you?’ Gwen was struggling to reconcile this slightly matronly-looking woman with the sullen teenager she only vaguely remembered. Biology, like most of her classes, was a bit of a blur. She’d been dreaming her way through her A levels, thinking only about Cam and when she was next seeing him. Your basic teenage cliché, she now realised.

Lily stood frozen, her face a mask.

‘I’m sorry,’ Gwen said, gesturing. ‘Amanda, this is Lily.’

‘Oh, we know each other,’ Amanda said dismissively. She put down her shopping bags and stretched her fingers. She had purple gloves on with an extra pair of fingerless woollen ones over the top.

‘You didn’t tell me you used to live here,’ Lily said, her voice tight.

‘Yes.’ Gwen turned to Lily. ‘For a while. A long time ago.’

‘How long?’ Lily said, her gaze unnervingly intense. ‘You went to school here?’

‘We moved onto Newfield Road when I was ten. But I haven’t been back for ages. Not since sixth form, actually.’ She forced a laugh. ‘It feels like a different life.’

‘You let me go on like a fool, showing you around. Telling you things.’ Bright spots of colour appeared on Lily’s cheeks. ‘You didn’t say you knew Pendleford, that you used to live here.’ Lily was almost stuttering in her horror. ‘I feel like an idiot. You let me go on—’

‘No, I liked it,’ Gwen said, trying to make it better. ‘It’s all so different. It was useful. Really.’

Amanda laughed. ‘Pendleford? Changed? Not likely.’

Gwen shot her a look that said: not helping.

‘Well, I assume you can find your way from here,’ Lily said, furious embarrassment clear on her face. ‘I’ll leave you in peace.’

Gwen watched her walk away, her back perfectly straight, her highlighted helmet of blonde hair hardly moving. ‘Damn it,’ she said under her breath. Way to make nice with the neighbours, Gwen.

‘Are you renovating the house?’ Amanda asked, oblivious. ‘I know a great builder if you need one.’ She looked self-conscious for a moment. ‘I suppose I would say that. He’s my husband, you see, but he’s very good.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Ask anyone.’

‘I’m not really planning—’

‘He can get references. Written ones.’

‘I’ve only just moved in and I haven’t worked out what I’m doing yet—’

‘Reputation is everything round here, so you can rely on a local.’

Gwen gave up. ‘I’ll bear him in mind. Thanks.’

‘Well, I’d best get on.’ Amanda stooped to retrieve her bags.

‘Right. Will do. I’m just—’ Gwen waved in the general direction she was heading. ‘I think I’ll get some lunch and wait for the post office to open.’

‘He won’t be back till one.’

‘Right. Thanks.’

‘You want some advice?’ Amanda leaned in. ‘Avoid the Red Lion.’

‘Bad food?’

Amanda sniffed. ‘Bloody unfriendly.’

Gwen watched the bulky figure of Amanda retreat up the twisty street and then turned resolutely in the direction of the pub. Unfriendly sounded perfect. She could cope with the ghosts if nobody living spoke to her for the next half an hour.

Gwen finished a ploughman’s lunch and half a lager and read the newspaper. She was feeling a great deal warmer towards the town. The pub was the kind she liked. It had traditional decor with a few old photographs and horse brasses on the walls, scarred wooden tables and benches and an open fire in the front room.

She’d even enjoyed the surly service from the barman; it made her feel more comfortable than anything else in Pendleford so far. It felt somehow more honest, which was probably a sad reflection on her life so far.

Gwen left her plate and glass on the bar on her way past. The barman rewarded her with an almost-smile. The front room had filled up in the time she’d been eating, but Gwen noticed Cam right away. He was eating alone, a paperback book splayed open next to his plate.

Gwen hesitated. She wanted to walk straight past, but if he looked up she didn’t want to get caught ignoring him. So he hated her. So what? She swallowed, feeling sick. If she was serious about staying in this town, she was going to have to get used to seeing him. She straightened her shoulders and tried to arrange her face into a relaxed expression.

He looked up.

Gwen forced herself forward. Breezy. Just breeze past. Breezily.

‘Hello.’

‘I just had lunch.’ Gwen motioned to the back room.

Cam nodded, his expression unreadable.

‘I’m just going,’ Gwen said.

‘So I see.’ Cam looked like a spectacularly bad day had just got worse. Well, she’d just walk on out of there and relieve his stress.

‘Where are you running off to?’ Cam said, his face perfectly still.

‘I’m not running,’ Gwen said with dignity. ‘I’m leaving you in peace.’ This cold politeness was unnerving. She hadn’t expected much after their last meeting, but there wasn’t so much as a flicker of warmth. Gwen blinked. Her insides suddenly felt hollow.

‘Nice to see you,’ he said. Then, as if they were perfect strangers, ‘Welcome to Pendleford, again. Do call my office if you need anything.’

Gwen got the hell out before she pushed his cool, calm, collected face into his lunch.

On the way home, she called into the big chemist to stock up on essentials. She was filling her basket with three-for-two offers and trying to block out the Christmas music, when she spotted a familiar face. Marilyn Dixon. Lurking behind the perfume counter. There were dark circles under her eyes; purple shadows visible through the mask of pale beige make-up. Gwen felt a stab of guilt. She shouldn’t have left things the way she did. She should’ve been nicer. More sympathetic.

Gwen waited for the queue to empty, then took her basket up to Marilyn’s till.

For a moment she thought Marilyn wouldn’t recognise her, but then she said, ‘Iris used to make all her own stuff. Body lotion and toothpaste. She said you couldn’t trust the chemicals.’

‘Won’t you get in trouble for saying that here?’ Gwen was aiming for humour, but Marilyn didn’t smile. ‘Watch out for the botanical range. It brought me out in a rash.’

‘Right. Thank you.’

There was a pause, punctuated by the beep of the scanner.

‘I’m sorry if I was rude last night,’ Gwen said.

‘That’s all right,’ Marilyn said stiffly. ‘It must’ve seemed very odd, my coming to you like that.’

‘Well—’

‘I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know what I’m doing any more.’ Marilyn rammed a tube of hand cream deep into a carrier bag. ‘It’s not been an easy time for me.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Marilyn added the cotton buds, lip balm and moisturiser to the bag.

‘If you want to talk—’ Gwen began awkwardly.

‘I have friends,’ Marilyn said defensively. A furtive look crossed her face. ‘And I went to see your neighbour instead. She was very helpful.’

‘Oh. Good,’ Gwen said. ‘My neighbour?’

‘She said it’ll make Brian come to his senses.’

‘What will?’

Marilyn bagged the last item – a lipstick Gwen had picked up on impulse – and gave Gwen a sickly smile. ‘Thank you for shopping with us today.’

Gwen braved the cold to spend some time sorting through her stock in the back of Nanette. She knew she ought to be making plans; working out what she was going to do about her business, money, her future. Instead, Cam’s carefully polite expression and Marilyn-bloody-Dixon’s voice kept popping into her mind. What did she mean by ‘come to his senses’? And why had she looked so tired and sad? With fingers that were too numb to open any more boxes, Gwen headed into the house. She ate some bread and jam and drank a glass of wine. Perhaps it was her imagination, but the house seemed just as cold as the van. Trying not to think about Cam or the business or Marilyn or anything at all, Gwen retreated to bed. She pulled up all of the blankets and quilts and, within moments, fell asleep.

Gwen snapped awake. The room was freezing, but she knew a noise had woken her up. She listened, ears straining. There was a muffled thump and her heart damn near jumped out of her mouth. She pushed down the fear and forced herself to switch on the lamp. The cat stalked out from the end of the bed and picked his way to the door. Relief flooded her system. ‘Bloody cat!’ He paused at the door but didn’t turn around. Gwen took a deep breath and willed her hammering heart to slow. She knew she wasn’t going to fall back asleep any time soon, so she swung her legs out of bed. Her Sudoku book was downstairs. A few minutes struggling with the ‘super-hard’ level puzzles was usually enough to cure any insomnia. It was cold and she pulled on her dressing-gown and slippers. ‘I’m on my way,’ she said to the impatient cat, who stood by the door. She readied herself for him to squeeze past her, but instead he wound around her legs, like he was trying to imitate clothing. ‘Not now, Cat.’

He kept up the furry ankle-socks impression all the way down the stairs until she said, ‘You win. I’ll feed you.’ The words died in her throat as she saw a detail that was all wrong. The back door was ajar. She went cold all over and then liquid with fear as the door clicked shut. Someone had just left her house. At two o’clock in the morning.

## Chapter 5

Gwen slipped back into the hallway, heart thudding, and dialled 999. An oddly rational part of her brain observed her doing this. You’ve never rung the emergency services before, the calm part of her brain said. Apart from that one time, an unhelpful section piped up. Down by the river. A bloated white face. Black water weeds tangled around his neck. Gwen squashed the memory back down, ignoring the sickness that came with it as best she could. Don’t think about that. No time. Look, now you’re giving your address. Aren’t you doing well?

The woman on the line said that someone would be there very soon. Gwen went back upstairs and locked herself and Cat in the bathroom, her ear pressed to the door to listen and her mobile phone gripped in one hand. Six minutes later, the doorbell rang and she went back downstairs. Blue lights were strobing through the glass panel at the top of the door and she opened the door to a six-foot tall policewoman, her male partner dwarfed beside her.

Gwen gave a swift recap, showing the now-completely-shut back door and waiting while both PCs checked the garden, the gates, and down the road. She was proud of how calm she was being until the policeman – PC Davies – suggested that she sit down and put her head between her knees for a moment and she realised that her peripheral vision had entirely disappeared.

‘Quiet up here,’ PC Green said, tactfully ignoring the fact that Gwen had her head at floor level and was taking deep breaths.

Gwen sat up slowly and the kitchen tilted. She swallowed. ‘Yes.’

‘Nice.’ Green looked around. She had brown hair in a high ponytail and discreetly chic make-up. She looked capable and grown up and, even if she hadn’t been wearing a uniform, Gwen would’ve trusted her.

‘Have you lived here long?’

Gwen explained about her aunt and the inheritance. ‘It’s all been quite strange.’

‘So, you’ve been a bit disorientated?’

‘Well…’ Gwen said.

‘And what are the neighbours like? This is usually a pretty friendly place.’

‘Oh, very nice.’ Gwen said quickly. ‘Very friendly.’

‘Do they pop by?’

‘All the time.’

PC Green nodded. ‘You lived in a city before, right?’

‘Yes. Leeds.’

‘Different place, I bet.’

‘Well, obviously, but—’

Green called to PC Davies, not even attempting to hide her impatience. ‘False alarm.’

Gwen decided she wasn’t so trustworthy after all. What self-respecting police person wore a scrunchie, anyway?

‘You probably left the door open and the wind blew it shut,’ she said to Gwen.

‘I definitely locked the door before I went to bed,’ Gwen said, stamping down on her anger. ‘City girl, remember? Paranoid.’

‘Well, maybe someone popped by for a visit. One of your neighbours.’

‘At two o’clock in the morning?’ Gwen said tightly.

PC Green shrugged and walked to the front door. PC Davies was already there, holding it wide open and letting a wall of freezing air into the hall.

Gwen hugged herself to keep from shouting at an officer of the law. ‘If a neighbour decided to visit, why didn’t they speak to me? Call upstairs?’ As she spoke, Gwen remembered Lily’s stealth casserole.

PC Davies looked apologetic. ‘We’ll file a report. Let us know if you have any more problems.’

‘I definitely locked that door,’ Gwen said again, trying not to sound shaky and pathetic.

Green was already halfway to the panda car.

‘I’m not crazy,’ Gwen called to her. Green raised a hand without turning round.

Gwen shut the door and locked it. There was something tugging at her memory, too. A feeling. When she’d gone downstairs and seen the door closing, she’d had the strong sense it was a man on the other side of it. Gwen had been brought up to pay attention to her intuition, to believe in it. She closed her eyes and concentrated. A strong smell of aftershave filled her nostrils. She opened her eyes and it dissipated. Definitely a man then. She couldn’t exactly call Green back and explain how she knew that and it seemed that the house was magnifying the Harper family intuition. Either that or she was going crazy. Cat wound around her ankles, purring like a jet engine. ‘Bloody marvellous,’ Gwen said, and went to find him some tuna fish.

The next morning, Gwen was reading in bed after a fitful night. She told herself that she was completely calm and fine, but for some irritating reason she still hadn’t been able to sleep for more than half an hour at a time. Iris’s notebook wasn’t exactly comforting, either. Amongst the unknown initials of Iris’s customers and acquaintances, her own name kept leaping out.

Gloria was here with her girls today. She didn’t tell me, of course, but I could see it straight away: Gwen has the Finding. Poor child. There’s a reason Finding Lost Things was banned by the charter of 1539. Some things aren’t meant to be found.

Gwen closed her eyes. Iris wasn’t wrong about that. Before Gwen had started to refuse to do her party piece on demand, Gloria was always pimping her out. Lost car keys, wallets, pets, wedding rings. When she was eleven, she’d had to tell a woman that her lost engagement ring was at an address that turned out to be a pawn shop. Rather than believe that her husband (who everyone knew had a teeny-tiny problem with gambling) had hawked it, she accused Gwen of nicking it and then trying to squeeze some more cash out of her by finding it. Being screamed at by a member of the school PTA wasn’t the worst Gwen had experienced, but she still remembered the feeling of betrayal. Why had Gloria made her do it? She was supposed to be the grown-up, the protector. Sure, she’d hauled Gwen out of the woman’s kitchen, taken her home and passed her tissues to wipe her face, but the experience didn’t stop her asking Gwen to find something for a client later that same day. Gloria didn’t let a little thing like her daughter’s feelings get in the way of increasing revenue.

At half past eight, Cat stalked into the room and jumped onto the bed. He landed with a thud that made the bed springs creak. ‘How are you so heavy?’ she asked him. ‘You defy the laws of physics.’ Unless the cat was a black hole. That would make sense.

The doorbell rang. Gwen pulled on slippers and a dressing-gown and picked up the cricket bat. The man at the front door wasn’t in uniform or a bad suit, but she could see he was police just the same.

‘Detective Inspector Harry Collins. Please don’t hit me.’

Gwen leaned the bat up against the wall and took a step back.

He walked into the hallway with a puff of icy winter air and the smell of frost.

Gwen held her hand out for his heavy jacket.

He shook his head. ‘That’s all right.’

‘You have to take it off now or you won’t feel the benefit when you go outside.’

The policeman grinned, instantly looking about ten years younger. ‘That’s what my gran always said.’

‘Smart lady,’ Gwen said, hand outstretched.

Harry shrugged off his coat obediently and handed it to Gwen.

In the kitchen, Gwen was confused to find the tea bag tin out of the cupboard where it lived and sitting on the counter. Lid off. Either the intruder had got halfway through making himself a cup of tea, or Iris was moving things around. Which was impossible. Gwen put the tin back and poured two strong coffees. She cut thick slices of fruit cake and pretended that her hands weren’t shaking.

‘Isn’t it early for cake?’ Harry said.

‘Never too early for cake. Anyway, it’s got fruit in it. It’s practically a health food.’

‘Well, then.’ Harry took some cake and then said, ‘Can you tell me about the disturbance last night?’

‘I don’t want to waste your time,’ Gwen said stiffly, not in the mood for another round of ‘laugh at the loony out-of-towner’. ‘I got a case number last night.’ Gwen turned to look for it.

‘I read the report, but I’d like to hear it from you.’ He gave a small smile. ‘If you don’t mind.’

Gwen frowned. ‘You’re a detective. Isn’t this a bit below your pay grade?’ She gave him a searching look. ‘Quiet day at the office?’

He smiled that easy grin again and held up his hands. ‘I have a confession to make.’

Gwen closed her eyes. ‘Don’t tell me you knew my great-aunt.’

‘Don’t think so. I do know Cameron Laing though.’

Gwen frowned, ignoring the flare of excitement that Cam’s name ignited. ‘I don’t—’

‘So, when I saw your call on the log, I recognised your name and address and thought I’d better deal with it personally.’

‘Oh.’ Gwen didn’t have a follow-up for that.

‘Don’t want to give Cam a reason to fall out with me. He buys the drinks,’ Harry supplied.

‘Right.’ Cameron Laing the lawyer. Cameron Laing, friend to the local detective inspector. Life was odd.

‘So,’ Harry said gently, ‘can you talk me through it?’

Gwen took a sip of coffee, gathering her thoughts. ‘I woke up. Something woke me up. I guess a noise, although I wasn’t aware of anything clearly. I got up and went downstairs.’

‘On your own? That wasn’t sensible.’

Gwen glowered at him. ‘There are a lot of creepy noises in this house. You want me to call the police every time the radiator burps?’

Harry waved a hand. ‘Continue.’

‘I went downstairs and when I walked into the kitchen, I saw the back door shut.’ She paused, feeling the fear all over again. ‘Someone had just left.’

‘No forced entry, so we’re looking at someone with access. How many people have a key to the house?’

‘I have no idea.’ Gwen said, feeling stupid. ‘I doubt Iris was in the habit of giving them out, but—’

‘Can you show me the keys?’

Gwen got up and fetched her key ring. It still felt bulky and awkward in her hand and it took her a while to locate the front and back door keys.

‘Okay. The front door has a new Yale, but this one,’ he held up the brass back door key, ‘looks vintage.’

‘I don’t know who has the key. I know Lily Thomas – my great-aunt’s cleaner – had one, but she left it here.’ Gwen went through to the hallway and picked up the spare key.

Harry nodded, his phone at his ear. ‘Michael? Got a job for you in Pendleford.’ He paused. ‘Nope. Got to be today. This morning for preference.’ He looked at Gwen. ‘Eleven o’clock okay with you?’

She nodded, dumbfounded by the way people kept taking charge, bringing her things, helping. It was unsettling.

Harry collected his jacket. ‘Thank you for the cake. It was very nice to meet you.’

‘What’s going to happen about my intruder?’

‘Well, we file a report.’

‘And?’ Gwen said. ‘Don’t you dust for fingerprints or something?’

‘Sometimes,’ Harry said. ‘But it’s not all that easy and, as your intruder had a key, technically we don’t have much of a crime. Entering, but not so much with the breaking.’

‘But you’re here. The detective inspector.’

Harry smiled again. ‘Like I said; you’re a special case.’

I’ve been called that before, Gwen thought wryly, and she opened the front door for Harry. An icy blast blew straight through her clothes, making her feel suddenly naked. She wrapped her arms around her body. ‘Goodbye then. Thank you for your help.’

‘Anything for you, Gwen Harper,’ Harry said with a grin and headed down the path.

Gwen shut the door, utterly bemused. ‘They’re all crazy around here,’ she said, turning around and leaning against the door. She tried not to wonder what, exactly, Cam had said about her to Harry.

‘Prrup?’ the cat said, looking as innocent as the seven-year-old Ruby after she’d been left in charge of their joint haul of Easter chocolate.

‘That goes for you, too, Cat,’ she said, straightening up.

Later that day, the doorbell rang and somebody started pounding on the front door. Gwen rushed through, tightening her dressing-gown cord as she went.

Cameron Laing stood in front of her, arm raised from bashing seven shades out of the paintwork.

‘Is something on fire?’ Gwen said, stepping back to let him in.

‘Why didn’t you call me?’ His face and voice were as neutral as they had been in the pub, but there was a tightness around his eyes.

‘What?’ Gwen closed the door against the howling gale.

‘You were broken into,’ Cam said. His forehead creased. ‘You should’ve told me.’

‘I called the police.’ Gwen folded her arms. ‘And I’m fine. Thanks for asking.’

‘I know you’re fine.’ Cam sounded irritated. ‘I spoke to Harry.’

‘You two are like a pair of little old ladies.’ Gwen was determined not to be pleased that he cared.

Cam frowned. ‘What?’

‘Gossiping. This whole place is filled with people talking about other people’s business and turning up at all hours and talking and wanting … stuff.’ Gwen realised she was babbling and forced herself to stop.

‘Are you all right?’ Cam dipped his head to look at her properly.

‘I’m just tired.’ Gwen tried a smile. ‘Actually, I’m exhausted.’

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving the front standing up. ‘Shit. Sorry. Did I wake you up?’

‘No.’ Gwen was momentarily confused, and then she remembered that she wasn’t dressed. ‘I was just going through Iris’s papers. Trying to make sense of the open-door policy in this place.’

‘It’s your house, now. You can do whatever you want. Don’t let people in.’

‘That’s easier said than done,’ Gwen said. The temperature in the hallway suddenly dropped further, as if she hadn’t just shut the door, and she shivered.

‘Right,’ Cam said, and pushed past her, heading for the back door.

‘Help yourself,’ Gwen said drily. He bent down to look at the door and Gwen found herself staring at his backside. She swallowed. It was just as appealing as the front view. Maybe even more so because she couldn’t see him scowling at her from this angle.

‘The locksmith is coming round. I thought you were him. He. Whichever.’

‘You should replace the whole thing. This glass isn’t safe. Someone can knock it out and reach through—’ He stopped when he saw her expression and stuffed his hands into his pockets. ‘It’s fine. This is a very safe town. Our crime rate is really low.’

‘I’m sure,’ Gwen said politely.

‘Well. I’m glad you’re okay.’

‘I’m fine.’ She smiled to show that she was fine and that he didn’t have to be politely concerned for her any longer.

‘Good,’ Cam said. ‘I’ll leave you to your reading.’

He paused at the door, looking like he might be about to say something.

Gwen dug her fingernails into her palm to stop herself from blurting out something stupid like: stay. Or from reaching out and grabbing the front of his shirt. ‘See you later,’ she said. After he’d gone, she ran upstairs and watched him get into his car from the bedroom window. She laid her head against the cool glass and marvelled at the heat in her skin.

The locksmith came as promised, but he kept his coat on while he worked. The house was freezing and Gwen couldn’t get the pilot light on the boiler relit. By the afternoon, ice had formed on the inside of the windows and Gwen answered the door wearing thick socks, tartan flannel PJ bottoms and an enormous hooded sweatshirt that was rolled up several times on the sleeves.

Gwen was surprised to find Cam on the doorstep. He was looking serious, which wasn’t so shocking. Gwen wondered if the frown was regulation issue, handed out after the bar exam.

‘You look terrible,’ Cam said.

‘The words every woman longs to hear.’ Gwen stepped aside to let him in.

‘Sorry. I mean, you don’t look well. Are you all right?’ His face softened in concern and instantly he looked like a different man.

‘The boiler’s broken and the repair guy says he can’t come out until tomorrow and I can’t stop thinking about some stranger walking around in the house while I was asleep and touching all my stuff. Well, Iris’s stuff. Apart from that, I’m fabulous.’

He held up a hammer and a piece of plywood. ‘I come bearing gifts.’

Gwen brightened. ‘Can you fix heating?’

‘Sorry, probably not. I’m going to nail this over the glass in your back door.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll take a look at your heating, although I warn you not to get your hopes up.’

‘Good enough.’ The hallway suddenly seemed too small a space to share with Cam, so Gwen led the way to the kitchen.

She flipped the switch on the kettle and got a tin down from the cupboard while Cam examined the back door. She wondered if Cam, as executor of Iris’s estate, had some legal obligation to look after the property. The thought that he might be bound to the house and, by extension, her for six months, was appealing. ‘Is this part of the service?’ Or do you still care about me?

Cam turned round. ‘What do you mean?’

Gwen didn’t know how to ask whether he was in her kitchen out of personal concern or professionalism. And suddenly she didn’t want to know the answer. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Would you like tea or coffee?’

Cam pounded nails with a focus that Gwen found alarmingly attractive. He had taken off his suit jacket and hung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. His shoulders filled out his white shirt very nicely indeed and the way his hair curled over the nape of his neck did something odd to Gwen’s insides. She leaned against the counter and contemplated his back. It was soothing to look at him when he wasn’t frowning at her.

Then the doorbell rang and spoiled Gwen’s moment of quiet enjoyment. Cam glanced over his shoulder. ‘You expecting someone?’

‘Not exactly.’

It was a tall man with a checked scarf tucked into a dark wool coat. His skin was suspiciously smooth and evenly toned. He had the well-kept look that went hand-in-hand with a disgustingly healthy bank balance. She would lay money that he didn’t want chilblain ointment.

‘Ms Harper?’

‘Hello.’ Gwen stuck out her hand. The man gripped it firmly and pumped her arm, while Gwen tried to work out if he was wearing foundation.

‘I’m Patrick Allen,’ the smooth man said. ‘As head of the Rotary, ‘I’d like to welcome you to our little town.’ He gave a fake modest chuckle that made Gwen want to throw up. ‘I heard about the unfortunate incident and I wanted to assure you that this is a very safe town.’

The cold air was streaming through the open door and Gwen saw a hard frost clinging to the lavender bushes that lined the path. Politeness said that she had to invite him into the house, but Gwen felt a stickiness in the air that was almost like a barrier. Damn house making all the decisions. She ignored the feeling and smiled as cheerily as she could manage. ‘Would you like to come in?’

Cam appeared in the kitchen doorway, the hammer dangling carelessly from one hand.

‘This is Patrick Allen,’ Gwen said quickly, trying to ignore the way her heart had sped up. She was having a ridiculous throw-back reaction to Cam. Something to do with old memories.

‘I know Patrick.’ Cam smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Don’t often see you on this side of the river.’

‘I could say the same to you, Cameron.’ Patrick inclined his head. ‘I wanted to talk to you about something, actually.’

‘You’ll have to make an appointment at the office.’

Patrick ignored him. ‘It’s about this ridiculous folk festival.’

‘I’ve told you before,’ Cam said. ‘Not something I can help you with.’

Patrick crossed his arms. He looked unaccustomed to hearing the word ‘no’. ‘What’s the point in having laws, then?’

‘A question I have asked myself many times,’ Cam said with a tight smile. He turned to Gwen. ‘Where will I find your boiler?’

‘If you can’t even use them to protect what’s right …’ Patrick was still talking and Gwen revised her initial impression from ‘smooth’ to ‘irritating’.

‘Upstairs. Back bedroom in the cupboard in the corner,’ Gwen said.

Cam started to turn away, then stopped. ‘The law isn’t about what’s right. It’s about what’s legal.’

‘But this so-called festival will be an embarrassment,’ Patrick said. ‘It’s an affront to the decent people,’ he went on, his chest puffed up with importance, ‘the decent businesses—’

‘Are they having a craft market?’ Gwen said.

‘Pardon?’ Patrick glanced at Gwen.

‘At the festival. Are they planning to have a craft tent or something? These things often do.’

‘I have no idea,’ Patrick said, his expression sour. ‘What I do know is that they will ruin the town’s green.’

‘Chippenham and Trowbridge have held them for years without any problem,’ Cam said. ‘And, as I understand it, the town council have made it clear that the green must be left in the state in which it was found.’

‘We’re not Chippenham,’ Patrick said in a withering tone.

‘Just, if there’s going to be a craft market, I’d love to join in. I have a stall.’ Gwen knew she was being childish, but she couldn’t help it. Patrick reminded her of every authority figure she’d ever rebelled against. Old habits died hard.

Patrick looked momentarily at a loss for words. Then he rallied with another false laugh. ‘Ah. I take it I won’t be able to count on you to sign my petition, then?’

‘As a local business owner, I welcome anything that brings in the punters,’ Gwen said sweetly.

‘Well. Yes. I suppose.’ Patrick looked as if he dearly wanted to say something else.

‘I’ve got to get my tools,’ Cam said and went out of the front door. Gwen didn’t blame him.

‘Would you like a cup of coffee? Tea?’ Gwen ushered Patrick to the dining room. She was damned if he was sitting in her lovely kitchen.

‘I can’t stop, really. Just wanted to welcome you and to see if there was anything …’ Patrick trailed off as he took in the mausoleum chic of the dining room. He turned on his heel. ‘Did you say your boiler wasn’t working? Can I help with that?’

‘I don’t know. Can you?’ Gwen was nonplussed. She had the feeling that Patrick wasn’t the kind of person who offered favours out of the goodness of his heart.

‘I have a man for that sort of thing.’ Patrick took a business card from his wallet. ‘Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.’ He looked deeply into Gwen’s eyes as he said this. Probably something he’d learned on a management training day.

Once Patrick was safely off the premises, Gwen fetched painting supplies from the shed. She felt itchy, like she needed to take some control back and show Iris who was boss in the house. Painting over the horrible purple walls seemed like a good place to start. She spread dustsheets over the furniture in the living room until the place looked like it was filled with snowy hillocks.

‘What on earth are you doing?’

Gwen turned to find Cam standing in the doorway, a metal toolbox in one hand. ‘This room is oppressively horrid, so I’m brightening it up.’ She waved a paintbrush.

‘It’s November.’

‘I know what month it is,’ Gwen said. ‘I need to keep busy.’

‘But you’ll freeze. You’ll need the window open for ventilation.’

‘I’m already freezing.’ Gwen gestured at her layers of clothing. ‘And I appear to be surviving. So.’

Cam crossed the room and forced the sash window open a couple of inches. ‘I hope you enjoy frostbite.’

‘Not at all; that’s why I want you to focus all of your admirable energy on my boiler.’

She’d barely started rollering the first wall when Cam called out. She went upstairs and met Cam coming the other way, his expression grim.

Gwen stopped. ‘What?’

‘Come and see,’ Cam said.

Cam had taken the white casing off the front of the boiler and leaned it up against the open door of the cupboard.

‘What?’ Gwen began, then took a closer look.

A small plate that housed the electrics was bent outwards, deep scrape marks gouged into the metal and a tangle of wires hung out drunkenly. The copper pipework had been smashed almost completely flat and a couple of dials were cracked.

‘I think I can see why it wouldn’t relight for you,’ Cam said.

## Chapter 6

Gwen went downstairs, trying to rub life back into her frozen hands. She stabbed the button on the kettle and got down a couple of mugs. Cam walked in a moment later, slipping his phone into his pocket.

‘Tea?’

‘No, thanks.’

His expression made her body temperature drop another couple of degrees. ‘What is it?’

‘Was the boiler working when you moved in?’

‘Yes. I think so.’

‘Someone’s really gone to town on it. Probably with a hammer. Do you have a hammer?’

‘You think I hit my own boiler?’ Gwen’s brain seemed to be as frozen as her hands.

‘No.’ Cam shook his head. ‘Harry wanted to know. If you had left one lying about your bedroom—’ he paused, stuck on the word, then carried on, ‘that could be a spur of the moment crime. But if the person brought it with them it was planned.’

‘Does that make a difference?’

‘Very much so. In court—’ He broke off. ‘Sit down.’

‘Okay.’ Gwen felt her legs wobble and hastily sat in the chair Cam had jumped up to offer. Last thing she wanted to do was collapse in front of him like a needy, useless lump.

‘I’ve rung around, but no one can come out before tomorrow.’ Cam looked almost murderous.

‘I know,’ Gwen said. ‘I told you that.’

‘It’s not good enough,’ Cam said.

‘Well, this early cold snap—’

‘So you’ll have to come and stay with me tonight.’

‘No,’ Gwen said. She might have no choice about staying in Pendleford for a few months, but she had not come back to her home town to play the damsel in distress. She was a grown-up, an independent woman and she did not need charity from anybody. Especially not Cameron Laing.

‘I’ll sleep on the sofa,’ Cam continued, ignoring her. ‘We should probably go now. I’ve told Harry we’ll be there when he comes off shift. You can give him your house key and he’ll swing by and take a look’

‘I’m not leaving,’ Gwen said.

Cam gave her a disgusted look. ‘You’re being ridiculous. What about your sister? Can’t you go and stay with her for a couple of days?’

‘No,’ Gwen said. She didn’t elaborate. Cam already thought she was unstable; there was no need to tell him that she was fighting with the only family she had left.

‘I’m not deserting this house just because it’s a bit chilly.’ Gwen stood up to make her tea. She told herself that she felt strong. She was an independent woman. Self-reliant.

‘It’s freezing,’ Cam said, his voice reasonable. ‘And it’s going to get worse. They forecast minus ten tonight.’

‘Who’s they?’

‘Google.’

‘Oh, well then, if Saint Google says so.’ Gwen was hoping to make him smile, but nothing doing.

‘It’s not funny,’ he said.

‘There’s an oil heater in the outbuilding, I’ll bring that in. I’ve got hot water bottles and plenty of blankets. I’ll go to bed early and keep warm. I’ll be fine. Honestly, you don’t need to worry.’ As she reassured him just how fine she was going to be, a place opened up inside Gwen, reminding her that someone had broken into the house last night. She tried not to think about the quiet road and the long, dark path that led to her house. She tried not to see the single light at her window, shining out in the night like an invitation. She’d put on more lights; that was all that was needed. Maybe make a couple of silhouettes of well-built men and move them around the house with her.

Cam had pulled out his phone and was fiddling with the buttons. He spoke without looking up. ‘I’ll stay with you then.’

‘You don’t have to do that,’ Gwen said automatically, ignoring the tiny voice that said: yes, please.

‘I’m not leaving you on your own.’ The door to the living room banged open in a gust of wind. Cam frowned and went to close it. ‘You’ll probably start digging the garden or replacing the windows or something.’

‘Very funny.’ Gwen wrapped her hands around the mug and tried not to feel irritated. It would be nice to think that he cared. If only he could stop being so officious, she might even be able to convince herself that she was something other than another problem to solve.

Cam called Harry back while Gwen lugged the oil heater from the outhouse and set it up in her bedroom.

Cam appeared in the doorway, just as she was checking it worked.

He leaned against the door jamb and crossed his arms, staring at the bed. ‘Sure you’ve got enough blankets there?’

‘Ha ha,’ Gwen said to stop herself from offering him a test run. ‘And the heater works. I’ll be completely fine.’

Cam hesitated.

‘I’ve got new locks. I’ll keep my mobile with me. You don’t need to worry.’

He followed her downstairs and Gwen wondered whether he was going to leave right away.

‘I need a drink,’ Cam said, running a hand through his hair.

‘I’ve got Southern Comfort.’

Cam pulled a face.

‘Fussy boy. How about red wine?’

Gwen opened the bottle and poured two glasses. Nothing seemed real. Someone had got into her house and messed up her heating. Deliberately. She’d only been back in Pendleford for a week and someone already hated her that much. She took a gulp from her glass and handed the other to Cam.

‘Shall we stay in here? I think it’s the warmest room at the moment.’

Cam shrugged. He took a sip of his wine and pulled a face.

‘Cheap stuff, I’m afraid,’ Gwen said, then felt irritated for apologising. She fiddled with her thumb ring, twisting it round and round. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re annoyed with me?’

‘Well, you’re the one insisting you stay in this house on your own. It would be much better—’

‘Not just about that. You always seem as if you’re angry, but you’re trying not to show it.’

‘Do I?’ Cam’s forehead creased. After a moment he said, ‘I don’t feel angry. Sorry.’

‘Because if you are, I’d understand, but I’d much rather we had it out and you said whatever it is you’re trying not to say.’

‘I’m not hiding anything,’ Cam said, but he didn’t meet her eyes.

Gwen decided to just say it. Get it out there. ‘I’ve told you I’m sorry about how I left things. Before.’

Cam’s expression went blank. ‘Ancient history,’ he said.

‘Water under the bridge,’ Gwen said.

‘And it’s done.’ Cam shrugged. ‘No point crying over spilt milk.’

‘Look before you leap.’

‘What?’

‘Sorry. I thought we were trading clichés.’

There was a short silence, then Cam said, ‘How’s the living room looking?’

Gwen shook her head. ‘Not good.’ She showed him the one wall she’d painted. The purple had turned the white grey and was seeping through in patches, giving it a scabrous look.