The Grigori: Stalking Tender Prey Part 9

The boy's eyes were almost closed. Othman took him in his arms, felt the brief jerk of alarm. Do not fear,' he murmured, and covered Owen' lips with his own. Owen's taste was faintly familiar and a name whispered through Othman's brain. Taziel... For the most fleeting of moments, a screaming face rose before his mind's eye. Othman banished it firmly, and the face flew shrieking into a void. This was no time for harsh memories. Othman sensed that, had he wanted to, he could have Owen now, but it was not the time. The kiss was enough: deep, pervading, the first offering of the greatest pa.s.sion.

Othman's jaw was aching when he released Owen and turned to his sister. Lily was, surprisingly, a little more resistant. She clutched his arms painfully, her lips unyielding beneath his own. This was because she desired him more, Othman thought, and was afraid of the strength of it. Still, she relented, as he'd known she would; she became heavy and fluid against him. He moved his hands over her body, squeezed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. His own desire screamed for release, yet he curbed it, beat it down. Not yet.

Drawing away from the girl, he reached out for Owen and pulled the two of them together, guiding their faces into a kiss. Love one another,' he said. From such things comes strength.'

Lily uttered a soft moan, drawing her brother back into her arms. They fell onto the rug, apparently now oblivious of Othman's presence. He sat up, leaned against the chair, wiping his mouth. His mind was buzzing; he felt slightly faint. The twins were joined through him. He was part of their love-making. In their hearts, they did not embrace each other, but him. Sitting there beside them, he could feel through his own fingers the explorations they made of each other's bodies. They made love without finesse, untutored and inexperienced. Othman finished the wine, watching, while they struggled together on the rug before the fire. This was the first step.

The night was clear, and the call of the moon lured Barbara Eager into the forest. She'd parked the Land Rover at the side of the road, and had let the dogs out of the back for their run. Despite the luminous sky, the arms of the trees looked forbidding and enclosed. The scents of the woodland, and the fields beyond, were overwhelming, as if the landscape was being squeezed of its essence by the night. Barbara could feel a story-poem brewing within her, which was perhaps why she had unconsciously chosen to bring the dogs to Herman's Wood, instead of taking them for a quick run through the village. It had been an odd night at The White House - a strange, excited, almost hostile atmosphere had seemed to smoke at the edges of the lounge bar. Voices had been sharp, the oldster regulars almost carping in their demands for their usual drinks. They'd been like a flock of chickens with a fox prowling round the edge of their run. The chicken wire was too flimsy to keep the threat at bay, so they moved restlessly back and forth in the dry dirt, afraid yet expectant. Was there pleasure to be found in the jaws of the fox? That would make a good first line, she thought, and repeated it over and over in her head so as not to forget it.

The dogs had run off among the trees; she could hear them snuffling about, although their dark red coats were invisible in the gloom. Amber, Lester!' she called, as she ventured onto one of the well worn, fern brushed pathways. The wood always unnerved Barbara whenever she ventured amongst its trees alone, yet it was a feeling she quite enjoyed. It brought back a flavour of youth. She heard one of the dogs bark - it sounded like Amber. Moonlight came down sparingly onto the track before her. The shadows of the ferns were monstrous, almost prehistoric. She wondered how long this wood had been there, how much human experience the sentinel trees had absorbed. This was a poet's place, she decided.

The walk took her around the right edge of the wood, where the spreading fields were never far from sight. She pa.s.sed a place where a lone folly reared dark from the gra.s.s, a ma.s.sive stone arch, sheep huddled beneath its shadow. All this land, of course, belonged to the Murkasters: a shadowy, aristocratic family who had lived in the manor house, Long Eden, and who had abandoned their seat nearly twenty years ago. Barbara was interested in local history, but had never managed to find that much out about the Murkasters. At least nothing too fascinating. There were few family scandals on record. All she had found out was that the Murkasters had locked up the house, sold most of its interior effects and left the area. Why? She began to imagine what private scandals might have precipitated the move. Skeletons in the closet? Mad relatives locked in attics, who had escaped and run amok on a murder spree? She smiled to herself. Although, from an imaginative point of view, the ideas were attractive, they were untenable. Any spectacular events would have been recorded in the press, and Barbara had already scoured the microfiches of local papers, held in the library at Patterham.

The baroque towers of Long Eden could now be seen through a thin fringe of trees as the path nudged the right boundary of the wood. Most of the house itself was obscured by the gardens. Barbara was facing the left side of the building and was on a level with its grounds. From the hill where she'd met Lily on Friday morning, the front of the house looked smaller. Perhaps that was something to do with perspective.

Barbara had to climb over a makes.h.i.+ft horse jump of fallen boughs that local riders must have erected. She wished she could get inside Long Eden and soak up the atmosphere. Who held the keys to the place now? Surely there must be a local caretaker?

The dogs had disappeared up the path, although she could still hear their barked exchanges and the sound of cracking twigs. The track now snaked upwards and to the left, veering away from the fields and the view of Long Eden. It led through a widely s.p.a.ced grove of aspens, which in daylight remained in perpetual green shadow, despite the wide gaps between the trees. Barbara especially disliked this area. If anything, it seemed less sinister at night because you could see less of it. She crested the hill and descended it, turning left at the bottom onto a wider valley track, where pines grew on the opposite rise. She imagined galloping horses coming along the path at full tilt. Ghost horses? To dispel a sudden, greater unease, she whistled for the dogs, but shrank from calling their names in the immensity of the wood.

The path wound to the right, and gently downwards, leading her inexorably into the heart of the forest. Perhaps she had come too far. It was easy to feel safe in Little Moor, distant as it was from city crime and city dementia, but it was perhaps foolish to be out here alone, with her dogs gambolling away from her. All it needed was one lunatic to be on the prowl, and Barbara Eager might be no more. Oh, for the innocence or the true safety of a childhood in the Forties, when women did not have to think about such things. She knew that if she followed this path, it would take her past the High Place, and then directly to the edge of the wood where her vehicle was parked, but it was quite a long walk. Still, she balked at retracing her steps through the aspens. Again, she whistled to the dogs, but the demons of the night had got into them. They wanted none of her discipline. The High Place loomed into view through the trees; its mound looked manmade, rising up above all the other, gentler slopes. Amber and Lester came bounding out of the bracken to leap around their mistress's legs for a few moments. Barbara grabbed hold of their collars and uttered a few low, chastising words. She wished she had brought their leads with them, so she could have kept them by her side as she completed their exercise. Straightening up, she began to drag them along the path. They thought it was a game, wriggling and struggling against her hold, tails wagging furiously. Then Barbara noticed the light.

It was a pulsing, yellow-white glow illuminating the thick trunks of the trees on the summit of the High Place. Someone was up there. Barbara experienced a horrifying chill. It could be youths, yobbos. Something worse, perhaps. A lone madman searching the night, waiting for a solitary female to cross his path. Don't be ridiculous! she told herself firmly and made to scurry past, hoping she wouldn't be noticed by whoever, or whatever, occupied the High Place. As she drew nearer, she thought she could hear women's voices, soft singing, or chanting. Could it be local witches on the hill? Barbara was afraid of such things, even though her romantic soul championed the idea of female sorcery. Perhaps she should go back before she was noticed. The dogs seemed to be intrigued by whatever was happening above them. They had begun to whine and strain more forcefully against Barbara's hold, twisting her fingers in their collars. Finally, she could not hold them, and in breaking away from her, they pushed her into the bracken, leapt over her like deer, and raced up through the undergrowth, giving tongue like hounds. Barbara heard screaming, undeniably female and human in origin. Her dogs had never attacked anybody before. They were generally far too soppy. Oblivious of any previous reticence, she charged up the hill, her palms smarting from breaking her fall. She saw a number of slight figures, dressed in floating white, bobbing back and forth among the trees, Amber and Lester in playful pursuit, barking hysterically. Girls, they were only girls! Impotently, Barbara called out the dogs' names, but of course they ignored her. She emerged from the bracken. Candles in covered gla.s.s bowls were arranged about the central hollow. It certainly seemed as if she had disturbed some kind of pagan ceremony. The female figures were all flitting about, uttering strange low cries. They did not seem to see Barbara and soon she found herself in the midst of them, in a tangle of wafting veils. Who were these girls? They did not seem to be Little Moor residents. Barbara attempted to speak to them, but they all ignored her and their high-pitched wailing drowned out her voice. She wanted them all to stop gadding about so that she could regain control of her animals. The dogs did not seem to be inflicting harm. They clearly thought the chasing was a game, but it was clear the girls were terrified. Eventually, Barbara managed to grab hold of a girl's arm. Stop running about!' she said. It's just encouraging them.' For a moment, she looked into the shocked, elfin face of a beautiful young woman, whose head and shoulders were wreathed in a floating mist of fair hair. She seemed horrified to discover an outsider was present, but did not speak. Barbara began to apologise and explain about the dogs, when a hideous transformation made her push the girl away in disgust and horror. The woman was not young at all, but an ancient female, clad in floating muslin, one drooping dug exposed, where the cloth fell away. The toothless mouth was open in surprise, the bagged eyes staring. Barbara's hands flew to her mouth. With an abysmal howl, the woman ran away, down the slope, between the trees. The other women, at first still running about like chickens, suddenly condensed into a tight group and followed the first woman down the hill. They must have gathered up their candlelights as they fled, because Barbara found herself in relative darkness. Thankfully, Amber and Lester had elected to stay with her on the High Place rather than follow the fleeing females. Crones, Barbara thought. They were crones. There was no sign of them now. All was silent. Not even the sound of a single twig breaking. Frightened, Barbara hauled the dogs off the hill and virtually ran all the way back to the Land Rover, terrified the crones would suddenly manifest in front of her on the path, and exact a revenge for the disruption of their ritual. Had they been real? Barbara had never seen a ghost and didn't know whether she believed in them or not. Yet the woman she'd grabbed hold of had felt real enough. The illusion, though, of youth: that had been weird. Was it just because she'd expected to see younger people?

When Barbara got back to The White House, flushed and breathless, she headed straight to the bar and poured herself a large brandy. Only once she'd finished it, and poured herself another did she notice someone was sitting in the corner of the room. She uttered a shocked cry and backed against the optics, causing gla.s.ses on the shelf behind her to shake dangerously.

Barbara, it's me.' The voice was amused. Peverel Othman.

Oh, you gave me a turn!' Barbara said. What are you doing here?' She'd thought, at first, he'd been sitting in darkness, but one of the low-wattage lamps was burning behind him.

Barney said it was all right for me to sit here and read the paper. I prefer the atmosphere in here to that of the residents' lounge. I hope you don't mind.'

Barbara came out from behind the bar. No, no. I'm just a bit jumpy. I've seen the strangest thing in the woods tonight.'

Othman laughed. Oh really! Are you going to tell me about it, or is it too disgusting?'

Barbara also laughed, though less freely. Come into the back,' she said. I'll make us a coffee and tell you about it.'

Thanks.'

Once she had installed Othman at her kitchen table and put the kettle on, Barbara became conscious of his presence on a physical level. She'd been fired up by her experience in the woods, and had needed company. Now she was aware she was alone with a man who, on two occasions, had made suggestive remarks to her. How would he interpret her invitation now? She had ambivalent feelings about it. As she made cheese sandwiches, precisely cutting the bread, Barbara babbled about what she'd seen at the High Place. Othman listened without commenting, his eyes watching her steadily. She flicked the occasional glance at him. G.o.d, he was unbelievably attractive. Just the look in his eyes made her feel slightly faint. She didn't normally go for the long-haired look. She liked a man to be neat and trim, exact in his mannerisms, military types. Othman was lounging and lazy, the precise opposite. What do you think?' she asked, shoving a plate of sandwiches in front of her guest and sitting down opposite him.

Othman was smiling widely, his eyes sleepy. Sounds like you surprised the local coven!' he said, and bit into the sandwich.

I've not been aware of one before,' Barbara said, and I often walk through those woods at night.'

Othman shrugged. Perhaps it was the right time for you to see it. Perhaps they're recruiting!'

I'm not sure how to take that remark!' Barbara said. I've already told you they were hags. Do I qualify, then?'

Othman shook his head. No offence meant. You know you're a very attractive woman.'

Barbara felt a panic begin. She wanted to take this further, yet was nervous of doing so. She laughed. You certainly know how to flatter, Mr Othman!' She jumped up and forcefully depressed the plunger of the cafetiere. Suddenly the action seemed too erotic for words. She looked at Othman and he was smirking at her. She wanted to say something cool and sophisticated like Are you making a pa.s.s at me?' but shrank from doing so, in case he wasn't. What would a handsome creature like Peverel Othman see in her? He could have his pick of any nubile young thing. Was he interested in older women for their freak value? Or was he simply playing with her feelings, imagining her (rightly perhaps) to be a frustrated, middle-aged wife, who could do with a bit of excitement?

I've seen the place you're talking about,' he said. His tone had changed. The flirtation had gone. It's a very old site, and possesses echoes of... shall we say earth power? Sometimes that can make you see things which normally would be invisible. Perhaps that was what you saw tonight. An echo, a memory, ideas made into pictures. Perhaps even just a stray dream.' He was aware that his own presence in Little Moor might conjure such things.

Really!' Barbara said. Are you interested in things like that? I must admit I am. Interested, but scared!' She laughed.

Oh, there's nothing to be scared of,' Othman said, sipping his steaming hot coffee. It's a matter of interpretation. Someone else might have seen fairies dancing on the hill tonight. You saw young girls who turned out to be crones. Perhaps that's an interesting message from your own subconscious.'

Barbara disliked the implications in that. She laughed falsely. It's more likely to have been some New Age types who got chased off by my dogs. I just wasn't expecting it.' Othman made no comment.

So, how did your day go with the Winters?' Barbara asked, partly to change the subject, mostly out of curiosity.

Very enjoyable.'

They seem to have taken a s.h.i.+ne to you.'

They are interesting people.'

Oh, yes, absolutely.' Barbara sat down again. She felt safer now, talking about someone else. I feel sorry for them, actually. Can't help feeling they're wasting their lives, rather, stuck here in the village.'

They seem to think they're outsiders, regarded as a bit peculiar.'

Barbara frowned and shook her head vigorously. Oh no! At least, I don't think of them that way. As a matter of fact, I find them very interesting too. Lily is a creative girl. I intend to encourage her.'

Othman laughed, a reaction with which Barbara was not altogether comfortable. Did he think she was a busybody?

Later, Othman lay in his bed, musing over the evening's events. He'd been gentle with the Winter twins, remaining only a spectator on their love-making, even though his body had ached to plunder and possess. He'd left the house before they'd finished, letting himself out quietly. Lily had seen him go, but had said nothing; her eyes glazed as she travelled the haunting plane of physical ecstasy. Tomorrow, he might call on them again.

Barbara Eager, Othman knew, was a ripe fruit for plucking. Still, he did not intend to gather the harvest himself. That would be too easy. He'd have to sniff around, see what was cooking in the slow-burning fires of village life. In the meantime, he'd prime her, wake up her senses a little. He'd met so few people yet. The Winters were into the things that interested him, and could clearly be encouraged. Then there was the old house, Long Eden, abandoned by its owners, with a secret story to tell. Something was certainly going on in the village, which must be why he'd been drawn to it. Old women cavorting in the woods? He thought of the crone he'd met in the Post Office, her strange remarks. He felt he was working out a riddle and the answer was just hovering on the edge of his perception. Tomorrow he'd apply himself to its solution.

Chapter Eight.

Monday, 19th October: Little Moor Lily awoke feeling uneasy, a headache already needling her temples. She was alone in the bed. Owen must have crept out earlier without disturbing her. This perhaps indicated he too must be feeling strange about the previous night's events. They had never actually slept together all night before. After Othman had gone, they'd clumsily made their way upstairs, still kissing, still caressing, to fall upon the bed in Lily's room. She had never, in her life, wanted Owen so badly as last night. It seemed nothing could satisfy her.

Now, even the simple recollection of what she and Owen had revealed to Othman made Lily's face go red. She felt sure something more than s.e.x had occurred. She and Owen had been influenced in some way. Why had she felt the compulsion to make veiled remarks about her relations.h.i.+p with Owen to Othman? She'd never spoken of it to anyone before, and had believed she never would. In her dream on Sat.u.r.day night, Othman had transformed into a beast. Perhaps there was an important message there for her. The man was dangerous, she thought. He was an Opener, a type of person Lily's mother had once warned her about, who could charm people's secrets from them and then use the information against them. Last night, the knowledge that Othman was watching her with Owen had only enhanced her desire. She remembered how she'd thought about Othman on her walk back from the Post Office on Sat.u.r.day, and how, in her dream, she'd fallen into his open arms from the sky. What would it be like to touch him intimately? Half in dread, half in antic.i.p.ation, Lily had a feeling she was soon going to find out.

When she went downstairs, she discovered Owen had gone out. The kitchen had a desolate air. In the parlour, she found their clothes lying around, amid the empty wine gla.s.ses. How could she ever face Othman again? What if he told someone about what had happened?

Listlessly, Lily tidied the house in a desultory manner. Then she sat down at the lace covered table beneath the parlour window, with an empty writing pad before her. When she'd talked to Barbara Eager about writing something, she hadn't been that serious. Now, she felt compelled to write about what was happening to her. She would turn it all into a fairy-story. She began to write.

There was once a girl, who lived below the mountains...

She paused, tapped her lips with her biro, wrote: She had been asleep for a thousand thousand years...

Oh, that had been done before too many times. The enchanted sleeper. Yet, strangely, that was how she felt. She had been asleep, and her dreams had kept a peculiar reality at bay. Now she could feel it creeping up on her. She would give it the face of a monster.

Peverel Othman rose early and took a stroll down to the Post Office to buy a newspaper. Monday morning: the village felt deserted. The day was overcast, yet warm; the air smelled of autumn. Othman liked the seasons of spring and autumn, with their sense of change, of birth and death, more than florid summer or the black clutch of winter. Excitement came with these turning times, and the possibility for wonders. The human spirit, deep in its sanitised nest of mundane life, stirred and twitched, roused instinctively by the vibrations in the air, of potential and power. Othman himself felt powerful that day. His body felt liquid about his bones. His bones felt like tempered steel.

Again, when he entered the post office, there was a sense of a conversation being hushed. The woman behind the counter stood very still, her eyes fixed on the crone, who was hunched on her stool. It seemed his entrance had brought tension with it. Othman sauntered over to the counter to inspect the paltry array of papers. Dull morning,' he remarked.

The post mistress made an effort. Perhaps it'll brighten up later.' She beamed rather wolfishly at Othman.

Othman picked up a paper. I'll take this.'

Thirty pence, please.'

While this exchange was taking place, Othman was aware of a furtive, rustling movement emanating from the stool of the crone. He glanced to find her standing, stooped and swaying, just behind him.

Mother,' began the post-mistress.

Leaning forward, the old woman extended a bony paw to Othman's arm, pinching the material of his s.h.i.+rt between thumb and fore finger. Her neck craned out like an old buzzard's. Othman noticed the fine, papery nostrils twitch. She was smelling him.

Mother!' the post-mistress hurried out from behind her counter, and took hold of the old woman's shoulders in her hands, in an attempt to drag her away from Othman. He could see the crone's eyes were alight with a weird excitement.

She has her days,' said the daughter. I'm sorry about this.'

It's quite all right.' Othman tucked his paper beneath his arm. Before he could leave the shop, the old woman struggled free of her daughter's hold.

I want it back!' she cried. Give it back to me!'

Othman thought she meant the paper. He raised his brows at the post mistress and waved the paper aloft, as if to defend himself from the advancing, tottering crone.

The post-mistress shook her head. Please, I don't mean to sound rude, but could you leave now? She has turns, you see. I do apologise.'

Othman found himself pressed up against the door, and felt behind his back for the handle. This was absurd. The old hag was looking at him as if she was about to attack and devour him. He could easily strike out and floor her, but knew that would perhaps not be looked upon as kindly by the daughter. What a lunatic! The old bag should be locked up. He could even smell the crone now: a sweet sickly odour combined with the aroma of p.i.s.s. She opened her mouth to display an uneven array of peg-like teeth, then made a lunge for him. Othman opened the door and stepped through backwards. The crone fell onto hands and knees before him, and began to crawl towards him, drool hanging from her gaping lips. You must give it to me: the sweet, sweet liquor,' she croaked. Give me back what is mine, the thighs, the dainty feet.'

The post-mistress had hurried out after her mother. Othman did not wait around to see how she would cope with the demented hag. Without another glance, he headed back towards The White House. What a strange episode. In the midst of a private, amused thought about the vagaries of human dotage, a realisation came to him. He stopped walking. Was it possible? Was it? He glanced back, noticed the post-mistress still dragging her clawing, mewling mother back into the shop. Give it back to me... What had she recognised in him? Othman narrowed his eyes, and sniffed the air. Had he missed something about Little Moor, something vital? Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought now he could detect a sub-note to the perfume of autumn, a smell of blood and cedar. Someone had been here before him. Grigori. One of his own kind.

Eva Manden managed to wrestle her mother back into the shop. Why was it the old woman seemed to have such strength when it was necessary to curb her behaviour? Let me go, you b.i.t.c.h!' cried the crone, and struck her daughter across the face.

Eva backed away, leaned against the closed door. Get on your chair, you witch!'

Let me after him, girl! You can't stop me!'

I b.l.o.o.d.y well can!' Eva said in a low voice. If you come near me, I'll kick you! Get on the chair!'

Mumbling, the old woman crab-walked back to her stool, muttering muted obscenities.

Eva rubbed her cheekbone, which was still smarting from the blow. She pushed back her hair. Perhaps she should close the shop for the day.

You can't stop it,' said the crone in a mocking tone. I know how much you want to keep me like this, want to see me die, but you can't! They're back.'

Taking a deep breath, and glancing quickly to check her mother really had sat down again and wasn't waiting to make a break for it, Eva went back behind the counter. She felt shaken and ashamed. You're being stupid, Mum. That young man's just a tourist, a guest at The White House. You made a right fool of yourself. Now he'll think you're senile.' Which you are, Eva amended silently.

The old woman champed her meagre teeth together. Oh, he knows,' she said. He knows all right. And he'll be back for me now. Soon.'

Rubbis.h.!.+' Eva tidied the papers on the counter. Her mother laughed, a particularly evil sound. Be quiet!' Eva snapped, thinking, don't let her rattle you. She'll get worse.

Eva noticed a stream of liquid had begun to run across the wooden floor. The old woman was grinning malevolently. I feel tired, Eva thought, too tired to cope with this. Her mother hadn't deliberately wet herself for months. When she did, it was always a petty act of spite. Eva knew the old woman was not incontinent. Now, she'd have to close the shop and take her mother into the back so she could be changed and cleaned. The task repulsed her, yet a mindless, uncontrollable sense of duty made her keep on doing it. Without uttering a word of censure, she led the old woman through the bead curtain into the house beyond. Silently, she fetched clean clothes, and ran warm water into a bowl for was.h.i.+ng. The old woman said nothing, merely wriggled around on the kitchen chair, making odd noises to herself. Eva applied herself to the task of cleaning her mother's body and changing her clothes. It was pointless to complain, and she wouldn't give the woman the satisfaction of seeing she was annoyed or even upset.

I want to go to the centre,' wheedled the old woman as Eva eased her into a clean skirt.

d.a.m.n her, Eva thought. Her mother could read her mood, sense how edgy Eva was. Today was a good day for asking favours, especially if the favour involved getting the old woman out of her hair for a few hours.

It's too late,' Eva said. Everyone will be there by now.' She knew her argument was a sham. Even though it made her uneasy letting her mother get together with all the other oldsters in the village, she just needed some respite today.

No it's not. Ring Perks. She'll send someone to fetch me.' There was no hint of age in the woman's voice now. She sounded strong and cold.

Eva paused, wanting to refuse so badly, but knowing that soon she would relent. She eyed the old telephone sitting on the shelf beneath the window. The respite would be short-lived. Whenever her mother went to the centre, she came back unmanageable and weird.

Ring her,' said the crone. You selfish little cow. I know you want to get rid of me, but you'd cut off your nose to spite your face and make me sit here all day.'

Eva filled the mop bucket with water and added detergent. I have to clean up your mess first,' she said.

Ring now,' said the old woman.

Eva glanced at her mother. There was steel in the ancient eyes now, and something more. Eva suppressed a s.h.i.+ver, put down her rubber gloves. She picked up the phone.

Verity had had a pleasing day. Daniel had gone to school, her father had been closeted away in his study, no doubt composing bad poetry for his muse, Barbara Eager, and she'd had the whole house to herself. Cleaning had been a pleasure. Raven had accompanied her from room to room. He had not demanded affection or even come too close to her, simply flopping down on the floor near each doorway and remaining there until she'd finished tidying the room. She felt his presence in her life had stemmed the bad dreams from the past, because there had been no recurrence of the nightmares of Sat.u.r.day morning. It was odd how safe she felt with the cat in her room. And yet, before Sat.u.r.day, she had never felt unsafe. Peculiar. Now, Verity was steeling herself for her brother's arrival home from school. Mrs Roan was already preparing dinner and, her tasks accomplished for the day, Verity wandered into the kitchen, with the intention of sharing a cup of tea with the woman. Raven came at her heels. Mrs Roan looked up from her potato peeling at the kitchen table, and smiled at Verity.

h.e.l.lo, Mrs Roan. Would you like a cup of tea?'

Yes please, Miss Cranton.'

Verity liked the formal relations.h.i.+p she had with the woman, the hint of gentility. She performed this ritual of the tea every day.

Oh, what a big cat!' Mrs Roan remarked as Raven followed Verity to the sink.

Yes, isn't he.' Raven had not met the cook yet; he'd been asleep on Verity's bed the previous day while the woman had performed her work.

I didn't know you had a cat, Miss Cranton.'

Well, I've only just got him,' Verity answered.

Was he expensive?'

Verity was very reluctant to admit that Raven was a stray. Mrs Roan might know his true owners, even though she hadn't yet appeared to recognise him as belonging to someone else. Yes, he was,' she lied.

What breed is he, then?'