Weyward(60)

She spent the long days planning. She settled on dusk, her favourite time of the day, when the sky was the colour of violets – her namesake – and the crickets sang. She would leave with the light.

In the summer, as far north as they were, the days stretched on until almost midnight, which meant that everyone was asleep at the time she had chosen. She put on her favourite green dress and brushed her hair in front of the looking glass one last time. The bite on her cheek had faded to a silvery pink semicircle, like a crescent moon.

Her bedroom was amber and gold with the sun setting through the windows. Violet opened them and looked out, savouring the last sight of her valley. She could see the wood from here, a dark scar on the soft green hills. She looked down. She was very high up – about ten metres, she thought. She wondered who would find her in the morning. She imagined her body, crumpled like the petals of the primrose flower. Violet had left a note on the window seat, asking to be buried under the beech tree.

She climbed up onto the windowsill and felt the cool evening air on her face. Breathed it in deeply, one last time. Just as she prepared to propel herself forward into that empty horizon, she felt something brush her hand. It was a damselfly, its diaphanous wings golden with the sun. Just like the one that Graham had given her, all those weeks ago.

There was a knocking on the door, and then Graham – whom Violet had thought was asleep – burst in.

‘Honestly, Violet, you can’t keep taking my things without ask— Jesus, what the devil are you doing up there? One wrong move and you’d be splattered all over the garden.’

‘Sorry,’ said Violet, scrambling down from the windowsill and scrunching the note into her pocket. ‘Was just – looking out at the view. You can see the railway line from here, did you know?’ Graham loved trains.

‘No, Violet, despite living in this house all my life I did not know that the second-floor windows offered views of the Carlisle to Lancaster line. Honestly, what’s got into you lately? Thought I was going to have to put another damned insect in a jar for you.’ He shuddered. She looked down at her hand, but the damselfly was gone.

‘I’m fine. Just – rather tired.’

‘Please tell me you’re not heartbroken over bloody cousin Frederick. Or I suppose he’s probably Freddie to you, isn’t he? Darling Freddie. What did you talk about on your walks together? More rubbish about his hunting prowess? I must say, I wouldn’t have expected you to fall for such a crashing bore.’

‘It’s nothing to do with Frederick,’ said Violet, too quickly.

Graham looked at her for a moment, raising one pale red eyebrow.

‘If you say so. Glad to see the back of darling Freddie, myself. Reminded me of a chap in the year above at Harrow. Similar air of arrogance. Expelled last autumn for getting a girl pregnant. One of the professor’s daughters. She had the baby in a convent, poor thing.’

‘Really,’ Violet said, feigning disinterest. Spermatophore, she thought. ‘How awful for her.’

‘Indeed,’ said Graham. ‘Anyway, you’ve got to be careful of chaps like that. He didn’t try anything with you, did he? That day we played lawn bowls – Father and I fell asleep and when we woke up you were both gone. Father seemed quite pleased about it, actually.’

‘Nothing happened,’ said Violet. ‘We just went for a walk. I showed him the woods.’

‘Hmm. So long as that’s all you showed him. Look – anyway, it’s really late. I was waiting for Nanny Metcalfe to give up her post so that I could come and get my biology book back. You do have it, don’t you? I’m supposed to have wrapped my head around the subphyla of anthropods by the end of the summer. Running out of time.’

‘Arthropods, you mean. The ones with exoskeletons.’

‘Ugh. Yes, those. Well – anyway, can I have it back?’

Violet thought of the book, wedged under her mattress along with her bloodied undergarments.

‘Lost it. Sorry.’

‘Lost it? How the blooming hell do you lose a textbook?’

‘Dropped it in the beck.’

‘Can you imagine the look on the science master’s face when I tell him that? Sorry, sir, don’t have my textbook – my feckless sister dropped it in a stream. Well, that is just capital, thank you Violet. Now I’ll have to send off for another one. It’ll probably arrive after I’m back at bloody Harrow. Thanks a lot.’ He left, slamming the door behind him.

Once the sound of Graham’s footsteps had faded down the corridor, Violet tried to think what to do about the note. She couldn’t very well burn it. Nanny Metcalfe was bound to smell smoke – she had the nose of a bloodhound – and then there would be questions. And, anyway, she hadn’t completely decided whether or not she would still need it. But then she thought of the damselfly and her stomach ached with guilt over Graham. Could she really leave him all alone with Father?

She retrieved the Brothers Grimm book from next to her bed, opening it to stash the note inside. Before she fell asleep, she thought of her mother again. If Violet died, she would never learn the truth. She carefully placed Morg’s feather next to her face on the pillow, hoping she would dream of her mother. Instead, she dreamed of Frederick, of what had happened in the woods. In the dream, she looked down at her pale body and saw the flesh of her stomach darken, felt it give way under her fingers. Mayflies swarmed around her, wings glistening as they ducked and weaved in their endless, brutal dance.