Weyward(83)

41


VIOLET


Five days. Violet worried that she would lose track of the times the sun dipped in the sky and rose again. Here, in the cottage, time followed different rules. There was no gong for dinner, no Miss Poole demanding she conjugate ten French verbs in as many minutes. She spent most of her days in the garden, listening to the birds and the insects, until the sun glowed red on the leaves of the plants.

She could almost imagine that she was already free.

Almost.

At night, she slept with Morg’s feather gripped tight in her hand, dreaming of her mother.

Her mother. Elizabeth Weyward. She who had given Violet her middle name. Her legacy. She whispered the name out loud, as if it were a spell. It made her feel strong, steeled her for what she had to do next.

On the fifth day, the wind roared and sucked at the cottage, bending the branches of the sycamore so that the leaves looked like they were dancing.

Violet strained the mixture in the kitchen. She used two empty tins to separate the golden liquid from the sodden petals with their smell of rot. She waited until she was in bed to drink it. It was strong and acrid, stinging the back of her throat. Her eyes watered. She lay down and listened to the wind shake the walls of the cottage, waiting for the pain to come.

Gradually, she felt a pulling inside her. It started out like the cramps that came with her monthly curse, dull and pulsing, but soon grew stronger. It was as though there was something inside her, tugging and contorting her innards into strange shapes. Violet tried to find a rhythm to it, to breathe through it as though she were sailing a boat through a churning sea, but there was none. The pain was overwhelming now. The window rattled, and Violet heard the crack of a branch hitting the roof. There was a rushing inside her, a breaking free, and then a great flood.

She marvelled that such a bright colour could come from her own body. It was like magic, she thought. The blood was still coming: her legs were slick with it. She shut her eyes, reached the crest of the wave. Then she fell.





42


KATE


Her heart thuds in her chest, fluttering like a trapped moth.

He can’t have found her. It isn’t possible. Unless—

The email.

Her phone lights up with messages, one after the other.

I’ll see you soon.

Very soon.

For a while, she is still: a black hole yawns inside her, swallowing her ability to move, to think … then she feels the baby kick.

Everything becomes hyperreal: the sun setting on the snow outside, staining the garden red; the screams of the crows in the sycamore. Her blood, rushing through her veins. All of her senses engaged, heightened.

Quickly, she draws the curtains, bolts the doors, frantically trying to think what to do next. Curtains and locks won’t be much use, she knows. Simon will just break a window. If only she had the car. Without it, she’s trapped – an insect, quivering and exposed in a spider’s web.

She can call the police; call Emily. Ask if she can come and get her. But she might not make it in time … it’s Sunday, meaning Emily’s at home, at her farm an hour’s drive away …

The attic. She’ll need to hide. She presses a hand to her forehead as she tries to work out what to take with her. She grabs a bottle of water and some fruit and shoves them into her handbag. Her phone, too, so she can call the police. Candles and matches, so she doesn’t run the phone battery down using it as a light.

She unlocks the back door again to get the ladder, from where it leans against the back of the house, covered in snow. She tries to lift it, sweat breaking out at her temples as she staggers under its weight.

She heaves the ladder onto its side, dragging it into the house. It is heavy and cobwebbed; a spider trembles on one rusted rung. Grunting, she positions it under the trapdoor and climbs up as quickly as she can, her palms slipping on the rungs.

Once she’s at the top, she stares into the dark abyss of the attic. The trapdoor is so small – she hasn’t been up here for months. Will she even fit, with her pregnant belly?

Doubt twinges in her gut. She has to try. There’s nowhere else she can hide.

At first, she tries to climb into the attic the same way she did before, but her arms aren’t strong enough to lift her swollen body through the gap. She shifts position, tries climbing in backwards. The ladder rattles beneath her, and for a moment she fears it will clatter to the floor. She heaves herself in, gasping at a sharp pain in the palm of her hand.

She’s cut herself. But she’s done it, she’s inside the attic.

Kate’s heart begins to slow again. But then: the crunch of car tyres on gravel outside. She freezes, heart galloping, hands growing slippery with blood and sweat. There’s a knock on the door.

God, she should have just called Emily first. Or gone to stay with her in the first place. Simon would never have found her there.

‘Kate?’ At the sound of his voice, her heart drops into her stomach. ‘I know you’re in there. I just want to talk. Please, let me in.’ The doorknob rattles, and she hears the creak of old wood as Simon throws his weight against the front door.

The door. She forgot to lock the back door after getting the ladder.

She has to stay hidden. But – fuck, the ladder. He’ll see it as soon as he gets in, smack bang in the hallway, like an arrow pointing up to her hiding spot. Why didn’t she think of this? Idiot. The panic fizzes in her chest, threatening to overwhelm her. She closes her eyes and forces herself to breathe in and out, slowly …