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ToSophieHannah,forgivingmethecourageofmyconvictions
Tellmetalesofthyfirstlove—
Aprilhopes,thefoolsofchance;
Tillthegravesbegintomove,
Andthedeadbegintodance.
—ALFRED,LORDTENNYSON,TheVisionofSin
Prologue
EdwardFoscawasamurderer.
Thiswasafact.Thiswasn’tsomethingMarianaknewjustonanintellectuallevel,asanidea.Herbodyknewit.Shefeltitinherbones,alongherblood,anddeepwithineverycell.
EdwardFoscawasguilty.
Andyet—shecouldn’tproveit,andmightneverproveit.Thisman,thismonster,whohadkilledatleasttwopeople,might,inalllikelihood,walkfree.
Hewassosmug,sosureofhimself.Hethinkshe’sgotawaywithit,shethought.Hethoughthehadwon.
Buthehadn’t.Notyet.
Marianawasdeterminedtooutsmarthim.Shehadto.
Shewouldsitupallnightandremembereverythingthathadhappened.Shewouldsithere,inthissmall,darkroominCambridge,andthink,andworkitout.Shestaredattheredbaroftheelectricheateronthewall,burning,glowinginthedark,willingherselfintoakindoftrance.
Inhermind,shewouldgobacktotheverybeginningandrememberitall.Everysingledetail.
Andshewouldcatchhim.
PartOne
Nooneevertoldmethatgrieffeltsolikefear.
—C.S.LEWIS,AGriefObserved
1
Afewdaysearlier,Marianawasathome,inLondon.
Shewasonherknees,onthefloor,surroundedbyboxes.ShewasmakingyetanotherhalfheartedattempttosortthroughSebastian’sbelongings.
Itwasn’tgoingwell.Ayearonfromhisdeath,themajorityofhisthingsremainedspreadaroundthehouseinvariouspilesandhalf-emptyboxes.Sheseemedunabletocompletethetask.
Marianawasstillinlovewithhim—thatwastheproblem.Eventhoughsheknewshe’dneverseeSebastianagain—eventhoughhewasgoneforgood—shewasstillinloveanddidn’tknowwhattodowithallthisloveofhers.Therewassomuchofit,anditwassomessy:leaking,spilling,tumblingoutofher,likestuffingfallingoutofanoldragdollthatwascomingapartattheseams.
Ifonlyshecouldboxupherlove,asshewasattemptingtodowithhispossessions.Whatapitifulsightitwas—aman’slifereducedtoacollectionofunwanteditemsforajumblesale.
Marianareachedintothenearestbox.Shepulledoutapairofshoes.
Sheconsideredthem—theoldgreentrainershehadforrunningonthebeach.Theystillhadaslightlysoddenfeelaboutthem,withgrainsofsandembeddedinthesoles.
Getridofthem,shesaidtoherself.Throwtheminthebin.Doit.
Evenasshethoughtthis,sheknewitwasanimpossibility.Theyweren’thim;theyweren’tSebastian—theyweren’tthemanshelovedandwouldloveforever—theywerejustapairofoldshoes.Evenso,partingwiththemwouldbeanactofself-harm,likepressingaknifetoherarmandslicingoffasliverofskin.
Instead,Marianabroughttheshoesclosetoherchest.Shecradledthemtight,asshemightachild.Andshewept.
Howhadsheendeduplikethis?
Inthespaceofjustayear,whichoncewouldhaveslippedbyalmostimperceptibly—andnowstretchedoutbehindherlikeadesolatelandscapeflattenedbyahurricane—thelifeshehadknownhadbeenobliterated,leavingMarianahere:thirty-sixyearsold,aloneanddrunkonaSundaynight;clutchingadeadman’sshoesasiftheywereholyrelics—which,inaway,theywere.
Somethingbeautiful,somethingholy,haddied.Allthatremainedwerethebooksheread,theclotheshewore,thethingshetouched.Shecouldstillsmellhimonthem,stilltastehimonthetipofhertongue.
That’swhyshecouldn’tthrowawayhispossessions—byholdingontothem,shecouldkeepSebastianalive,somehow,justalittlebit—ifsheletgo,she’dlosehimentirely.
Recently,outofmorbidcuriosity,andinanattempttounderstandwhatshewaswrestlingwith,MarianahadrereadallofFreud’swritingsaboutgriefandloss.Andhearguedthat,followingthedeathofalovedone,thelosshadtobepsychologicallyacceptedandthatpersonrelinquished,orelseyourantheriskofsuccumbingtopathologicalmourning,whichhecalledmelancholia—andwecalldepression.
Marianaunderstoodthis.SheknewsheshouldrelinquishSebastian,butshecouldn’t—becauseshewasstillinlovewithhim.Shewasinloveeventhoughhewasgoneforever,gonebehindtheveil—“behindtheveil,behindtheveil”—wherewasthatfrom?Tennyson,probably.
Behindtheveil.
That’showitfelt.SinceSebastiandied,Mariananolongersawtheworldincolor.Lifewasmutedandgrayandfaraway,behindaveil—behindamistofsadness.
Shewantedtohidefromtheworld,allitsnoiseandpain,andcocoonherselfhere,inherwork,andinherlittleyellowhouse.
Andthat’swhereshewouldhavestayed,ifZoehadn’tphonedherfromCambridge,thatnightinOctober.
Zoe’sphonecall,aftertheMonday-eveninggroup—thatwashowitstarted.
Thatwashowthenightmarebegan.
2
TheMonday-eveninggroupmetinMariana’sfrontroom.
Itwasagood-sizedroom.IthadbeengivenovertotheuseoftherapysoonafterMarianaandSebastianmovedintotheyellowhouse.
Theywereveryfondofthathouse.ItwasatthefootofPrimroseHillinNorthwestLondon,andpaintedthesamebrightyellowastheprimrosesthatgrewonthehillinthesummer.Honeysuckleclimbeduponeoftheoutsidewalls,coveringitwithwhite,sweet-smellingflowers,andinthesummermonthstheirscentcreptintothehousethroughtheopenwindows,climbingupthestairsandlingeringinthepassagesandrooms,fillingthemwithsweetness.
ItwasunseasonablywarmthatMondayevening.EventhoughitwasearlyOctober,theIndiansummerprevailed,likeanobstinatepartyguest,refusingtoheedthehintsfromthedyingleavesonthetreesthatitmightbetimetogo.Thelate-afternoonsunfloodedintothefrontroom,drenchingitwithagoldenlight,tingedwithred.Beforethesession,Marianadrewtheblinds,butleftthesashwindowsopenafewinchestoletinsomeair.
Next,shereadjustedthechairsintoacircle.
Ninechairs.Achairforeachmemberofthegroup,andoneforMariana.Intheory,thechairsweremeanttobeidentical—butlifedidn’tworklikethat.Despiteherbestintentions,shehadaccumulatedanassortmentofuprightchairsovertheyears,indifferentmaterialsandinvariousshapesandsizes.Herrelaxedattitudetothechairswasperhapstypicalofhowsheconductedhergroups.Marianawasinformal,evenunconventional,inherapproach.
Therapy,particularlygrouptherapy,wasanironicchoiceofprofessionforMariana.Shehadalwaysbeenambivalentaboutgroups—evensuspiciousofthem—eversinceshewasachild.
She’dgrownupinGreece,ontheoutskirtsofAthens.They’dlivedinalargeramshackleoldhouse,ontopofahillthatwascoveredwithablack-and-greenshroudofolivetrees.Asayounggirl,Marianawouldsitontherustyswinginthegardenandpondertheancientcitybeneathher,sprawlingallthewaytothecolumnsoftheParthenonontopofanotherhillinthedistance.Itseemedsovast,endless;shefeltsosmallandinsignificant,andshevieweditwithasuperstitiousforeboding.
AccompanyingthehousekeeperonshoppingtripstothecrowdedandfreneticmarketinthecenterofAthensalwaysmadeMariananervous.Andshewasrelieved,andalittlesurprised,toreturnhomeunscathed.Largegroupscontinuedtointimidateherasshegrewolder.Atschool,shefoundherselfonthesidelines,feelingasifshedidn’tfitinwithherclassmates.Andthisfeelingofnotfittinginwashardtoshake.Yearslater,intherapy,shecametounderstandthattheschoolyardwassimplyamacrocosmofthefamilyunit:meaningheruneasinesswaslessaboutthehereandnow—lessabouttheschoolyarditself,orthemarketinAthens,oranyothergroupinwhichshemightfindherself—andmoretodowiththefamilyinwhichshegrewup,andthelonelyhouseshegrewupin.
Theirhousewasalwayscold,eveninsunnyGreece.Andtherewasanemptinesstoit—alackofwarmth,physicalandemotional.ThiswasdueinlargeparttoMariana’sfather,who,althougharemarkablemaninmanyways—good-looking,powerful,razorsharp—wasalsohighlycomplicated.Marianasuspectedhehadbeendamagedbeyondrepairbyhischildhood.Shenevermetherfather’sparents,andherarelymentionedthem.Hisfatherwasasailor,andthelesssaidabouthismother,thebetter.Sheworkedatthedocks,hesaid,withsuchalookofshame,Marianathoughtshemusthavebeenaprostitute.
HerfathergrewupintheslumsofAthensandaroundtheportofPiraeus—hestartedworkingontheshipsasaboy,quicklybecominginvolvedwithtradeandtheimportofcoffeeandwheatand—Marianaimagined—lesssavoryitems.Bythetimehewastwenty-five,hehadboughthisownboat,andbuilthisshippingbusinessfromthere.Throughacombinationofruthlessness,blood,andsweat,hecreatedasmallempireforhimself.
Hewasabitlikeaking,Marianathought—oradictator.Shewaslatertodiscoverhewasanextremelywealthyman—notthatyouwouldhaveguesseditfromtheaustere,Spartanwaytheylived.Perhapshermother—hergentle,delicateEnglishmother—mighthavesoftenedhim,hadshelived.Butshediedtragicallyyoung,soonafterMarianawasborn.
Marianagrewupwithakeenawarenessofthisloss.Asatherapist,sheknewababy’sfirstsenseofselfcomesthroughitsparents’gaze.Wearebornbeingwatched—ourparents’expressions,whatweseereflectedinthemirroroftheireyes,determineshowweseeourselves.Marianahadlosthermother’sgaze—andherfather,well,hefoundithardtolookatherdirectly.He’dusuallyglancejustoverhershoulderwhenaddressingher.Marianawouldcontinuallyadjustandreadjustherposition,shuffling,edgingherwayintohissightline,hopingtobeseen—butsomehowalwaysremainingperipheral.
Ontherareoccasionsshedidcatchaglimpseintohiseyes,therewassuchdisdainthere,suchburningdisappointment.Hiseyestoldherthetruth:shewasn’tgoodenough.Nomatterhowhardshetried,Marianaalwayssensedshefellshort,managingtodoorsaythewrongthing—justbyexisting,sheseemedtoirritatehim.Hedisagreedwithherendlessly,nomatterwhat,performingPetruchiotoherKate—ifshesaiditwascold,hesaiditwashot;ifshesaiditwassunny,heinsisteditwasraining.Butdespitehiscriticismandcontrariness,Marianalovedhim.Hewasallshehad,andshelongedtobeworthyofhislove.
Therewaspreciouslittleloveinherchildhood.Shehadaneldersister,buttheyweren’tclose.Elisawassevenyearshersenior,withnointerestinhershyyoungersibling.AndsoMarianawouldspendthelongsummermonthsalone,playingbyherselfinthegardenunderthesterneyeofthehousekeeper.Nowonder,then,shegrewupalittleisolated,anduneasyaroundotherpeople.
TheironythatMarianaendedupbecomingagrouptherapistwasnotlostonher.Butparadoxically,thisambivalenceaboutothersservedherwell.Ingrouptherapy,thegroup,nottheindividual,isthefocusoftreatment:tobeasuccessfulgrouptherapistis—tosomeextent—tobeinvisible.
Marianawasgoodatthis.
Inhersessions,shealwayskeptoutofthegroup’swayasmuchaspossible.Sheonlyintervenedwhencommunicationbrokedown,orwhenitmightbehelpfultomakeaninterpretation,orwhensomethingwentwrong.
OnthisparticularMonday,aboneofcontentionarosealmostimmediately,requiringarareintervention.Theproblem—asusual—wasHenry.
3
Henryarrivedlaterthantheothers.Hewasflushedandoutofbreath,andheseemedalittleunsteadyonhisfeet.Marianawonderedifhewashigh.Shewouldn’thavebeensurprised.ShesuspectedHenrywasabusinghismedication—butbeinghistherapist,nothismedicaldoctor,therewaslittleshecoulddoaboutthat.
HenryBoothwasonlythirty-fiveyearsold,buthelookedolder.Hisreddishhairwasspeckledwithgray,andhisfacewascoveredwithcreases,likethecrumpledshirthewore.Healsoworeaperpetualfrown,andgavetheimpressionofbeingpermanentlytense,likeacoiledspring.HeremindedMarianaofaboxerorafighter,preparingtogive—orreceive—thenextblow.
Henrygruntedanapologyforbeinglate;thenhesatdown—clutchingapapercoffeecup.
Andthecoffeecupwastheproblem.
Lizspokeupimmediately.Lizwasinhermid-seventies,aretiredschoolteacher;aprimsticklerforthingsbeingdone“properly,”assheputit.Marianaexperiencedherasrathertrying,evenirritating.AndshehadguessedwhatLizwasabouttosay.
“That’snotallowed,”Lizsaid,pointingafinger,quiveringwithindignation,atHenry’scoffeecup.“We’renotallowedtobringinanythingfromoutside.Weallknowthat.”
Henrygrunted.“Whynot?”
“Becauseit’stherules,Henry.”
“Fuckoff,Liz.”
“What?Mariana,didyouhearwhathejustsaidtome?”
Lizpromptlyburstintotears,andthingsdegeneratedfromthere—endinginyetanotherheatedconfrontationbetweenHenryandtheothermembersofthegroup,allunitedinfuryagainsthim.
Marianawaswatchingclosely,keepingaprotectiveeyeonHenry,toseehowhewastakingthis.Forallofhisbravado,hewasahighlyvulnerableindividual.Asachild,Henryhadsufferedhorrificphysicalandsexualabuseatthehandsofhisfatherbeforehewastakenintocareandshuntedaroundaseriesoffosterhomes.Andyet,despiteallthistrauma,Henrywasaremarkablyintelligentperson—andithadseemed,forawhile,asifhisintelligencemightbeenoughtosavehim:ateighteenhegotaplaceatuniversity,tostudyphysics.Butheonlylastedafewweeksbeforehispastcaughtupwithhim;hehadamassivebreakdown—andneverfullyrecovered.Therefollowedasadhistoryofself-harm,drugaddiction,andrecurringbreakdownslandinghiminandoutofhospital—untilhispsychiatristreferredhimtoMariana.
MarianahadasoftspotforHenry,probablybecausehe’dhadsuchrottenluck.Butevenso,shewasunsureaboutadmittinghimintothegroup.Itwasn’tjustthathewassignificantlymoreunwellthantheothermembers:seriouslyillpatientscouldbeheldandhealedveryeffectivelybygroups—buttheycouldalsodisruptthemtothepointofdisintegration.Assoonasanygroupestablishesitself,italwaysarousesenvyandattack—andnotjustfromforcesontheoutside,thoseexcludedfromthegroup,butalsofromdarkanddangerousforceswithinthegroupitself.Andeversincehe’djoinedthemafewmonthsago,Henryhadbeenaconstantsourceofconflict.Hebroughtitwithhim.Therewasalatentaggressioninhim,abubblinganger,thatwasoftendifficulttocontain.
ButMarianadidn’tgiveupeasily;aslongasshewasabletomaintaincontrolofthegroup,shefeltdeterminedtoworkwithhim.Shebelievedinthegroup,intheseeightindividualssittinginacircle—shebelievedinthecircle,anditspowertoheal.Inhermorefancifulmoments,Marianacouldbequitemysticalaboutthepowerofcircles:thecircleinthesun,themoon,ortheearth;theplanetsspinningthroughtheheavens;thecircleinawheel;thedomeofachurch—oraweddingring.Platosaidthesoulwasacircle—whichmadesensetoMariana.Lifewasacircletoo,wasn’tit?—frombirthtodeath.
Andwhengrouptherapywasworkingwell,akindofmiraclewouldoccurwithinthiscircle—thebirthofaseparateentity:agroupspirit,agroupmind;a“bigmind,”itwasoftencalled,morethanthesumofitsparts;moreintelligentthanthetherapistortheindividualmembers.Itwaswise,healing,andpowerfullycontaining.Marianahadseenitspowerfirsthandmanytimes.Inherfrontroom,overtheyears,manyghostshadbeenconjuredupinthiscircle,andlaidtorest.
Today,itwasLiz’sturntobespooked.Shejustcouldn’tletgoofthecoffeecup.Itbroughtupsomuchangerandresentmentinher—thefactHenrythoughttherulesdidn’tapplytohim,thathecouldbreakthemwithsuchdisdain;thenLizsuddenlyrealizedhowmuchHenryremindedherofherolderbrother,whohadbeensoentitled,andsuchabully.AllLiz’srepressedangertowardherbrotherstartedsurfacing,whichwasgood,Marianathought—itneededtosurface.ProvidedHenrycouldstandbeingusedasapsychologicalpunchingbag.
Which,ofcourse,hecouldn’t.
Henryleapedupsuddenly,lettingoutananguishedcry.Heflunghiscoffeecupontothefloor.Itsplitopeninthecenterofthecircle—andagrowingpoolofblackcoffeespreadoutontothefloorboards.
Theothermembersofthegroupwereimmediatelyvocalandsomewhathystericalintheiroutrage.Lizburstintotearsagain,andHenrytriedtoleave.ButMarianapersuadedhimtostayandtalkthroughwhathadhappened.
“It’sjustafuckingcoffeecup,what’sthebigdeal?”Henrysaid,soundinglikeanindignantchild.
“It’snotaboutthecoffeecup,”saidMariana.“It’saboutboundaries—theboundariesofthisgroup,therulesweabidebyhere.We’vespokenaboutthisbefore.Wecan’ttakepartintherapyifwefeelunsafe.Boundariesmakeusfeelsafe.Boundariesarewhattherapyisabout.”
Henrylookedatherblankly.Marianaknewhedidn’tunderstand.Boundaries,bydefinition,arethefirstthingtogowhenachildisabused.AllHenry’sboundarieshadbeentorntoshredswhenhewasjustalittleboy.Consequently,hedidn’tunderstandtheconcept.Nordidheknowwhenhewasmakingsomeoneuncomfortable,asheusuallywas,byinvadingtheirpersonalorpsychologicalspace—hewouldstandtoonearwhenhespoketoyou,andexhibitedalevelofneedinessMarianahadneverexperiencedinapatientbefore.Nothingwasenough.Hewouldhavemovedinwithherifshe’dlethim.Itwasuptohertomaintaintheboundarybetweenthem:todefinetheparametersoftheirrelationshipinahealthyway.Thatwasherjobashistherapist.
ButHenrywasalwayspushingather,needlingather,tryingtogetunderherskin…andinwaysshewasfindingincreasinglyhardtohandle.
4
Henryhungaroundafterward,aftertheothershadleft—ostensiblytohelpcleanupthemess.ButMarianaknewtherewasmoretoit;therealwayswaswithhim.Hehoveredsilently,watchingher.Shegavehimsomeencouragement:
“Comeon,Henry.Timetogo…Istheresomethingyouwant?”
Henrynoddedbutdidn’tanswer.Thenhereachedintohispocket.
“Here,”hesaid.“Igotyousomething.”
Hepulledoutaring.Aredgaudyplasticthing.Itlookedlikeithadcomeoutofacerealbox.
“It’sforyou.Apresent.”
Marianashookherhead.“YouknowIcan’tacceptthat.”
“Whynot?”
“Youneedtostopbringingmethings,Henry.Okay?Youshouldreallygohomenow.”
Buthedidn’tmove.Marianathoughtforamoment.Shehadn’tbeenplanningonconfrontinghimlikethis,notnow—butsomehowitfeltright.
“Listen,Henry,”shesaid.“There’ssomethingweneedtotalkabout.”
“What?”
“OnThursdaynight—aftermyeveninggroupfinished,Ilookedoutofthewindow.AndIsawyou,outside.Acrossthestreet,bythelamppost.Watchingthehouse.”
“Itwasn’tme,mate.”
“Yes,itwas.Isawyourface.Andit’snotthefirsttimeI’veseenyouthere.”
Henrywentbrightredandevadedeyecontact.Heshookhishead.“Notme,not—”
“Listen.It’sokayforyoutobecuriousabouttheothergroupsIconduct.Butthat’ssomethingwetalkabouthere,inthegroup.It’snotokaytoactonit.It’snotokaytospyonme.Thatkindofbehaviormakesmefeelinvadedandthreatened,and—”
“I’mnotspying!Iwasjuststandingthere.Sofuckingwhat?”
“Soyouadmityouwerethere?”
Henrytookasteptowardher.“Whycan’titjustbeus?Whycan’tyouseemewithoutthem?”
“Youknowwhy.BecauseIseeyouaspartofagroup—Ican’tseeyouindividuallyaswell.Ifyouneedindividualtherapy,Icanrecommendacolleague—”
“No,Iwantyou—”
Henrymadeanother,suddenmovetowardher.Marianastoodherground.Sheheldupherhand.
“No.Stop.Okay?That’swaytooclose.Henry—”
“Wait.Look—”
Beforeshecouldpreventhim,Henrylifteduphisheavyblacksweater—andthere,onhispale,hairlesstorso,wasagrislysight.
Arazorbladehadbeenused,anddeepcrossescarvedintohisskin.Bloodredcrosses,differentsizes,cutintohischestandabdomen.Someofthecrosseswerewet,stillbleeding,drippingblood;otherswerescabby,andweepinghardredbeads—likecongealed,bloodytears.
Marianafeltherstomachturn.Shefeltsickwithrepulsion,andwantedtolookaway,butwouldn’tletherself.Thiswasacryforhelp,ofcourseitwas,anattempttoelicitacaregivingresponse—butitwasmorethanthat:itwasalsoanemotionalattack,apsychologicalassaultuponhersenses.HenryatlasthadmanagedtogetunderMariana’sguard,underherskin,andshehatedhimforit.
“Whathaveyoudone,Henry?”
“I—Icouldn’thelpit.Ihadtodoit.Andyou—hadtoseeit.”
“AndnowI’veseenit,howdoyouthinkitmakesmefeel?CanyouconceiveofhowupsetIam?Iwanttohelpyoubut—”
“Butwhat?”Helaughed.“What’sstoppingyou?”
“Theappropriatetimeformetogiveyousupportisduringthegroup.Youhadthatopportunitythisevening,butyoudidn’ttakeit.Weallcouldhavehelped.Weareallheretohelpyou—”
“Idon’twanttheirhelp—Iwantyou.Mariana,Ineedyou—”
Marianaknewsheshouldmakehimleave.Itwasn’therjobtocleanhiswounds.Heneededmedicalattention.Sheshouldbefirm,forhissakeaswellasherown.Butshecouldn’tquitebringherselftothrowhimout,andnotforthefirsttime,Mariana’sempathyprevailedoverhercommonsense.
“Wait—waitasecond.”
Shewenttothedresser,openedadrawer,rummagedaround.Shepulledoutafirstaidkit.Shewasabouttoopenitwhenherphonerang.
Shecheckedthenumber.ItwasZoe.Sheanswered.
“Zoe?”
“Canyoutalk?It’simportant.”
“Givemeasec.I’llcallyouback.”MarianaendedthecallandturnedtoHenry.Shethrustthefirstaidkitathim.
“Henry—takethis.Cleanyourselfup.SeeyourGPifyouneedto.Okay?I’llcallyoutomorrow.”
“That’sit?Andyoucallyourselfafuckingtherapist?”
“Enough.Stop.Youhavetogo.”
Ignoringhisprotestations,MarianafirmlyguidedHenryintothehallway,andoutofthefrontdoor.Sheshutthedoorbehindhim.Shefeltanimpulsetolockit,whichsheresisted.
Thenshewenttothekitchen.Sheopenedthefridgeandtookoutabottleofsauvignonblanc.
Shefeltquiteshaken.ShehadtopullherselftogetherbeforeshecalledZoeback.Shedidn’twanttoburdenthatgirlmorethanshealreadyhad.TheirrelationshiphadbeenimbalancedeversinceSebastian’sdeath—andfromnowon,Marianawasdeterminedtocorrectthatbalance.Shetookadeepbreathtocalmdown.Thenshepouredherselfalargeglassofwine,andmadethecall.
Zoeansweredonthefirstring.
“Mariana?”
Marianaknewatoncesomethingwaswrong.TherewasatensioninZoe’svoice,anurgencythatMarianaassociatedwithmomentsofcrisis.Shesoundsafraid,shethought.Shefeltherheartbeatalittlefaster.
“Darling,is—iseverythingallright?What’shappened?”
Therewasasecond’spausebeforeZoeanswered.Shespokeinasmallvoice.“TurnontheTV,”shesaid.“Turnonthenews.”
5
Marianareachedfortheremotecontrol.
Sheswitchedontheold,batteredportableTVsittinguponthemicrowave—oneofSebastian’ssacredpossessions,boughtwhenhewasstillastudent,usedforwatchingcricketandrugbywhilehepretendedtohelpMarianaprepareweekendmeals.Itwasrathertemperamental,anditflickeredforamomentbeforecomingtolife.
MarianaturnedontheBBCnewschannel.Amiddle-agedmalejournalistwasdeliveringareport.Hewasstandingoutside;itwasgettingdarkandhardtoseeexactlywhere—afield,perhaps,orameadow.Hewasspeakingdirectlytothecamera
“—anditwasfoundinCambridge,inthenaturereserveknownasParadise.I’mherewiththemanwhomadethediscovery…Canyoutellmewhathappened?”
Thequestionwasaddressedtosomeoneoffcamera—andthecameraswungaroundtoashort,nervous,red-facedmaninhismid-sixties.Heblinkedinthelight,lookingdazzled.Hespokehesitantly.
“Itwasafewhoursago…Ialwaystakethedogoutatfour,soitmusthavebeenaboutthen—maybequarterpast,twentypast.Itakehimdownbytheriver,alongthepath…WewerewalkingthroughParadise—and…”
Hestumbledforamoment,anddidn’tcompletethesentence.Hetriedagain:“Itwasthedog—hedisappearedinthetallgrass,bythemarsh.Hewouldn’tcomewhenIcalled.Ithoughthe’dfoundabirdorafoxorsomething—soIwenttohavealook.Iwalkedthroughthetrees…totheedgeofthemarsh,bythewater…andthere,thereitwas…”
Astrangelookcameintotheman’seyes.AlookMarianarecognizedalltoowellHe’sseensomethinghorrible,shethought.Idon’twanttohear.Idon’twanttoknowwhatitis.
Themanwenton,relentlessly,fasternow,asifheneededtoexpelit.
“Itwasagirl—shecouldn’thavebeenmorethantwenty.Shehadlongredhair.Atleast,Ithinkitwasred.Therewasbloodeverywhere,somuchofit…”Hetrailedoff,andthejournalistpromptedhim.
“Shewasdead?”
“That’sright.”Themannodded.“She’dbeenstabbed.Manytimes.And…herface…God,itwashorrible—hereyes—hereyeswereopen…staring…staring—”
Hebrokeoff,andtearsfilledhiseyes.He’sinshock,thoughtMariana.Theyshouldn’tbeinterviewinghim—someoneshouldstopthis.
Sureenough,atthatmoment—perhapsrecognizingithadgonetoofar—thejournalistcutshorttheinterview,andthecamerapannedbacktohim.
“BreakingnewshereinCambridge—policeareinvestigatingthediscoveryofabody.Thevictimofafrenziedknifeattackisbelievedtobeayoungwomaninherearlytwenties—”
Marianaturnedoffthetelevision.Shestaredatitforasecond,stunned,unabletomove.Thensherememberedthephoneinherhand.Sheheldituptoherear.
“Zoe?Areyoustillthere?”
“I—Ithinkit’sTara.”
“What?”
TarawasaclosefriendofZoe’s.TheywereinthesameyearatSt.Christopher’sCollegeatCambridgeUniversity.Marianahesitated,tryingnottosoundanxious.
“Whydoyousaythat?”
“ItsoundslikeTara—andnoone’sseenher—notsinceyesterday—Ikeepaskingeveryone,andI—I’msoscared,Idon’tknowwhatto—”
“Slowdown.WhenwasthelasttimeyousawTara?”
“Lastnight.”Zoepaused.“AndMariana,she—shewasbeingsoweird,I—”
“Whatdoyoumean,weird?”
“Shesaidthings—crazythings.”
“Whatdoyoumean,crazy?”
Therewasapause,andZoerepliedinawhisper,“Ican’tgetintoitnow.Butwillyoucome?”
“OfcourseIwill.ButZoe,listen.Haveyouspokentothecollege?Youmusttellthem—tellthedean.”
“Idon’tknowwhattosay.”
“Tellthemwhatyoujustsaidtome.Thatyou’reworriedabouther.They’llcontactthepolice,andTara’sparents—”
“Herparents?But—whatifI’mwrong?”
“I’msureyouarewrong,”Marianasaid,soundingalotmoreconfidentthanshefelt.“I’msureTara’sfine,butweneedtomakesure.Youunderstandthat,don’tyou?Doyouwantmetocallthemforyou?”
“No,no,it’sokay…I’lldoit.”
“Good.Thengotobed,okay?I’llbetherefirstthinginthemorning.”
“Thanks,Mariana.Iloveyou.”
“Iloveyoutoo.”
Marianaendedthecall.Thewhitewineshehadpouredwassittingonthecounteruntouched.Shepickeditup,anddraineditinonego.
Herhandwastremblingasshereachedforthebottleandpouredherselfanotherglass.
6
Marianawentupstairsandbeganpackingasmallbag,incaseshehadtostayanightortwoinCambridge.
Shetriednottoletherthoughtsrunawaywithher—butitwasdifficult—shewasfeelingincrediblyanxious.Somewhereouttherewasaman—presumablyitwasaman,giventheextremeviolenceoftheattack—whowasdangerouslyill,andhadhorrificallymurderedayoungwoman…ayoungwomanwhopossiblylivedafewfeetawayfromwhereherbelovedZoeslept.
ThepossibilitythevictimmighthavebeenZoeinsteadwasathoughtMarianatriedtoignore,butcouldn’tentirelyrepress.Shewasfeelingsickwithakindoffearshehadonlyfeltoncebeforeinherlife—thedaySebastiandied.Afeelingofimpotence;apowerlessness,ahorribleinabilitytoprotectthoseyoulove.
Sheglancedatherrighthand.Shecouldn’tstopittrembling.Sheclencheditintoafistandsqueezedittight.Shewouldnotdothis—shewouldnotfallapart.Notnow.Shewouldstaycalm.Shewouldfocus.
Zoeneededher—thatwasallthatmattered.
IfonlySebastianwerehere;he’dknowwhattodo.Hewouldn’tdeliberate,procrastinate,packanovernightbag.HewouldhavegrabbedhiskeysandrunoutthedoorthesecondhegotoffthephonewithZoe.That’swhatSebastianwouldhavedone.Whyhadn’tshe?
Becauseyou’reacoward,shethought.
Thatwasthetruth.IfonlyshehadsomeofSebastian’sstrength.Someofhiscourage.Comeon,love,shecouldhearhimsaying,givemeyourhandandwe’llfacethebastardstogether.
Marianaclimbedintobedandlaythere,thinking,driftingtosleep.Forthefirsttimeinoverayear,herlastthoughtsasshelostconsciousnesswerenotaboutherlatehusband.
Instead,shefoundherselfthinkingaboutanotherman:ashadowyfigurewithaknifewhohadwreakedsuchhorroruponthatpoorgirl.Mariana’smindmeditatedonhimashereyelidsflutteredandclosed.Shewonderedaboutthisman.Shewonderedwhathewasdoingrightnow,wherehewas…
Andwhathewasthinking.
7
7thOctober
Onceyoukillanotherhumanbeing,there’snogoingback.
Iseethatnow.IseeIhavebecomealtogetheradifferentperson.
It’sabitlikebeingreborn,Isuppose.Butnoordinarybirth—it’sametamorphosis.Whatemergesfromtheashesisnotaphoenix,butanugliercreature:deformed,incapableofflight,apredatorusingitsclawstocutandrip.
Ifeelincontrolnow,writingthis.Atthismomentintime,Iamcalm,andsane.
Butthereismorethanoneofme.
It’sonlyamatteroftimebeforetheothermerises,bloodthirsty,mad,andseekingrevenge.Andhewon’trestuntilhefindsit.
Iamtwopeopleinonemind.Partofmekeepsmysecrets—healoneknowsthetruth—buthe’skeptprisoner,lockedup,sedated,deniedavoice.Hefindsanoutletonlywhenhisjailerismomentarilydistracted.WhenIamdrunk,orfallingasleep,hetriestospeak.Butit’snoteasy.Communicationcomesinfitsandstarts—acodedescapeplanfromaPOWcamp.Themomenthegetstooclose,aguardscramblesthemessage.Awallcomesup.Ablanknessfillsmymind.ThememoryIwasstrivingforevaporates.
ButI’llpersevere.Imust.Somehow,Iwillfindmywaythroughthesmokeanddarknessandcontacthim—thesanepartofme.Thepartthatdoesn’twanttohurtpeople.Thereismuchhecantellme.MuchIneedtoknow.How,andwhy,Iendeduplikethis—soremovedfromwhoIwantedtobe—sofullofhateandanger—sotwistedinside…
OramIlyingtomyself?WasIalwaysthisway,anddidn’twanttoadmitit?
No—Iwon’tbelievethat.
Afterall,everyone’sentitledtobetheherooftheirownstory.SoImustbepermittedtobetheheroofmine.EventhoughI’mnot.
I’mthevillain.
8
Thenextmorning,asMarianaleftthehouse,shethoughtshesawHenry.
Hewasstandingacrossthestreet,hoveringbehindatree.
Butwhenshelookedback,therewasnoonetobeseen.Shemusthavebeenimaginingit,shedecided—andevenifsheweren’t,shehadmoreimportantthingstoworryaboutrightnow.ShebanishedHenryfromhermind,andtookthetubetoKing’sCross.
Atthestation,shegotonthefasttraintoCambridge.Itwasasunnyday,andtheskywasaperfectblue,streakedwithonlyafewwispsofwhitecloud.Shesatbythewindow,lookingoutasthetrainspedpastgreenhedgerowsandexpansesofgoldenwheatswayinginthebreezelikeashiftingyellowsea.
Marianawasgratefultohavethesunonherface—shewasshivering,butfromanxiety,notlackofwarmth.Shecouldn’tstopworryingaboutwhathadhappened.She’dnotheardfromZoesincelastnight.Marianahadtextedherthismorningbuthadyettoreceiveareply.
Perhapsitwasallafalsealarm;perhapsZoehadbeenwrong?
Marianasincerelyhopedso—andnotjustbecausesheknewTarapersonally:they’dhadhertostayforaweekendinLondonafewmonthsbeforeSebastiandied.ButMarianawasmainly,selfishly,concernedwithTaraforZoe’ssake.
Zoehadhadadifficultadolescenceforavarietyofreasons,whichshehadmanagedtoovercome,morethanovercome—“triumphantlytranscend”washowSebastianputit—culminatingwithherbeingofferedaplacetoreadEnglishatCambridgeUniversity.TarawasthefirstfriendZoemadethere,andlosingTara,Marianathought,andinsuchunimaginablyawfulcircumstances,mightwellderailZoeentirely.
Forsomereason,Marianacouldn’tstopthinkingabouttheirphonecall.Somethingwasbotheringher.
Shecouldn’tquiteputherfingeronwhat,exactly.
WasitZoe’stone?MarianahadafeelingZoewasholdingsomethingback.Wasittheslighthesitation,evenevasion,whensheaskedZoewhatwerethe“crazy”thingsthatTarahadsaid?
Ican’tgetintoitnow.
Whynot?
WhatexactlyhadTarasaidtoher?
Perhapsit’snothing,Marianathought.Stopit—stopdoingthis.Shehadnearlyanhourtogoonthetrain;shecouldn’tsitheredrivingherselfcrazy.She’dbeawreckwhenshearrived.Sheneededtodistractherself.
Shereachedintoherbagandpulledoutamagazine—theBritishJournalofPsychiatry.Sheflickedthroughitbutcouldn’tconcentrateonanyofthearticles.
Inevitably,hermindkeptreturningtoSebastian.ThethoughtofgoingbacktoCambridgewithouthimfilledMarianawithdread.Shehadn’tbeenbacksincehisdeath.
TheywouldoftengoandseeZoetogether,andMarianahadfondmemoriesofthosevisits:sherememberedthedaytheymovedZoeintoSt.Christopher’sCollege,andhelpedherunpackandsettlein.Itwasoneofthehappiesttimestheyspenttogether,feelingliketheproudparentsoftheirlittlesurrogatedaughter,whomtheylovedsomuch.
Zoehadseemedsosmallandvulnerableastheypreparedtoleaveherthatday,andastheysaidtheirgoodbyes,MarianasawSebastianlookingatZoewithsuchfondness,suchlove,mingledwithtrepidation;asifheweregazingathisownchild,which,inaway,hewas.OncetheyleftZoe’sroom,theycouldn’tquitebringthemselvestoleaveCambridge,sotheywalkedalongtherivertogether,arminarm,liketheyusedtowhentheywereyoung.Fortheyhadbothbeenstudentshere—andCambridgeUniversity,likethecityitself,wasintricatelyboundupintheirromance.
Itwaswheretheymet,whenMarianawasjustnineteen.
Thatmeetinghappenedquitebychance.Therewasnoreasonforit—theywereatdifferentcollegesattheuniversityanddoingdifferentsubjects:Sebastianwasstudyingeconomics;MarianawasanEnglishstudent.Itfrightenedherhoweasilytheymightneverhaveencounteredeachother.Whatthen?Whatwouldherlifehavebeenlike?Better—orworse?
Marianawasforeversearchinghermemorythesedays—lookingforthepast,tryingtoseeitclearly;tryingtounderstandandcontextualizethejourneytheyhadbeenontogether.Shewouldtrytorememberlittlethingstheydid,re-createforgottenconversationsinhermind,imaginewhatSebastianmighthavesaidordoneateachmoment.Butshewasunsurehowmuchthatsherecalledwasreal;themorerememberingshedid,themoreitseemedSebastianwasturningintomyth.Hewasallspiritnow—allstory.
MarianawaseighteenyearsoldwhenshemovedtoEngland.Itwasacountryshehadromanticizedsincechildhood.Perhapsthiswasinevitable,giventhatherEnglishmotherhadleftsomuchofitbehindinthathouseinAthens:bookcasesandshelvesineveryroom,asmalllibrary,crammedwithEnglishbooks—novels,plays,poetry—allmysteriouslytransportedtherebeforeMarianawasborn.
Shefondlyimaginedhermother’sarrivalinAthens—armedwithtrunksandsuitcasesfullofbooksinsteadofclothes.Andinherabsence,thelonelygirlwouldturntohermother’sbooksforsolaceandcompanionship.Duringthelongsummerafternoons,Marianagrewtolovethefeelofabookinherhands,thesmellofpaper,thesensationofturningapage.Shewouldsitontherustyswingintheshade,biteintoacrispgreenapple,oranoverripepeach,andloseherselfinastory.
Throughthesestories,MarianafellinlovewithavisionofEnglandandEnglishness—anEnglandthathadquitepossiblyneverexistedbeyondthepagesofthesebooks:anEnglandofwarmsummerrain,andwetgreenery,andappleblossom;windingriversandwillowtrees,andcountrypubswithroaringfires.TheEnglandoftheFamousFive,andPeterPanandWendy;KingArthurandCamelot;WutheringHeightsandJaneAusten,Shakespeare—andTennyson.
AnditwasherethatSebastianfirstenteredMariana’sstory,whenshewasjustalittlegirl.Likeallgoodheroes,hemadehispresencefeltlongbeforehisappearance.Marianadidn’tknowwhathelookedlikeyet,thisromanticheroinherhead,butshewassurehewasreal.
Hewasoutthere—andoneday,she’dfindhim.
Andthen,yearslater,whenshefirstarrivedinCambridgeasastudent,itwassobeautiful,sodreamlike,shefeltasifshehadsteppedintoafairytale—intoanenchantedcityfromapoembyTennyson.AndMarianafeltsureshewouldfindhimhere,inthismagicalplace.Shewouldfindlove.
Butthesadreality,ofcourse,wasthatCambridgewasn’tafairytale;itwasjustaplace,likeanyother.AndtheproblemwithMariana’sflightoffancy—asshediscoveredyearslaterintherapy—wasthatshehadbroughtherselfwithher.Asachildatschool,strugglingtofitin,shehadwanderedthecorridorsduringthebreaktimes,lonelyandrestlessasaghost—gravitatingtowardthelibrary,whereshefeltcomfortable,findingrefuge.Andnow,asastudentatSt.Christopher’sCollege,thesamepatternrepeateditself:Marianaspentmostofhertimeinthelibrary,makingonlyafewfriendswithothersimilarlyshy,bookishstudents.Shereceivednointerestfromanyoftheboysinheryear,andnooneaskedherout.
Perhapsshewasn’tattractiveenough?Shelookedlesslikehermotherthanlikeherfather,withhisdarkhairandstrikingdarkeyes.Yearslater,SebastianwouldoftentellMarianahowbeautifulshewas,buttheproblemwassheneverreallyfeltit,inside.Andshesuspected,ifshewasbeautiful,itwassolelybecauseofSebastian:baskinginthewarmthofhissunlight,sheblossomedlikeaflower.Butthatcamelater—initially,asateenager,Marianahadlittleconfidenceinherappearance,whichwasn’thelpedbythefactshehadsuchbadeyesight,forcinghertowearugly,thickglassesfromtheageoften.Atfifteen,shestartedwearingcontactlenses,andwonderedifthatmightmakeherlookandfeeldifferentaboutherself.She’dstandinfrontofthemirror,peeringatherreflection—tryingbutfailingtoseeherselfclearly,andneverquitehappywithwhatshesaw.Evenatthatage,Marianawasdimlyawarethatattractivenesshadsomethingtodowiththeinternalworld:aninnerconfidencethatshelacked.
Nonetheless,likethefictionalcharacterssheadored,Marianabelievedinlove.Despiteaninauspiciousfirsttwotermsatuniversity,sherefusedtogiveuphope.
LikeCinderella,sheheldoutfortheball.
St.Christopher’sCollegeballwasheldontheBacks—largestretchesofgrassleadingdowntothewater’sedge.Marqueeswereerected,filledwithfoodanddrink,musicanddancing.Marianahadarrangedtomeetsomefriendsbutcouldn’tfindtheminthecrowd.Ithadtakenallhercouragetocomealonetotheball,andshewasregrettingit.Shestoodbytheriver,feelinghorriblyoutofplaceamongthesebeautifulgirlsinballgownsandyoungmenineveningdress—allofwhombrimmedwithboundlesssophisticationandconfidence.Herownfeelings,Marianarealized,hersadnessandshyness,weretotallyincongruouswiththemerrimentofhersurroundings.Standinghereonthesidelines—lookingatlifefromthefringes—wasclearlyMariana’sproperplace;ithadbeenamistakeforherevertohaveimaginedotherwise.Shedecidedtogiveup,andreturntoherroom
Andatthatmoment,sheheardaloudsplash.
Shelookedaround.Therewerefurthersplashes,andsoundsoflaughterandshouting.Nearby,ontheriver,someboysweremessingaboutonrowingboatsandpunts—andoneoftheboyshadlosthisbalanceandtoppledin.
Marianawatchedtheyoungmansplashingaround,andthensurfacingintheriver.Heswamtothebankandpulledhimselfout,emerginglikesomestrangemythicalcreature,ademigodborninwater.Hewasonlynineteenthen,buthelookedlikeaman,notaboy.Hewastall,muscular,andsoakingwet;hisshirtandtrouserswerestickingtohim,hisblondhairplasteredacrosshisface,blindinghim.Hereachedup,partedhishair,peeredout—andsawMariana.
Itwasastrange,timelessmoment—thatfirstmomenttheysaweachother.Timeseemedtoslowdown,flatten,andstretch.Marianawastransfixed,heldinhisgaze,unabletolookaway.Itwasanoddfeeling,abitlikerecognizingsomeone—someoneshehadonceknownintimately,andcouldn’tquiteplacewhereorwhentheyhadlosttouch.
Theyoungmanignoredthejeeringcallsofhisfriends.Andwithacurious,wideningsmile,hemadehiswayovertoher.
“Hello,”hesaid.“I’mSebastian.”
Andthatwasit.
“Itwaswritten”istheGreekexpression.Meaning,quitesimply,fromthatmomenton,theirdestiniesweresealed.Lookingback,Marianawouldoftentrytorecallthedetailsofthatfatefulfirstnight—whattheyspokeabout,howlongtheydanced,whentheyhadtheirfirstkiss.Buttryasshemight,thespecificsslippedthroughherfingerslikegrainsofsand.Shecouldonlyremembertheywerekissingasthesuncameup—andfromthatmomenton,theywereinseparable.
TheyspenttheirfirstsummertogetherinCambridge—threemonthscocoonedineachother’sarms,untroubledbytheoutsideworld.Timestoodstillinthistimelessplace;itwasalwayssunny,andtheyspenttheirdaysmakinglove,orhavinglongdrunkenpicnicsontheBacks,orontheriver,sailingunderstonebridgesandpastwillowtreesandcowsgrazinginopenfields.Sebastianwouldpunt,standingonthebackoftheboatandplungingthepoledownintotheriverbedtopropelthemalong,whileMariana,tinglingwithalcohol,trailedherfingersinthewater,gazingattheswansglidingpast.Althoughshedidn’tknowitatthetime,shewasalreadysodeeplyinlove,therewasnowayoutagain.
Onsomelevel,theybecameeachother—theyjoined,likemercury.
That’snottosaytheydidn’thavetheirdifferences.IncontrasttoMariana’sprivilegedupbringing,Sebastianwasbroughtupwithnomoney.Hisparentsweredivorcedandhewasn’tclosetoeitherofthem.Hefelttheyhadn’tgivenhimagoodstartinlife;andthathehadtomakehisownway,rightfromthebeginning.Inmanyways,SebastiansaidherelatedtoMariana’sfather,andtheoldman’sdrivetosucceed.MoneymatteredtoSebastiantoo,because,unlikeMariana,hegrewupwithoutit,soherespectedit,andwasdeterminedtomakeagoodlivinginthecity,“sowecanbuildsomethingsecureforusandthefuture—andforourkids.”
That’showhespokeatjusttwenty:soridiculouslygrown-up.Andsonaivetoassumetheywouldspendtherestoftheirlivestogether.Theylivedinthefutureinthosedays,endlesslyplanningit—andneverspeakingofthepast,andoftheunhappyyearsleadinguptotheirmeeting.Inmanyways,Mariana’sandSebastian’slivesbeganwhentheyfoundeachother—inthatinstanttheyfirstsaweachotherbytheriver.Marianabelievedtheirlovewouldgoonforever.Thatitwouldneverend—
Lookingback,wastheresomethingsacrilegiousinthatassumption?Akindofhubris?
Perhaps.
Forhereshewas,aloneonthistrain,onthisjourneytheyhadmadetogethercountlesstimes,atvariousstagesintheirlivesandindifferentmoods—mostlyhappy,sometimesnot—talking,reading,orsleeping,Mariana’sheadrestingonhisshoulder.Theseweretheuneventfulmundanemomentsshewouldgiveanythingtohavebackagain.
Shecouldalmostimaginehimhere—inthecarriage,sittingnexttoher—andifsheglancedatthewindow,shehalfexpectedtoseeSebastian’sfacereflectedthere,nexttohers,superimposedonthepassinglandscape.
Butinstead,Marianasawadifferentface.
Aman’sface,staringather.
Sheblinked,unnerved.Sheturnedfromthewindowtoglanceathim.Themanwassittingoppositeher,eatinganapple.Hesmiled.
9
ThemancontinuedstaringatMariana—althoughtocallhimamanwas,shedecided,rathergenerous.
Helookedasifhewerebarelyinhistwenties:hehadaboyishfaceandcurlybrownhair,andasprinklingoffrecklesonhishairlesscheeksthatmadehimseemevenyounger.
Hewastallandthinasarake,dressedinadarkcorduroyjacket,creasedwhiteshirt,andacollegescarfinblueandredandyellow.Hisbrowneyes,partlydisguisedbyhisold-fashionedsteel-rimmedglasses,brimmedwithintelligenceandcuriosity,andcontemplatedMarianawithobviousinterest.
“How’sitgoing?”hesaid.
Marianapeeredathim,alittleconfused.“Dowe—knoweachother?”
Hegrinned.“Notyet.Buthopefully.”
Marianadidn’treply.Sheturnedaway.Therewasapause.Thenhetriedagain.
“Wouldyoulikeone?”
Heheldoutalargebrownpaperbag,bulgingwithfruit—grapes,bananas,andapples.“Takeone,”hesaid,offeringittoMariana.“Haveabanana.”
Marianasmiledpolitely.Hehadanicevoice,shethought.Sheshookherhead.
“No,thanks.”
“You’reabsolutelysure?”
“Positive.”
Marianaturnedandlookedoutside,hopingthatwouldendtheinteraction.Shecouldseehisreflectioninthewindow,andwatchedhimshrug,disappointed.Hewas,apparently,notquiteincontrolofhislonglimbs—andendedupknockingoverhiscupandspillingit.Someofhisteawentonthetable,butmostlandedinhislap.
“Bloodyhell.”
Hejumpedup,pullingatissuefromhispocket.Hemoppedupthepoolofteaonthetable,anddabbedatthestainonhistrousers.Hegaveheranapologeticlook.“Sorryaboutthat.Didn’tsplashyou,didI?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Hesatdownagain.Shecouldfeelhiseyesonher.Afteramoment,hesaid,“You’re…astudent?”
Marianashookherhead.“No.”
“Ah.YouworkinCambridge?”
Marianashookherhead.“No.”
“Thenyou’re…atourist?”
“No.”
“Hmm.”Hefrowned,evidentlyperplexed.
Therewasapause.Marianagavein,andsaid,“I’mvisitingsomeone…Myniece.”
“Oh,you’reanaunt.”
HelookedrelievedtohaveplacedMarianainacategory.Hesmiled.
“I’mdoingaPh.D.,”hesaid,volunteeringtheinformation,asMarianadidn’tseemabouttoask.“I’mamathematician—well,theoreticalphysics,really.”
Hepaused,takingoffhisglassestowipethemwithatissue.Helookedquitenakedwithoutthem.AndMarianasaw,forthefirsttime,thathewashandsome;orwouldbe,whenhisfacegrewupabit.
Heputhisglassesbackon,andpeeredather.
“I’mFrederick,bytheway.OrFred.What’syourname?”
Marianadidn’twanttotellFredhername.Probablybecauseshehadthefeeling—flatteringbutalsounnerving—thathewastryingtoflirtwithher.Apartfromtheobviousfacthewastooyoungforher,shewasn’tready,neverwouldbeready—eventhinkingaboutitfeltlikeasickeningbetrayal.Sheansweredwithstrainedpoliteness.
“Myname…isMariana.”
“Ah,that’sabeautifulname.”
Fredwentontalking,attemptingtoengageherinconversation.ButMariana’sresponsesbecameincreasinglymonosyllabic.Shesilentlycountedtheminutesuntilshecouldmakeherescape.
WhentheyarrivedinCambridge,Marianatriedtoslipawayanddisappearinthecrowd.ButFredcaughtupwithheroutsidetherailwaystation.
“CanIaccompanyyoutotown?Onthebus,perhaps?”
“I’dratherwalk.”
“Great—Ihavemybikehere—Icanwalkwithyou.Oryoucanrideitifyouprefer?”
Helookedatherhopefully.Marianafeltsorryforhim,despiteherself.Butshespokemorefirmlythistime.
“I—prefertobealone.Ifthat’sokay.”
“Ofcourse…Isee.Iunderstand.Perhaps—acoffee,later?Oradrink?Tonight?”
Marianashookherheadandpretendedtocheckherwatch.“Iwon’tbeherethatlong.”
“Well,perhapsIcanhaveyournumber?”Heblushedalittle,andthefrecklesonhischeeksburnedred.“Wouldthatbe—?”
Marianashookherhead.“Idon’tthink—”
“No?”
“No.”Marianalookedaway,embarrassed.“I’msorry,I—”
“Don’tbesorry.I’mnotdiscouraged.We’llmeetagainsoon.”
Somethingabouthistonemadeherfeelalittleirritated.“Idon’tthinkso.”
“Oh,wewill.Iforeseeit.Ihaveagiftforthatsortofthing,youknow—runsinmyfamily—foresight,premonitions.Iseethingsothersdonot.”
Fredsmiledandsteppedontotheroad.Acyclistswervedtoavoidhim.
“Watchout,”saidMariana,touchinghisarm.ThecyclistsworeatFredasherodepast.
“Sorry,”hesaid.“I’malittleclumsy,I’mafraid.”
“Onlyalittle.”Marianasmiled.“Goodbye,Fred.”
“Untilwemeetagain,Mariana.”
Hewentovertotherowofbicycles.Marianawatchedashegotonhisbikeandcycledpast,wavingather.ThenFredturnedthecornerandvanished.
Marianabreathedasighofrelief.Andshebeganwalkingintotown.
10
AsshemadeherwaytoSt.Christopher’s,Mariana’sanxietygrewaboutwhatshemightfindthere.
Shehadnoideawhattoexpect—theremightbepoliceorpress,whichseemedhardtobelieve,lookingaroundtheCambridgestreets:therewasnosignthatanythinguntowardhadhappened,noindicationamurderhadeventakenplace.
ItseemedremarkablypeacefulafterLondon.Barelyanytraffic,theonlysoundwasbirdsong,punctuatedbyachorusofchirrupingbicyclebellsasstudentscycledpastinblackacademicgowns,likeflocksofbirds.
Marianahadthefeeling,acoupleoftimes,asshewalked,thatshewasbeingwatched—orfollowed—andshewonderedifperhapsitwasFred,havingdoubledbackonhisbicycletotailher,butshedismissedthethoughtasparanoid.
Allthesame,sheglancedoverhershoulderafewtimes,tomakesure—andofcoursenoonewasthere.
Asshenearedthecollege,hersurroundingsgrewmoreandmorebeautifulwitheachstep:therewerespiresandturretsaboveherhead,andbeechtreesliningthestreets,sheddinggoldenleavesthatcollectedinpilesalongthepavement.Longrowsofblackbicycleswerechainedagainstthewroughtironrailings.Andabovetherailings,boxesofgeraniumsenlivenedtheredbrickcollegewallswithsplashesofpinkandwhite.
Marianaglancedatagroupofstudents,presumablyfirst-years,intentlystudyingthepostersattachedtorailingsthatwereadvertisingeventsforFreshers’Week.
Theylookedsoyoung,thesestudents,thesefreshers—likebabies.DidsheandSebastianeverlookthatyoung?Itseemedimpossible,somehow.Itwasharderstilltoimagineanythingbadeverhappeningtothoseinnocent,unblemishedfaces.Andyetshewonderedhowmanyofthemhadtragedywaitingintheirfuture.
Mariana’smindwentbacktothatpoorgirl,murderedbythemarsh—whoevershewas.Evenifshewasn’tZoe’sfriendTara,shewassomeone’sfriend,someone’sdaughter.Thatwasthehorrorofit.Weallsecretlyhopethattragedywillonlyeverhappentootherpeople.ButMarianaknew,soonerorlater,ithappenstoyou.
DeathwasnostrangertoMariana;ithadbeenhertravelingcompanionsinceshewasachild—keepingclosebehindher,hoveringjustoverhershoulder.Shesometimesfeltshehadbeencursed,asifbysomemalevolentgoddessinaGreekmyth,toloseeveryonesheeverloved.ItwascancerthatkilledhermotherwhenMarianawasjustababy.Andthen,yearslater,ahorrificcarcrashclaimedMariana’ssisterandherhusband,makingZoeanorphan.AndaheartattackcreptuponMariana’sfatherintheolivegrove,leavinghimdeadonabedofsticky,squashedolives.
Finally—andmostcatastrophically—therewasSebastian.
Theyhadsofewyearstogether,really.Aftergraduating,theymovedtoLondon,andMarianabeganthecircuitousjourneythatendedinherbecomingagrouptherapist,whileSebastianworkedintheCity.Buthehadastubbornentrepreneurialspiritandwantedtogointobusinessforhimself.SoMarianasuggestedhespeaktoherfatheraboutit.
Sheshouldhaveknownbetter,really—butshecherishedasecret,sentimentalhopethatherfathermighttakeSebastianunderhiswing,bringhimintothefamilybusiness;lethiminherit,beforepassingiton,oneday,totheirchildren.ThiswashowfarMariana’simaginationcarriedher—butsheknewbetterthantomentionanyofthistoherfather,orSebastian.Inanycase,theirfirstmeetingwasadisaster—SebastianflewtoAthensonaromanticmission,toaskpermissiontomarryMariana—andherfathertookaninstantdisliketohim.Farfromofferinghimemployment,heaccusedSebastianofbeingagolddigger.HetoldMarianahewoulddisinheritherthedayshemarriedSebastian.
Theironywasthat,intheend,Sebastiandidgointoshipping—butintheoppositeendofthemarkettoherfather.Sebastianturnedhisbackonthecommercialsector,insteadsettingupbusinessestohelptransportmuch-neededgoods—foodandotheressentials—tovulnerableandunderprivilegedcommunitiesaroundtheworld.Hewasinmanyways,Marianathought,themirrorimageofherfather.Andthiswasaconstantsourceofprideforher.
Whenthetroubledoldmaneventuallydied,hesurprisedthemallonceagain.Intheend,heleftMarianaeverything.Afortune.Sebastianwasastoundedthat,beingaswealthyashewas,herfatherlivedthewayhedid—“Imean,likeapauper.Hegotnoenjoymentoutofitatall.Whatwasthepointofit?”
Marianahadtothinkforamoment.“Security,”shesaid.“Hebelievedallthemoneywouldprotecthim,somehow.Ithink—hewasafraid.”
“Afraid…ofwhat?”
Forthis,Marianahadnoanswer.Sheshookherhead,ataloss.“I’mnotsureheknewhimself.”
Despitethisinheritance,sheandSebastianindulgedthemselveswithonlyoneextravagantpurchase:theyboughtthelittleyellowhouseatthefootofPrimroseHill,whichtheyhadfalleninlovewithatfirstsight.Therestofthemoneywasputaside—atSebastian’sinsistence—forthefuture,andfortheirchildren
Thisissueofchildrenwastheonlysorepointbetweenthem,abruiseSebastiancouldn’thelppressingoneverynowandthen,bringingitupafteronedrinktoomany,orduringararebroodymoment.Hedesperatelywantedchildren—aboyandagirl—tocompletethepictureofthefamilyhehadinhishead.AndwhileMarianaalsowantedkids,shewantedtowait.Shewantedtofinishhertrainingandestablishherpsychotherapypractice—whichmighttakeafewyears,butsowhat?Theyhadallthetimeintheworld,didn’tthey?
Excepttheydidn’t—andthiswasMariana’sonlyregret:thatshehadbeensoarrogant,sofoolish,astotakethefutureforgranted.
When,inherearlythirties,sheconsentedtostarttrying,shefounditdifficulttoconceive.Thissuddenandunexpectedstumblingblockmadeheranxious—whichherdoctorsaidwouldn’thelp.
Dr.Beckwasanoldermanwithafatherlyair,whichMarianafoundreassuring.Hesuggestedthat,beforeembarkingonfertilitytestingandpossibletreatment,MarianaandSebastiangoawayforaholiday,awayfromanykindofstress.
“Enjoyyourselves,relaxonabeachforacoupleofweeks,”Dr.Becksaidwithawink.“Seewhathappens.Alittlerelaxationcanoftenworkwonders.”
Sebastianwasn’tkeen—hehadalotofworklinedupanddidn’twanttoleaveLondon.Marianalaterdiscoveredhewasunderagreatdealofpressurefinancially,thatsummer,asseveralofhisbusinesseswerestruggling.Hewastooproudtocometoherformoney—he’dneveroncetakenapennyfromher.Anditbrokeherhearttofindout,afterhisdeath,thathehadbeencarryingaroundallthisunnecessaryworryaboutmoneyforthelastfewmonthsofhislife.Howcouldshenothavenoticed?Thetruthwas,shewasselfishlyconsumedwithherownworries,thatsummer,abouthavingachild.
AndsoshebulliedSebastianintotakingtwoweeksoff,inAugust,foratriptoGreece;tovisitMariana’sfamily’ssummerhome—acliff-tophouseontheislandofNaxos.
TheytookaplanetoAthens,andthen,fromtheport,theygottheferrytotheisland.Itwasanauspiciouscrossing,Marianathought—notacloudinthesky,andthewaterwascalmandglassyflat.
AttheNaxosharbor,theyhiredacar,anddrovealongthecoasttothehouse.IthadbelongedtoMariana’sfatherandnow,technically,toMarianaandSebastian—althoughtheyhadneverusedit.
Thehouseitselfwasdustyanddilapidated—butstunninglysituated,perchedonacliffoverlookingthedeepblueAegeanSea.Stepshadbeencarvedintotherock,goingdownthecliffface,leadingtothebeachbelow.Andthere,ontheshore,overmillionsofyears,infinitepiecesofpinkcoralhadbrokenupandmingledwithgrainsofsand—makingthebeachglowpinkagainsttheblueseaandsky.
Itwasidyllic,Marianathought—andmagical.Shecouldfeelherselfrelaxingalready,andfeltsecretlyhopefulthatNaxosmightperformthelittlemiraclethatwasbeingaskedofit.
Theyspentthefirstcoupleofdaysunwindingandlazingonthebeach.Sebastiansaidthatintheend,hewasgladtheyhadcome—hewasrelaxingforthefirsttimeinmonths.Hehadaschoolboyhabitofreadingoldthrillersonthebeach,andhelayinthesurf,happilyengrossedinTheABCMurdersbyAgathaChristie,whileMarianasleptunderanumbrellaonthesand.
Then,onthethirdday,Marianasuggesteddrivingupintothehills—toseethetemple.
Marianarememberedvisitingtheancienttempleasachild,wanderingtheruinandinvestingitwithallkindsofmagicinherimagination.ShewantedSebastiantoexperienceit.Sotheypackedapicnic,andsetoff.
Theytooktheold,windingmountainroad,whichgotnarrowerandnarrowerastheyclimbedhigherintothehills,eventuallydeterioratingintoadirttracklitteredwithgoatdroppings.
Andthere,attheverytop,onaplateau—wastheruinedtempleitself.
TheAncientGreektemplewasbuiltfromNaxianmarble,oncegleamingbutnowdirtywhiteandweather-beaten.Allthatstood,afterthreethousandyears,wasahandfulofbrokencolumnssilhouettedagainstabluesky.
ThetemplewasdedicatedtoDemeter,goddessoftheharvest—goddessoflife—andtoherdaughter,Persephone—goddessofdeath.Thetwogoddesseswereoftenworshippedtogether,twosidesofthesamecoin—motheranddaughter,lifeanddeath.InGreek,PersephonewasknownsimplyasKore,meaning“maiden.”
Itwasabeautifulspotforapicnic.Theylaidouttheblueblanketunderthedappledshadeofanolivetree,andunpackedthecontentsoftheircold-box—abottleofsauvignonblanc,awatermelon,andchunksofsaltyGreekcheese.Theyhadforgottentobringaknife—soSebastiansmashedthewatermelonagainstarocklikeaskull,breakingitintobits.Theyatethesweetflesh,spittingoutthebonyseeds.
Sebastiangaveheramessy,stickykiss.“Iloveyou,”hewhispered.“Foreverandever—”
“—andeverandever,”shesaid,kissinghimback.
Afterthepicnic,theywanderedtheruins.MarianawatchedSebastianclamberingupahead,likeanexcitedkid.Andasshewatchedhim,MarianasaidasilentprayertoDemeter,andtotheMaiden.SheprayedforSebastianandforherself—fortheirhappiness—andfortheirlove.
Andasshewhisperedthisprayer,acloudsuddenlysnakedinfrontofthesun—andforaninstant,Sebastian’sbodywasthrownintodarkness,silhouettedagainstthebluesky.Marianashivered,andshefeltafraidwithoutknowingwhy.
Themomentpassedasquicklyasitarose.Inasecond,thesuncameout,andMarianaforgotallaboutit.
Butsheremembereditlater,ofcourse.
Thenextmorning,Sebastiangotupatdawn.Heputonhisoldgreentrainers,andwhisperedtoMarianahewasgoingforarunonthebeach.Hekissedher,andleft.
Marianalayinbed,halfasleep,halfawake,consciousoftimepassing—listeningtothewindoutside.Whatbeganasabreezewaspickingupstrengthandspeed,tearingthroughtheolivebrancheswithakindofwail,rattlingthetreesagainstthewindows,likelongfingersimpatientlyrappingagainsttheglass.
Marianawonderedforamomenthowbigthewaveswere—andifSebastianhadgoneswimming,asheoftendidafterarun.Butshewasn’tworried.Hewassuchastrongswimmer,suchastrongman.Hewasindestructible,shethought.
Thewindgrewandgrew,whirlinginfromthesea.Butstill,hedidn’tcomehome.
Startingtoworry,buttryingnotto,Marianaleftthehouse.
Shemadeherwaydownthestepsinthecliffface,holdingtightlyontotherockasshedescended,forfearofbeinghurledoffbythegale.
Onthebeach,therewasnosignofSebastian.Thewindwaswhirlingupthepinksandandhurlingitatherface;shehadtoshieldhereyesasshesearched.Shecouldn’tseehiminthewatereither—allshesawweremassiveblackwaves,churninguptheseaallthewaytothehorizon.
Shecalledhisname:“Sebastian!Sebastian!Seb—”
Butthewindflungthewordsbackinherface.Shefeltherselfstartingtopanic.Shecouldn’tthink,notwiththatwindwhistlinginherears—and,behindit,anever-endingchorusofcicadas,likehyenasscreeching.
Andfainterstill,inthefardistance,wasthatthesoundoflaughter?
Thecold,mockinglaughofagoddess?
No,stop,stop—shehadtofocus,shehadtoconcentrate,shehadtofindhim.Wherewashe?Hecouldn’tpossiblyhavegoneswimming—notinthisweather.Heneverwouldhavebeensostupid—
Andthenshesawthem.
Hisshoes.
Hisoldgreentrainers,neatlyplacedtogetheronthesand…justbythewater’sedge.
Afterthat,everythingwasablur.Marianawadedintothewater,hysterical,howlinglikeaharpy—screaming,screaming…
Andthen…nothing.
Threedayslater,Sebastian’sbodywashedupalongthecoast.
11
Nearlyfourteenmonthshadpassedsincethen,sinceSebastian’sdeath.Butinmanyways,Marianawasstillthere,stilltrappedonthebeachinNaxos,andshewouldbeforever.
Shewasstuck,paralyzed—asDemeterhadoncebeen,whenHadeskidnappedherbeloveddaughter,Persephone,andtookhertotheUnderworldtobehisbride.Demeterbrokedown—overwhelmedbygrief.Sherefusedtomoveorbemoved.Shesimplysatandwept.Andallaroundher,thenaturalworldgrievedwithDemeter:summerturnedtowinter;dayturnedtonight.Theearthfellintomourning;or,moreaccurately,melancholia.
Marianarelatedtothis.Andnow,asshedrewcloserandclosertoSt.Christopher’s,shefoundherselfwalkingwithincreasingtrepidation,asthefamiliarstreetsmadeithardtoholdbackthememoriesfloodingintohermind—ghostsofSebastianwerewaitingoneverycorner.Shekeptherheadlow,notlookingup,likeasoldiertryingtopassunnoticedinenemyterritory.ShehadtopullherselftogetherifsheweretobeanyusetoZoe.
That’swhyshewashere—forZoe.GodknewMarianawouldratherneverseeCambridgeagain.Anditwasprovingharderthanshethought—butshe’ddoitforZoe.Zoewasallshehadleft.
MarianaturnedoffKing’sParade,ontotheunevencobbledstreetsheknewsowell.Shemadeherwayalongthecobbles,uptoanoldwoodengateattheendofthestreet.Shelookedupatit.
St.Christopher’sCollegegatewasatleasttwiceherheight,andsetinanancient,ivy-cladredbrickwall.Sherememberedthefirsttimesheeverapproachedthisgate—whenshecamefromGreeceforanadmissionsinterview,barelyseventeenyearsold,feelingsosmallandfraudulent,soscaredandalone.
Howfunny,tobefeelingexactlythesamewaynow,nearlytwentyyearslater.
Shepushedopenthegateandwentinside.
12
St.Christopher’sCollegewasthere,justassherememberedit.
Marianahadbeenafraidtoseeitagain—thebackdroptoherlovestory—butthankfully,thecollege’sbeautycametoherrescue.Andherheartdidn’tbreak—itsang.
St.Christopher’swasamongtheoldestandtheprettiestoftheCambridgecolleges.Itwasmadeupofseveralcourtyardsandgardensleadingdowntotheriver,andbuiltinacombinationofarchitecturalstyles—Gothic,neoclassical,Renaissance—asthecollegehadbeenrebuiltandexpandedoverthecenturies.Itwasahaphazard,organicgrowth—and,Marianathought,allthelovelierforit.
Shewasstandingbytheporter’slodgeinMainCourt—thefirstandlargestcourtyard.Animmaculategreenlawnspreadoutinfrontofher,uptothedark-greenwisteria-coveredwallattheoppositeendofthecourtyard.Thegreenery,pepperedbysplashesofwhiteclimbingroses,hungoverthebrickslikeanelaboratetapestry,allthewaytothewallsofthechapel.There,thestained-glasswindowsgleamedgreenandblueandredinthesunlight,andfrominside,thecollegechoircouldbeheardpracticing,theirvoicessoaringinharmony.
Awhisperingvoice—Sebastian’svoice,perhaps?—toldMarianashewassafehere.Shecouldrest,andfindthepeaceshecraved.
Herbodyrelaxed,almostwithasigh.Shefeltasuddenandunfamiliarsenseofcontentment:theageofthesewalls,thesecolumnsandarches,untouchedbytimeorchange,madehermomentarilyabletoputhergriefintosomekindofperspective.ShesawthatthismagicalplacedidnotbelongtoherorSebastian;itwasnottheirs—itbelongedtoitself.Andtheirstorywasonlyoneinamyriadthathadtakenplacehere,nomoreimportantthananyother.
Shelookedaround,smiling,takinginthehiveofactivityaroundher.Althoughtermhadrecentlybegun,last-minutepreparationswereongoing,andtherewasapalpablesenseofanticipation,likeinatheaterjustbeforeaperformance.Agardenerwasmowingthegrassontheothersideofthelawn.Acollegeporter,inablacksuitandbowlerhat,andalargegreenapron,wasreachingupintothearchwaysandnooksandcrannieshighabove,usingalongpolewithafeatherdusterattheendofit,whiskingawaycobwebs.Severalotherporterswerelininguplongwoodenbenchesonthelawn,presumablyformatriculationphotographs.
Marianawatchedanervous-lookingteenager,obviouslyafirst-yearstudent,makinghiswaythroughthecourtyard,accompaniedbyapairofbickeringparentsclutchingsuitcases.Shesmiledfondly.
Andthen,acrossthecourtyard,shesawsomethingelse—adarkclusterofuniformedpoliceofficers.
AndMariana’ssmileslowlyfaded.
Thepoliceofficerswereemergingfromthedean’soffice,accompaniedbythedean.EvenfromthisdistanceMarianacouldseethedeanwasred-facedandflustered.
Thiscouldonlymeanonething.Theworsthadhappened.Thepolicewerehere—andsoZoewasright:Tarawasdead,anditwasherbodythathadbeenfoundbythemarsh.
MariananeededtofindZoe.Now.Sheturnedandhurriedtowardthenextcourtyard.
Distractedbyherthoughts,shedidn’thearthemancallinghernameuntilhesaidittwice.
“Mariana?Mariana!”
Sheturnedaround.Amanwaswavingather.Shesquintedathim,unclearwhohewas.Butheseemedtoknowher.
“Mariana,”hesaidagain,thistimewithmoreconfidence.“Waitthere.”
Marianastopped.Shewaitedasthemancrossedthecobblestowardher,smilingbroadly.
Ofcourse,shethought.It’sJulian.
ItwashissmileMarianarecognized,ratherafamoussmilethesedays.
JulianAshcroftandMarianahadstudiedpsychotherapytogetherinLondon.Shehadn’tseenhiminyears,exceptontelevision—hewasafrequenttalkingheadonnewsshowsortrue-crimedocumentaries.Hespecializedinforensicpsychology—havingwrittenabestsellingbookaboutBritishserialkillersandtheirmothers.Heseemedtotakeaprurientdelightinmadnessanddeath,whichMarianafoundslightlydistasteful.
Shestudiedhimasheapproached.Julianwasinhislatethirtiesnow,andaboutmediumheight,wearingasmartblueblazer,crispwhiteshirt,andnavy-bluejeans.Hishairwasartfullymessy,andhehadstrikinglight-blueeyes—andaperfectwhitesmile,whichhefrequentlyemployed.Therewassomethingslightlyartificialabouthim,Marianathought,whichprobablymadehimjustrightfortelevision.
“Hello,Julian.”
“Mariana,”hesaidashereachedher.“Whatasurprise.Ithoughtitwasyou.Whatareyoudoinghere?Notwiththepolice,areyou?”
“No,no.Mynieceisastudenthere.”
“Oh—Isee.Damn.Ithoughtwemightbeworkingtogether.”Julianflashedasmileather.Heloweredhisvoice,confidentially.“Theycalledmein,togivethemahand.”
Marianaguessedwhathewastalkingabout,butshefeltasenseofdreadallthesame.Shedidn’twantitconfirmed,buthadnochoice.
“It’sTaraHampton.Isn’tit?”
Juliangaveheraslightlookofsurprise,andnodded.“That’sright.Shewasidentifiedjustnow.Howdidyouknow?”
Marianashrugged.“She’sbeenmissingforadayorso.Myniecetoldme.”
Sherealizedhereyeshadfilledwithtears,andshequicklywipedthemaway.ShefixedhergazeonJulian.“Anyleadsyet?”
“No.”Julianshookhishead.“Notyet.Soon,hopefully.Thesooner,thebetter,quitefrankly.Itwashorriblyviolent.”
“Doyouthinksheknewhim?”
Juliannodded.“Itseemslikely.Weusuallyreservethatlevelofangerforournearestanddearest,don’tyouthink?”
“Possibly.”Marianamulleditover.
“Tentooneit’sherboyfriend.”
“Idon’tthinkshehadaboyfriend.”
Juliancheckedhiswatch.“I’vegottomeetthechiefinspectornow,butyouknow,I’dbehappytodiscussthisfurther…perhapsoveradrink?”Hesmiled.“Goodtoseeyou,Mariana.It’sbeenyears.Weshouldcatchup—”
ButMarianawasalreadywalkingaway.“Sorry,Julian—Ihavetofindmyniece.”
13
Zoe’sroomwasinErosCourt—oneofthesmallercourtyards,consistingofstudentaccommodationsbuiltaroundarectangularlawn.
InthecenterofthelawnstoodadiscoloredstatueofErosclutchingabowandarrow.Centuriesofrainandrusthadagedhimconsiderably,turninghimfromacherubintoasmall,oldgreenman.
Allthewayaroundthecourtyard,variousstaircasesledofftothestudentrooms.Atallgraystoneturretstoodineachcorner.AsMarianaapproachedoneoftheturrets,sheglancedupatthethird-floorwindowandsawZoesittingthere.
Zoehadn’tseenher,andMarianastoodthere,watchingherforamoment.Thearchedwindowswerelatticed,withdiamond-shapedpanesofglasssetinlead;thesmallpanesbrokeupZoe’simage,fracturingitintoajigsawofdiamondshapes—and,forasecond,Marianaassembledanotherimagefromthejigsaw:notatwenty-year-oldwomanbutagirlofsix,sillyandsweet,red-faced,withpigtails.
Marianafeltsuchconcernandaffectionforthatlittlegirl.PoorlittleZoe—shehadbeenthroughsomuch;Marianadreadedhavingtohurtherfurtherandbreakthisterriblenews.Sheshookherhead,stoppedprocrastinating,andhurriedintotheturret.
Sheclimbedtheold,circular,warpedwoodenstaircaseuptoZoe’sroom.Thedoorwasajar,soshewentinside.
Itwasacozylittleroom—alittlemessyatpresent,withclothesstrewnonthearmchairsanddirtycupsinthesink.Therewasawritingdesk,asmallfireplace,andacushionedseatinthebaywindow,whereZoewassitting,surroundedbybooks.
WhenshesawMariana,sheletoutalittlecry.SheleapedupandthrewherselfintoMariana’sarms.
“Youcame.Ididn’tthinkyou’dcome.”
“OfcourseIcame.”
Marianatriedtotakeastepbackward,butZoewouldn’tletgo,andMarianahadnochoicebuttosubmittothehug.Shefeltitswarmth,itsaffection.Itwassounfamiliartobetouchedlikethis.SherealizedhowhappyshewastoseeZoe.Shefeltquiteemotional,suddenly.
AfterSebastian,ZoehadalwaysbeenMariana’sfavoritehumanbeing.ShewenttoboardingschoolinEngland,andsoMarianaandSebastianhadunofficiallyadoptedher—Zoehadabedroominthelittleyellowhouse,andwouldstayoverwiththemoverhalf-termandduringholidays.ShewaseducatedinEnglandbecauseherfatherhadbeenEnglish;Zoe,infact,wasonlyaquarterGreek.Shehadherfather’sfaircoloringandhisblueeyes—soitdidn’tparticularlyshow,thisquarterGreekness;Marianausedtowonderhowandifitwouldonedaymanifestitself—that’sifithadn’tbeensmotheredbythegreatwetblanketofanEnglishprivateschooleducation.
ZoeeventuallyreleasedMarianafromthehug.And,gentlyasshecould,MarianabrokethenewsaboutTara’sbodybeingidentified.
Zoestaredather.Tearsstreameddownhercheeksasshetookinthenews.Marianapulledherbackintoherarms.Zoeclungtoherasshewept.
“It’sokay,”Marianawhispered.“Everything’sgoingtobeokay.”
SheslowlyguidedZoetothebedandsatherdown.WhenZoemanagedtostopsobbing,Marianamadethemsometea.Shewashedoutacoupleofmugsinthesmallsink,andboiledthekettle.
Allthetime,Zoesatuprightinbed,herkneesupagainstherchest,staringintospace,notbotheringtowipeawaythetearsthatrolleddownhercheeks.Shewasclutchingherancientsofttoy—abatteredblack-and-white-stripedzebra.Zebrahadoneeyemissingandwasfallingapartattheseams—havingbeenZoe’scompanionsinceshewasababy,andsufferingmuchabuseandreceivingmuchlove.Zoeheldontohimnow,squeezinghimtight,rockingbackandforth.
Marianaplacedthesteamingmugofsweetteaontheclutteredcoffeetable.ShewatchedZoewithconcern.ThetruthwasZoehadsufferedbadlyfromdepressionasateenager.Shehadfrequentfitsofcrying,punctuatedbylow,flat,emotionlessmoods,toodepressedeventocry—whichMarianafoundhardertodealwiththanthetears.ItwasdifficulttoreachZoeduringthoseyears,althoughherproblemswerehardlysurprising,giventhetraumaticlossofherparentsatsuchayoungage.
Zoehadbeenstayingwiththemduringthathalf-term,oneApril,whentheyreceivedthephonecallthatwouldchangeherlifeforever.Sebastianansweredthephone,andhadtotellZoethatherparents,Mariana’ssisterandherhusband,hadbeenkilledinacarcrash.Zoebrokedown,andSebastianreachedoutandheldherclose.Fromthenon,heandMarianahaddotedonZoe,probablyalittletoomuch—buthavinglostherownmother,MarianafeltdeterminedtoprovideZoewitheverythingsheherselfhadlongedforatayoungage:maternallove,warmth,affection.Itwentbothways,ofcourse—shefeltZoegavebackasmuchloveasshereceived.
Eventually,totheirrelief,bitbybit,Zoemanagedtoturnthecorneronhergrief—asshegrewolder,shesufferedfromdepressionless;shewasabletoapplyherselfatschool,finishingheradolescenceinmuchbettershapethanshehadstartedit.ButMarianaandSebastianbothhadbeenworriedhowZoewouldcopewiththesocialpressuresofuniversity—sowhenshemadeaclosefriendinTara,theywererelieved.Andlateron,afterSebastiandied,MarianawasgratefulZoehadabestfriendtoleanon.Marianadidn’thaveone;shehadjustlosthim.
Butnow,thisnewlossofTara—thehorrificlossofagoodfriend—howwoulditaffectZoe?Thatremainedtobeseen.
“Zoe,here,drinksometea.It’sfortheshock.”
Noresponse.
“Zoe?”
Zoesuddenlyseemedtohearher.ShelookedupatMarianawithglassyeyes,filledwithtears.
“It’smyfault,”shewhispered.“It’sallmyfaultshe’sdead.”
“Don’tsaythat.It’snottrue—”
“Itistrue.Listentome.Youdon’tunderstand.”
“Understandwhat?”
Marianasatontheedgeofthebed,andwaitedforZoetogoon.
“It’smyfault,Mariana.Ishouldhavedonesomething—thatnight—afterIsawTara—Ishouldhavetoldsomeone—Ishouldhavephonedthepolice.Thenshemightstillbealive…”
“Thepolice?Why?”
Zoedidn’treply.Marianafrowned.
“WhatdidTarasaytoyou?Yousaid—shesoundedcrazy?”
Zoe’seyeswelledupwithtears.Sherockedbackandforthinmorosesilence.Marianaknewthebestapproachwassimplytobepresent,andpatient,andletZoeunburdenherselfinherowntime.Buttherewasnotime.Shespokeinalowvoice,reassuringbutfirm.
“Whatdidshesaytoyou,Zoe?”
“Ishouldn’thavetoldyou.Taramademeswearnottotellanyone.”
“Iunderstand—youdon’twanttobetrayherconfidence.ButI’mafraidit’stoolateforthat.”
Zoestaredather.AsMarianalookedintoherface,hercheeksflushedandeyeswide,shesawtheeyesofachild:alittlegirl,scared,burstingwithasecretshedidn’twanttokeepbutwastooafraidtotell.
Then,eventually,Zoegavein:
“Thenightbeforelast,Taracameandfoundmeinmyroom.Shewasarealmess.Shewashighonsomething,Idon’tknowwhat.Shewasreallyupset…Andshesaid—shewasafraid…”
“Afraid?Ofwhat?”
“Shesaid—someonewasgoingtokillher.”
MarianastaredatZoeforasecond.“Goon.”
“Shemademepromisenottotellanyone—shesaidifIsaidanything,andhefoundout,he’dkillher.”
“‘He’?Whowasshetalkingabout?Didshesaywhothreatenedtokillher?”
Zoenodded,butdidn’tanswer.
Marianarepeatedthequestion.“Whowasit,Zoe?”
Zoeshookherhead,unsure.“Shesoundedsocrazy—”
“Itdoesn’tmatter,justtellme.”
“Shesaid—itwasoneofthetutorshere.Aprofessor.”
Marianablinked,takenaback.“Here,atSt.Christopher’s?”
Zoenodded.“Yes.”
“Isee.What’shisname?”
Zoepaused.Shespokeinalowvoice.
“EdwardFosca.”
14
Justunderanhourlater,ZoewasrepeatingherstorytoChiefInspectorSadhuSangha.
Theinspectorhadcommandeeredthedean’soffice.ItwasaspaciousroomoverlookingMainCourt.Ononewall,therewasabeautifullycarvedmahoganybookcaseandaleather-boundcollectionofbooks.Theotherwallswerecoveredwithportraitsofpastdeans—watchingthepoliceofficerswithundisguisedsuspicion.
ChiefInspectorSanghasatbehindthelargedesk.Heopenedtheflaskhecarriedwithhim,andpouredhimselfacupoftea.Hewasinhisearlyfifties,withdarkeyesandashort-croppedsalt-and-pepperbeard,smartlydressedinagrayblazerandtie.AshewasaSikh,hewaswearingaturban,ineye-catchingroyalblue.Hewasacommanding,powerfulpresence,buthadanervousenergyabouthim—aleanandhungrylook—forevertappinghisfootordrumminghisfingers.
ToMarianaheseemedfaintlyirritable.Hegavehertheimpressionthathewasn’tpayingfullattentiontowhatZoewassaying.Hedidn’tseemparticularlyinterested.He’snottakingherseriously,thoughtMariana.
Butshewaswrong.Hewastakingherseriously.Heputdownhistea,andfixedhislargedarkeyesonZoe.
“Andwhatdidyouthink—whenshetoldyouthis?”hesaid.“Didyoubelieveher?”
“Idon’tknow…”Zoesaid.“Shewasamess,youknow,shewashigh.Butshewasalwayshigh,so…”Zoeshrugged,andthoughtaboutitforasecond.“Imean,itsoundedsoweird…”
“DidshesaywhyProfessorFoscahadthreatenedtokillher?”
Zoelookedalittleuncomfortable.“Shesaidtheyweresleepingtogether.Andtheyhadafightorsomething…andshethreatenedtotellthecollegeandgethimfired.Andhesaid,ifshedid…”
“He’dkillher?”
Zoenodded.Shelookedrelievedtohavegotitoffherchest.“That’sright.”
Theinspectorseemedtomullthisoverforamoment.Thenheabruptlystoodup.
“I’mgoingtotalktoProfessorFosca.Waithere,willyou?And,Zoe—we’llneedyoutomakeastatement.”
Helefttheroom,andinhisabsence,Zoerepeatedherstorytoajuniorofficer,whowroteitdown.Marianawaiteduneasily,wonderingwhatwasgoingon.
Alonghourpassed.AndthenInspectorSanghareturned.Hesatdownagain.
“ProfessorFoscawasmostcooperative,”hesaid.“I’vetakenastatementfromhim—andhesaysthat,atthetimeofTara’sdeath—attenP.M.—hewasfinishingaclassinhisrooms.ItwentfromeightuntiltenP.M.,andwasattendedbysixstudents.Hegavemetheirnames.We’vespokentotwoofthemsofar,andtheybothcorroboratehisstory.”TheinspectorgaveZoeathoughtfullook.“Asaresult,Iamnotchargingtheprofessorwithanycrime,andIfeelperfectlysatisfiedthat—despitewhatTaramayhavesaid—heisnotresponsibleforherdeath.”
“Isee,”saidZoeinawhisper.
Zoekepthergazedown,staringatherlap.Marianathoughtshelookedworried.
“I’mwonderingwhatyoucantellmeaboutConradEllis?”saidtheinspector.“He’snotastudenthere—helivesintown,Ibelieve.HewasTara’sboyfriend?”
Zoeshookherhead.“Hewasn’therboyfriend.Theyhungout,that’sall.”
“Isee.”Theinspectorconsultedhisnotes.“Itseemshehastwopriorconvictions—fordrugdealing,andforaggravatedassault…”HeglancedatZoe.“Andhisneighborsheardthemhavingviolentargumentsonseveraloccasions.”
Zoeshrugged.“He’samess,likeshewas…but—he’dneverhurther,ifthat’swhatyoumean.He’snotlikethat.He’saniceguy.”
“Hmm.Hesoundslovely.”Theinspectordidn’tlookconvinced.Hedrainedhistea,thenscrewedthelidbackontotheflask.
Caseclosed,Marianathought.
“Youknow,Inspector,”shesaid,indignantonZoe’sbehalf,“Idothinkyououghttolistentoher.”
“Excuseme?”InspectorSanghablinked.HelookedsurprisedtohearMarianaspeak.“Remindme,”hesaid,“whoareyouagain?”
“I’mZoe’saunt,andguardian.And—ifnecessary—heradvocate.”
InspectorSanghaseemedfaintlyamusedbythis.“Yournieceseemsperfectlycapableofbeingherownadvocate,asfarasIcantell.”
“Well,Zoeisagoodjudgeofcharacter.Shealwayshasbeen.IfsheknowsConrad—andthinksheisinnocent—youshouldtakeherseriously.”
Theinspector’ssmilefaded.“WhenIinterviewhim,I’llformmyownopinion—ifyoudon’tmind.Justsowe’reclear,I’minchargehere,andIdon’trespondwelltobeingtoldwhattodo—”
“I’mnottellingyouwhatto—”
“Ortobeinginterrupted.SoIwouldstronglysuggestthatyoukeepoutofmyway—andoutofmyinvestigation.Understood?”
Marianawasabouttoargueback—butrestrainedherself.Sheforcedasmile.
“Perfectly,”shesaid.
15
Afterleavingthedean’soffice,ZoeandMarianawalkedthroughthecolonnadeattheendofthecourtyard—aseriesoftwelvemarblecolumns,whichsupportedthelibraryabove.Thecolumnswereveryoldanddiscolored,withcracksrunningthroughthemlikeveins.Theycastlongshadowsonthefloor,plungingthewomenintooccasionaldarknessastheywanderedbetweenthem.
MarianaputherarmaroundZoe.“Darling,areyouallright?”shesaid.
Zoeshrugged.“I—Idon’tknow.”
“Doyouthink,perhaps,Tarawaslyingtoyou?”
Zoelookedpained.“Idon’tknow.I—”
Zoesuddenlyfrozeandstoppedwalking.Fromnowhere,steppingoutfrombehindacolumn—amanhadappearedinfrontofthem.
Hestoodthere,blockingtheirpath.Hestaredather.
“Hello,Zoe.”
“ProfessorFosca,”Zoesaid,withaslightintakeofbreath.
“Howareyou?Areyouokay?Ican’tbelievethishashappened.I’minshock.”
HehadanAmericanaccent,Mariananoticed,withasoft,liltingcadencetohisspeech—ever-so-slightlyAnglicizedaroundtheedges.
“Youpoorthing,”hesaid.“I’msosorry,Zoe.Youmustbeabsolutelydevastated—”
Hespokeinanimpassionedtone,andseemedgenuinelydistressed.Hereachedouttoher—andZoemadeaslight,involuntarymovementbackward.Mariananoticedit,andsodidtheprofessor.HegaveZoeanawkwardlook.
“Listen,”hesaid.“I’lltellyouexactlywhatItoldtheinspector.It’simportantyouhearthisfromme—rightnow.”
FoscaignoredMariana,addressinghimselfsolelytoZoe.AndMarianastudiedhimashespoke.Hewasyoungerthanshe’dexpected,andconsiderablymorehandsome.Hewasinhisearlyforties,tall,withanathleticbuild.Hehadstrongcheekbonesandstrikingdarkeyes.Everythingabouthimwasdark—hisblackeyes,hisbeard,hisclothes.Hislongblackhairwastiedupinamessyknotatthebackofhishead.Andhewaswearingablackacademicgown,anuntuckedshirt,andaloosetie.Therewassomethingcharismatic,evenByronic,aboutthewholeeffect.
“Thetruthis,”hesaid,“Iprobablyhandleditbadly.I’msureyoucanvouchforthis,Zoe—butTarawasbarelycoping,academically.Infactshewasfailingabysmally,despitemyrepeatedeffortstogethertoimproveherattendancerecordandcompletethecoursework.Andsheleftmewithnochoice.Ihadaveryfrankchatwithher.IsaidthatIdidn’tknowifdrugswereinvolved,orifitwasrelationshipproblems,butshehadn’tdoneenoughtoprogressthisyear.Itoldhershehadtoresittheentiretyoflastyear.Itwaseitherthat,orsendherdown.”
Hegaveawearyshakeofthehead.“AndwhenItoldTarathis,shebecamequitehysterical.Shesaidherfatherwouldkillher.Shebeggedmetochangemymind.Isaiditwasoutofthequestion.Andthenherattitudechanged.Shebecamequiteaggressive.Shethreatenedme.Shesaidshewouldruinmycareerandgetmefired.”Hesighed.“Itseemsthisiswhatsheattempted.Everythingshesaidtoyou—thesesexualallegations—it’sanobviousattempttodamagemyreputation.”
Heloweredhisvoice.“Iwouldneverhavesexwithanyofmystudents—itwouldbethemostgrossbetrayaloftrust,andanabuseofpower.Asyouknow,IwasextremelyfondofTara.That’swhyhearingshemadethisaccusationissohurtful.”
Despiteherself,MarianafoundFoscaentirelyconvincing.Therewasnothingremotelyinhismannertosuggesthewaslying.Everythinghesaidhadtheringoftruth.Tarahadoftenspokenaboutherfatherinfearfulterms,andZoehadreported,fromhervisittotheirestateinScotland,thatTara’sfatherhadbeenastricthost—evendraconian.MarianacouldwellimaginehisreactiontoTarafailingtheyear.ShecouldalsoimaginethattheprospectoftellinghimmightmakeTarahysterical—anddesperate.
MarianaglancedatZoetoseehowshewastakingit.Itwashardtotell.Zoewasclearlytense,andstaringatthestonefloorwithalookofembarrassment.
“Ihopethatclearsitup,”Foscasaid.“What’simportantnowiswehelpthepolicecatchwhoeverdidthis.IhavesuggestedtheyinvestigateConradEllis,thatmanTarawasinvolvedwith.Byallaccounts,he’sanastypieceofwork.”
Zoedidn’treply.Foscastaredather.
“Zoe?Areweokay?Godknowswehaveenoughtodealwithrightnow—withoutyoususpectingmeofsomethinglikethis.”
Zoelookedupandstaredathim.Sheslowlynodded.
“We’refine,”shesaid.
“Good.”Buthedidn’tlookentirelysatisfied.“Ihavetogo.I’llseeyoulater.Lookafteryourself,okay?”
FoscaglancedatMarianaforthefirsttime,acknowledgingherwithabriefnod.Thenheturnedandwalkedaway,vanishingbehindacolumn.
Therewasapause.ZoeturnedtoMariana.Shelookedapprehensive.
“Well?”shesaid,withaslightsigh.“Whatnow?”
Marianathoughtforasecond.“I’mgoingtotalktoConrad.”
“Buthow?YouheardtheInspector.”
Marianadidn’treply.ShecaughtsightofJulianAshcroftleavingthedean’soffice.Shewatchedhimwalkacrossthecourtyard.
Shenoddedtoherself.“Ihaveanidea,”shesaid.
16
Laterthatafternoon,MarianamanagedtoseeConradEllisatthepolicestation.
“Hello,Conrad,”shesaid.“I’mMariana.”
ConradhadbeenarrestedimmediatelyfollowinghisinterviewwithChiefInspectorSangha—thepolicewereconfidenthewastheirman,despitealackofevidence,circumstantialorotherwise.
Tarawaslastseenaliveateighto’clockbytheheadporter,Mr.Morris,whosawherleavecollegebythemaingate.AndConradsaidhewaswaitingforTaraathisflat,butsheneverturnedup—althoughtherewasonlyConrad’swordforthis;hehadnoalibifortheentireevening.
Nomurderweaponwasdiscoveredathisflat,despiteathoroughsearch.Andhisclothesandotherbelongingsweretakenawayforforensictesting,inthehopetheywouldprovidesomethingtolinkConradtothemurder.
ToMariana’ssurprise,Julianreadilyagreedtohelpherseehim.
“Icangetyouinonmypass,”Juliansaid.“Ineedtodothepsychevaluationanyway,andyoucanobserve,ifyouwant.”Thenhewinkedather.“AslongasSanghadoesn’tcatchus.”
“Thanks.Ioweyouone.”
Julianseemedtoenjoythesubterfuge.Theyenteredthepolicestation,andhewinkedatherasherequestedConradEllisbebroughtupfromthecells.
Afewminuteslater,theyweresittingwithConradintheinterviewroom.Itwasacoldroom,windowless,airless.Itwasunpleasanttobein—butpresumablythatwasthepoint.
“Conrad,I’mapsychotherapist,”saidMariana.“I’malsoZoe’saunt.YouknowZoe,don’tyou?AtSt.Christopher’s?”
Conradlookedconfusedforasecond;thentherewasadimlightinhiseyesandhenoddedabsently.“Zoe—Tara’smate?”
“That’sright.Shewantsyoutoknowhowsorrysheis—aboutTara.”
“She’sallright,Zoe…Ilikeher.She’snotliketheothers.”
“Theothers?”
“Tara’smates.”Conradpulledaface.“Icallthemthewitches.”
“Really?Youdon’tlikeherfriends?”
“It’smetheydon’tlike.”
“Whyisthat?”
Conradshrugged.Blank,expressionless.Marianahadbeenhopingtogetsomekindofemotionalresponsefromhim,somethingthatwouldhelpherreadhimbetter—butnonecame.ShewasremindedofherpatientHenry.Hehadthatsamecloudedlook,fromyearsofrelentlessalcoholanddrugabuse.
Conrad’sappearancewentagainsthim—thatwaspartoftheproblem.Hewaslumbering,huge,heavilytattooed.AndyetZoewasright;therewasanicenesstohim,agentleness.Whenhespoke,hisspeechwasslowandconfused;hedidn’tseemquiteclearaboutwhatwashappeningtohim.
“Idon’tunderstand—whydotheythinkIhurther?Ididn’thurther.Ilove—lovedher.”
MarianaglancedatJuliantoseehisreaction.Hedidn’tlookremotelymoved.HeproceededtoaskConradallkindsofintrusivequestionsabouthislifeandhisupbringing—thelongeritwenton,themoretorturoustheinterviewbecame,theblackerthingslookedforConrad.
AndallthemoreMarianafelthewasinnocent.Hewasn’tlying;thismanwasheartbroken.Atonepoint,exhaustedbyJulian’squestioning,hebrokedown,heldhisheadinhishands—andquietlywept.
Attheendoftheinterview,Marianaspokeagain.
“DoyouknowProfessorFosca?”sheasked.“Tara’stutor?”
“Yeah.”
“Andhowdidyouknowhim?ThroughTara?”
Henodded.“Iscoredforhimafewtimes.”
Marianablinked.SheglancedatJulian.“Youmeandrugs?”
“Whatkind?”askedJulian.
Heshrugged.“Dependswhathewanted.”
“Soyousawhimregularly?ProfessorFosca?”
Anothershrug.“Oftenenough.”
“WhatdidyoumakeofhisrelationshipwithTara?Diditseeminanywaystrangetoyou?”
“Well,”Conradsaidwithashrug,“Imean,hefanciedher,didn’the?”
MarianaexchangedaglancewithJulian.
“Didhe?”
Marianawasgoingtopresshimfurther,butJulianabruptlyendedtheinterview.Hesaidhehadenoughtomakehisreport.
“Ihopeyoufoundthatinformative,”saidJulianastheyleftthestation.“Quiteaperformance,don’tyouthink?”
Marianalookedathimwithastonishment.“Hedidn’tfakethat.He’snotcapableoffakingit.”
“Trustme,Mariana,thetearsareallanact.Orelseit’sself-pity.I’veseenitallbefore.Whenyou’vebeendoingthisaslongasIhave,yourealizeeverycaseisdepressinglysimilar.”
Shelookedathim.“Youdon’tthinkit’sconcerning—thathesoldProfessorFoscadrugs?”
Juliandismisseditwithashrug.“Buyingalittleweedeverynowandthendoesn’tmakehimamurderer.”
“AndwhataboutConradsayingFoscafanciedher?”
“Whatifhedid?Byallaccounts,shewasgorgeous.Youknewher,didn’tyou?Whatwasshedoingwiththatmoron?”
Marianashookherheadsadly.“IimagineConradwassimplyameanstoanend.”
“Drugs?”
Marianasighedandnodded.
Julianglancedather.
“Comeon.I’lldriveyouback—unlessyoufancyadrink?”
“Ican’t,Ihavetogetbacktocollege.They’reholdingaspecialserviceforTaraatsix.”
“Well,oneevening,Ihope?”Hewinked.“Youoweme,remember?Tomorrow?”
“Iwon’tbehere,I’mafraid—I’mleavingtomorrow.”
“Okay,we’llworksomethingout.IcanhuntyoudowninLondonifnecessary.”
Julianlaughed—butnot,Mariananoticed,withhiseyes.Theyremainedcold,hard,unkind.TherewassomethingaboutthewayhelookedatherthatmadeMarianafeeldistinctlyuncomfortable.
ShewasratherrelievedwhentheygotbacktoSt.Christopher’s,andshecouldmakeherescape.
17
Atsixo’clock,aspecialserviceforTarawasheldinthechapel.
Thecollegechapelhadbeenconstructedin1612fromstoneandtimber.Therewasanebonymarblefloor;stained-glasswindowsinvibrantbluesandredsandgreens,illustratingincidentsfromthelifeofSt.Christopher;andahighmoldedceilingdecoratedwithheraldicshieldsandLatinmottospaintedingold.
Thepewswerepackedwithfellowsandstudents.MarianaandZoesatnearthefront.Tara’sparentsweresittingwiththedeanandthemaster.
Tara’sparents,LordandLadyHampton,hadflowndownfromScotlandtoidentifythebody.Marianaimaginedhowtheirmindsmusthavetorturedthemallthewayfromtheirremotecountryestate;thelongdrivetoEdinburghAirport,thentheflighttoStansted,givingthemtimetothink—hopeandfearandworry—beforeafinaltriptothemortuaryinCambridgecruellyresolvedtheirsuspense:reunitingthemwiththeirdaughter—andshowingthemwhathadhappenedtoher.
LordandLadyHamptonsatrigidly;theirfaceswerewhite,contorted—frozen.Marianawatchedthemwithfascination—sherememberedthatfeeling:likebeingplungedintoafreezer,icycold,numbwithshock.Itdidn’tlastlong—anditwasablessedstatecomparedwithwhatcamenext,whenthefrostmeltedandtheshockworeoff,andtheybegantoexperiencetheenormityoftheirloss.
MarianasawProfessorFoscaappearinthechapel.Hewalkeddowntheaisle,followedbyagroupofsixdistinctiveyoungwomen—distinctivebecausetheywereallextremelybeautifulandbecausetheywerealldressedinlongwhitedresses.Theywalkedwithanairofself-assurance,andalsoself-consciousness,awaretheywerebeingwatched.Theotherstudentsstaredastheypassed.
WeretheseTara’sfriends,Marianawondered,whoConraddislikedsomuch?The“witches”?
Asombersilencefelluponthemournersastheservicebegan.Accompaniedbythepipeorgan,aprocessionofchoirboys,wearingredcassockswithwhitelaceruffsaroundtheirnecks,sangaLatinhymnbycandlelight,theirangelicvoicesspiralingintothedark.
Thiswasnotafuneral;theactualburialwouldtakeplaceinScotland.Therewasnobodyheretomourn.Marianathoughtofthatpoorbrokengirllyingaloneinthemorgue.
Andshecouldn’thelpbutrememberhowherloverhadbeenreturnedtoher,onaconcreteslabinthehospitalinNaxos.Sebastian’sbodywasstillwetwhenshesawhim,drippingwaterontothefloor,withsandinhishairandeyes.Therewereholesinhisskin,smallchunksoffleshbittenoffbyfish.Andoneofhisfingertipswasmissing,claimedbythesea.
AssoonasMarianasawthislifeless,waxycorpse,sheknewatonceitwasn’tSebastian.Itwasjustashell.Sebastianwasgone—butwhere?
Inthedaysafterhisdeath,Marianawasnumb.Sheremainedinaprolongedstateofshock,unabletoacceptwhathadhappened—orbelieveit.Itseemedimpossiblethatshewouldneverseehimagain,neverhearhisvoice,neverfeelhistouch.
Whereishe?shekeptthinking.Where’shegone?
Andthen,asrealitybegantosinkin,shehadakindofdelayedbreakdown—and,likeadambreaking,allhertearscamerushingforth,awaterfallofgrief,washingawayherlifeandwhoshethoughtshewas.
Andthen—cametheanger.
Aburningrage,ablindfury—whichthreatenedtoconsumeherandanyonenearher.Forthefirsttimeinherlife,Marianawantedtocauseactualphysicalpain—shewantedtolashoutandhurtsomeone,herselfmostly.
Sheblamedherself—ofcourseshedid.She’dinsistedtheygotoNaxos;ifthey’dstayedinLondon,asSebastianhadwanted,hewouldstillbealive.
AndsheblamedSebastiantoo.Howdarehebesoreckless;howdarehegooutswimminginthatweather,besocarelesswithhislife—andwithhers?
Mariana’sdayswerebad;hernightswereworse.Atfirst,combiningenoughalcoholandsleepingpillsboughtherakindoftemporary,medicatedrefuge;albeitwithrecurringnightmaresfilledwithdisasterslikesinkingships,traincrashes,andfloods.She’ddreamofendlessjourneys—expeditionsthroughdesolatearcticlandscapes,trudgingthroughicywindsandsnow,searchingendlesslyforSebastianbutneverfindinghim.
Then,thepillsstoppedworkingandshewouldlieawakeuntilthreeorfourinthemorning—lietherelongingforhim,withnothingtoquenchherthirstbuthermemoriesprojectedagainstthedarkness:flickeringimagesoftheirdaystogether,theirnights,theirwintersandsummers.Finally,drivenhalfmadwithgriefandlackofsleep,shewentbacktoherdoctor.Asitwasobviousshehadbeenabusingthesleepingpills,Dr.Beckrefusedtowriteheranotherprescription.Instead,hesuggestedachangeofscene.
“You’reawealthywoman,”hesaid—addingcallously,“withnochildrentosupport.Whynotgoabroad?Travel?Seetheworld?”
ConsideringthelasttripDr.BeckhadsentMarianaonhadendedinthedeathofherhusband,sheelectednottofollowhisadvice.Instead,sheretreatedtoherimagination.
ShewouldshuthereyesandthinkoftheruinedtempleonNaxos—thedirtywhitecolumnsagainstthebluesky—andrememberherwhisperedprayertotheMaiden—fortheirhappiness,fortheirlove.
Wasthathermistake?Hadthegoddesssomehowbeenoffended?WasPersephonejealous?Orperhapsshefellforthathandsomemanatfirstsight,andclaimedhim,assheherselfhadoncebeenclaimed,takinghimtotheUnderworld?
Thisseemedeasiertobear,somehow—blamingSebastian’sdeathonthesupernatural,onthecapriciouswhimofagoddess.Thealternative—thatitwasmeaningless,random,signifyingnothing…wasmorethanshecouldbear.
Stopit,shethought.Stop,stopit.Shecouldfeelpathetic,self-pityingtearswellingupinhereyes.Shewipedthemaway.Shedidn’twanttobreakdown,nothere.Shehadtogetoutofhere,outofthechapel.
“Ineedsomeair,”shewhisperedtoZoe.
Zoenodded,andgaveherhandaquick,supportivesqueeze.Marianagotup,andhurriedoutside.
Assheleftthedimlylitandcrowdedchapel,emergingintotheemptycourtyard,shefeltanimmediatesenseofrelief.
Therewasnooneinsight.MainCourtwassilentandstill.Itwasdark,apartfromthetalllamppostsspacedoutthroughthecourtyard—theirlanternswereglowinginthedarkness,withhalosaroundthem.Aheavymistwasseepinginfromtheriver,creepingthroughthecollege.
Marianawipedawayhertears.Shelookedupatthesky.Allthestars,invisibleinLondon,shoneheresobrightly—billionsofshimmeringdiamonds,inaninfiniteblackness.
Hemustbethere,somewhere.
“Sebastian?”shewhispered.“Whereareyou?”
Shelistenedandwatched,andwaitedforsomekindofsign—forashootingstar,oracloudpassinginfrontofthemoon—something;anything.
Buttherewasnothing.
Onlydarkness.
18
Aftertheservice,peoplemingledoutsideinthecourtyard,talkinginsmallgroups.MarianaandZoestoodapartfromtheothers,andMarianaquicklytoldZoeabouthervisittoConrad,andthatsheagreedwithherassessment.
“Yousee?”Zoesaid.“Conradisinnocent.Hedidn’tdoit.Wehavetohelphimsomehow.”
“Idon’tknowwhatelsewecando,”saidMariana.
“Wehavetodosomething.I’mprettysureTarawassleepingwithsomeoneelse.ApartfromConrad.Shehintedatitacoupleoftimes…Maybethere’saclueonherphone?Orherlaptop?Let’stryandgetintoherroom—”
Marianashookherhead.“Wecan’tdothat,Zoe.”
“Whynot?”
“Ithinkweneedtoleaveallthattothepolice.”
“Butyouheardtheinspector.They’renotlooking—theymadeuptheirminds.Weneedtodosomething.”Shesighedheavily.“IwishSebastianwashere.He’dknowwhattodo.”
Marianaacceptedtheimpliedrebuke.“Iwishhewereheretoo.”Shepaused.“Iwasthinking.HowaboutyoucomebacktoLondonwithmeforafewdays?”
Sheknew,assoonasshesaidthis,thatitwasthewrongthingtosay.Zoestaredatherwithalookofastonishment.
“What?”
“Itmighthelp,togetaway.”
“Ican’tjustrunaway.Thatwon’tmakeanydifference.Doyouthinkthat’swhatSebastianwouldsay?”
“No,”saidMariana,suddenlyfeelingirritated.“ButI’mnotSebastian.”
“No,”saidZoe,mirroringherirritation.“You’renot.Sebastianwouldwantyoutostay.That’swhathe’dsay.”
Marianadidn’tsayanythingforamoment.Thenshedecidedtovoicesomething—aworrythathadbeenbotheringhersincetheirphonecalllastnight.
“Zoe.Areyousure…you’retellingmeeverything?”
“Aboutwhat?”
“Idon’tknow.Aboutthis—aboutTara.Ikeepthinking—Ican’tescapethefeelingyou’reholdingsomethingback.”
Zoeshookherhead.“No,nothing.”
Shelookedaway.Marianahadacontinuingfeelingofdoubt.Itconcernedher.
“Zoe.Doyoutrustme?”
“Don’tevenaskthat.”
“Thenlisten.Thisisimportant.There’ssomethingyou’renottellingme.Icantell.Icansenseit.Sotrustme.Please—”
Zoehesitated,thenweakened.“Mariana,listen—”
Butthen,glancingoverMariana’sshoulder,Zoesawsomething—somethingthatsilencedher.Astrange,fearfullookflashedintoZoe’seyesforasecond—andthenitwasgone.SheturnedbacktoMarianaandshookherhead.“There’s—nothing.Honest.”
MarianaturnedtoseewhatZoehadseen.Andthere,standingbythechapelentrance,wereProfessorFoscaandhisentourage—thebeautifulgirlsinwhitedresses,deepinwhisperedconversation.
Foscawaslightingacigarette.HiseyesmetMariana’sthroughthesmoke—andtheystaredateachotherforasecond.
Thentheprofessorleftthegroupandwalkedovertothem,smiling.MarianaheardZoesighslightlyunderherbreathasheapproached.
“Hello,”hesaidwhenhereachedthem.“Ididn’tgetachancetointroducemyselfbefore.I’mEdwardFosca.”
“I’mMariana—Andros.”Shehadn’tmeanttousehermaidenname.Itjustcameoutlikethat.“I’mZoe’saunt.”
“Iknowwhoyouare.Zoehastoldmeaboutyou.I’mverysorryaboutyourhusband.”
“Oh,”saidMariana,takenaback.“Thankyou.”
“AndI’msorryforZoe,”hesaid,glancingather.“Havinglostheruncle,andnowhavingtogrievealloveragainforTara.”
Zoedidn’tanswer;shejustshrugged,evadingFosca’seyes.
TherewassomethingnotbeingsaidbyZoehere—somethingbeingavoided.She’safraidofhim,Marianasuddenlythought.Why?
Marianadidn’tfindFoscaremotelythreatening.Toher,heseemedcompletelygenuine,andsympathetic.Hegaveheraheartfeltlook.“I’msosorryforallthestudents,”hesaid.“Thiswilldevastatethewholeyear—ifnottheentirecollege.”
ZoeturnedabruptlytoMariana.“Ihavetogo—I’mmeetingsomefriendsforadrink.Doyouwanttocome?”
Marianashookherhead.“IsaidI’dpopintoseeClarissa.I’llfindyoulater.”
Zoenodded,andstartedwalkingoff.
MarianaturnedbacktowhereFoscahadbeen—buttohersurprise,hehadalreadygone,stridingawayacrossthecourtyard.
Therewasjustalingeringtraceofcigarettesmokewherehehadbeenstanding,twistingandturningbeforeitvanishedintheair.
19
“TellmeaboutProfessorFosca,”saidMariana.
Clarissagaveheracuriouslookasshepouredamber-coloredteafromasilverteapotintotwodelicatechinacups.ShehandedMarianathecupandsaucer.
“ProfessorFosca?Whatmakesyouaskabouthim?”
Marianadecideditmightbebestnottogointodetail.“Noreason,”shesaid.“Zoementionedhim.”
Clarissashrugged.“Idon’tknowhimterriblywell—he’sonlybeenwithusacoupleofyears.First-classmind.American.DidhisdoctorateunderRobertsonatHarvard.”
ShesatdownoppositeMariana,inthefadedlime-greenarmchairbythewindow.ShesmiledatMarianafondly.ProfessorClarissaMillerwasinherlateseventies,withanagelessfacehiddenunderamopofmessygrayhair.Shewaswearingawhitesilkshirtandatweedskirt,withaloose-knitgreencardiganthatwasprobablyconsiderablyolderthanmostofherstudents.
ClarissahadbeenMariana’sdirectorofstudieswhenshewasastudent.MostoftheteachingatSt.Christopher’swasdoneonaone-to-onebasis,betweenfellowandstudent,usuallytakingplaceinthefellow’srooms.Atanytimeaftermidday,orevenearlier,atthediscretionofthefellowconcerned,alcoholwasinvariablyserved—anexcellentBeaujolais,inClarissa’scase,broughtupfromthelabyrinthinewinecellarsbeneathcollege—providinganeducationindrinkingaswellasliterature.
Italsomeantthattutorialstookonamorepersonalflavor,andlinesbetweenteacherandpupilbecameblurred—confidencesweregiven,andintimaciesexchanged.Clarissahadbeentouched,andperhapsintrigued,bythislonelymotherlessGreekgirl.ShekeptamaternaleyeonMarianaduringhertimeatSt.Christopher’s.Andforherpart,MarianawasinspiredbyClarissa—notjustbytheprofessor’sremarkableacademicachievementsinafielddominatedbymen,butalsobyherknowledge,andenthusiasmforimpartingthatknowledge.AndClarissa’spatienceandkindness—andoccasionalirascibility—meantMarianaretainedmuchmorefromherthanfromanyothertutorsheencountered.
TheystayedintouchafterMarianagraduated,throughoccasionalnotesandpostcards,untilonedayanunexpectedemailcamefromClarissa,announcingthatagainstalloddsshehadjoinedtheinternetage.ShesentMarianaabeautifulandheartfeltemailafterSebastiandied,whichMarianafoundsomoving,shesavedandrereaditseveraltimes.
“IhearProfessorFoscataughtTara?”Marianasaid.
Clarissanodded.“That’sright,yes,hedid.Poorgirl…Iknowhewasquiteconcernedabouther.”
“Washe?”
“Yes,hesaidTarawasbarelyscrapingthrough,academically.Shewasquitetroubled,hesaid.”Shesighed,andshookherhead.“Terriblebusiness.Terrible.”
“Yes.Yes,itis.”
Marianasippedsometea,andwatchedClarissapackherpipewithtobacco.Itwasahandsomething,madeofdarkcherrywood.
PipesmokingwasahabitClarissahadpickedupfromherlatehusband.Herroomssmelledofsmokeandspicy,pungentpipetobacco;overtheyears,theodorhadseepedintothewalls,intothepaperinthebooks,intoClarissaherself.Itwasoverpoweringattimes,andMarianaknewthatstudentsinthepasthadobjectedtoClarissasmokingduringsupervisions—untilClarissawaseventuallyforcedtocomplywithchanginghealth-and-safetystandardsandnolongerallowedtoinflictherhabitonherstudents.
ButMarianadidn’tmind;infact,sittingherenow,sherealizedhowmuchshe’dmissedthissmell.Ontherareoccasionssheencounteredapipebeingsmokedintheoutsideworld,shewouldimmediatelyfeelreassured,associatingthesmelly,dark,billowingsmokewithwisdomandlearning—andkindness.
Clarissalitthepipeandpuffedawayonit,disappearingbehindcloudsofsmoke.“It’sastruggletomakesenseofit,”shesaid.“Ifeelquiteataloss,youknow.Itremindsmewhatshelteredliveswelivehereinthecloister—naive,perhapsevenwillfullyignorantofthehorrorsoftheoutsideworld.”
Privately,Marianaagreed.Readingaboutlifewasnopreparationforlivingit;shehadlearnedthisthehardway.Butshedidn’tsayso.Shejustnodded.
“Suchviolenceishorrifying.It’shardforanyonetocomprehend.”
ClarissapointedthepipeatMariana.Sheoftenusedherpipeasaprop,sendingtobaccoflyingandleavingblackenedholesontherugswhereburningembershadlanded.“TheGreekshadawordforit,youknow.Forthatkindofanger.”
Marianawasintrigued.“Didthey?”
“Menis.There’snorealequivalentinEnglish.Youremember,HomerbeginsTheIliadwith‘μ?νιν?ειδεθε?Πηλη??δεω?χιλ?ο?’—‘Singtome,Ogoddess,ofthemenisofAchilles.’”
“Ah.Whatdoesitmean,exactly?”
Clarissamusedforasecond.“Isupposetheclosesttranslationisakindofuncontrollableanger—terrifyingrage—afrenzy.”
Mariananodded.“Afrenzy,yes…Itwasfrenzied.”
Clarissaplacedthepipeinasmallsilverashtray.ShegaveMarianaasmallsmile.“I’msogladyou’rehere,mydear.You’llbesuchahelp.”
“I’monlystayingtonight—I’mjusthereforZoe.”
Clarissalookeddisappointed.“Isthatall?”
“Well,IhavetogetbacktoLondon.Ihavemypatients—”
“Ofcourse,but…”Clarissashrugged.“Mightyounotconsiderstayingafewdays?Forthesakeofthecollege?”
“Idon’tseehowIcanhelp.I’mapsychotherapist,notadetective.”
“I’mawareofthat.You’reapsychotherapistwhospecializesingroups…Andwhatisthisifnotagroupconcern?”
“Yes,but—”
“YouwerealsoastudentatSt.Christopher’s—whichgivesyoualevelofinsightandunderstandingwhichthepolice,howeverwell-intentioned,simplydonotpossess.”
Marianashookherhead.Shefeltalittleannoyedatonceagainbeingputonthespot.“I’mnotacriminologist.Thisreallyisn’tmyfield.”
Clarissalookeddisappointed,butshedidn’tcomment.Instead,shewatchedMarianaforamoment.Shespokeinasoftertone.
“Forgiveme,mydear.ItoccurstomeI’venotonceaskedyouhowitfeels.”
“What?”
“Beinghere—withoutSebastian.”
ThiswasthefirstreferenceClarissahadmadetohim.Marianawasalittlethrownbyit.Shedidn’tknowwhattosay.
“Idon’tknowhowitfeels.”
“Itmustbeodd?”
Mariananodded.“‘Odd’isagoodword.”
“Itwasoddforme,afterTimmydied.Hewasalwaysthere—andthen,suddenly,hewasn’t.Ikeptexpectinghimtojumpoutfrombehindacolumnandsurpriseme…Istilldo.”
ClarissahadbeenmarriedtoProfessorTimothyMillerforthirtyyears.TwofamousCambridgeeccentrics,theywereoftenseenchargingaroundtowntogether,booksundertheirarms,withuncombedhair,wearingoccasionaloddsocks,deepinconversation.OneofthehappiestcouplesMarianahadeverencountered,untilTimmydiedtenyearsago.
“Itwillgeteasier,”Clarissasaid.
“Willit?”
“It’simportanttokeeplookingahead.Youmustn’tforeverlookback,overyourshoulder.Thinkaboutthefuture.”
Marianashookherhead.“Tobehonest,Ican’treallyseeafuture…Ican’tseemuch.It’sall…”Shesearchedforthewords.Thensheremembered:“Behindaveil.Where’sthatfrom?‘Behindtheveil,behindtheveil—’”
“Tennyson.”Clarissaspokewithouthesitation.“InMemoriam—stanzafifty-six,ifI’mnotmistaken.”
Marianasmiled.Mostfellowshadanencyclopediaforabrain;Clarissahadanentirelibrary.Theprofessorclosedhereyesandproceededtoreciteitfrommemory.
“‘Olifeasfutile,then,asfrail!/Oforthyvoicetosootheandbless!/Whathopeofanswer,orredress?/Behindtheveil,behindtheveil…’”
Mariananoddedsadly.“Yes…Yes,that’sit.”
“Ratherunderratedthesedays,I’mafraid,Tennyson.”Clarissasmiled,andthenglancedatherwatch.“Ifyou’restayingtonight,wemustfindyouaroom.Letmecalltheporter’slodge.”
“Thankyou.”
“Waitamoment.”
Theoldwomanheavedherselftoherfeet,andwenttothebookcase.Sheranherfingeralongthespinesuntilshelocatedabook.Shepulleditofftheshelf,andpresseditintoMariana’shands.
“Here.IfoundthissuchasourceofsolaceafterTimmydied.”
Itwasaslimblackleather-boundvolume.INMEMORIAMA.H.H.byAlfredTennysonwasembossedonthecoverinfadedgoldlettering.
ClarissagaveMarianaafirmlook.“Readit.”
20
Mr.MorrisfoundMarianaaroom.Hewastheheadporter.
Marianawassurprisedtomeethimattheporter’slodge.SherememberedoldMr.Morriswell:hewasanelderly,avuncularman,populararoundcollege,famouslylenientwithundergraduates.
ButthisMr.Morriswasyoung,underthirty,tallandpowerfullybuilt.Hehadastrongjawanddarkbrownhair,partedononesideandslickeddown.Hewasdressedinadarksuit,ablue-and-greencollegetie,andblackbowlerhat.
HesmiledatMariana’slookofsurprise.
“Youlooklikeyouwereexpectingsomeoneelse,miss.”
Mariananodded,embarrassed.“Iwas,actually—Mr.Morris—”
“Hewasmygrandpa.Hepassedawayafewyearsago.”
“Oh,Isee,I’msorry—”
“Don’tworry.Happensallthetime—I’mapalecopy,sotheotherportersoftenremindme.”Hewinkedandtippedhishat.“Thisway,miss.Followme.”
Hispolite,formalmannersseemedtobelongtoadifferentage,Marianathought.Abetterone,perhaps.
Heinsistedoncarryingherbag,despiteherprotestations.“That’sthewaywedothings,here.Youknowthat.St.Christopher’sisoneplacewheretimestandsstill.”
Hesmiledather.Heseemedentirelyatease,withanairoftotalassurance,verymuchlordofhisdomain—whichwastrueofallcollegeporters,inMariana’sexperience,andrightlyso:withoutthemtorunthecollegeonaday-to-daybasis,everythingwouldquicklyfallapart.
MarianafollowedMorristoaroominGabrielCourt.Itwasthesamecourtyardwhereshehadlivedasastudentinherfinalyear.Sheglancedatheroldstaircaseastheypassedit—atthestonestepssheandSebastianhadrunupanddownamilliontimes.
ShefollowedMorristothecornerofthecourtyard—toanoctagonalturretbuiltfromslabsofweathered,stainedgranite;ithousedastaircaseleadingtothecollegeguestrooms.Theywentinside,anduptheoak-paneledcircularstairs—uptothesecondfloor.
Morrisunlockedadoor,openedit,andgaveMarianathekey.
“Thereyougo,miss.”
“Thankyou.”
Shewalkedinandlookedaround.Itwasasmallroom—withabaywindow,afireplace,andafour-posteroakbedwithtwistedbarley-sugarbedposts.Thebedhadaheavychintzcanopyandcurtainsallthewayaround.Itlookedalittlesuffocating,shethought.
“It’soneofthenicerroomswehaveavailableforoldstudents,”saidMorris.“Alittleonthesmallside,perhaps.”HeplacedMariana’sbagonthefloorbythebed.“Ihopeyou’llbecomfortable.”
“Thankyou,you’reverykind.”
Theyhadn’tdiscussedthemurder,butshefeltsheneededtoacknowledgeitinsomeway—mainlybecauseitwasconstantlyinherthoughts.
“It’saterriblethingthat’shappened.”
Morrisnodded.“Isn’tit?”
“Itmustbeextremelyupsettingforeveryoneincollege.”
“Yes,itis.I’mgladmyoldgrandpadidn’tlivetoseeit.Wouldhavefinishedhimoff.”
“Didyouknowher?”
“Tara?”Morrisshookhishead.“Onlybyreputation.Shewas…well-known,let’ssay.Herandherfriends.”
“Herfriends?”
“That’sright.Quitea…provocativegroupofyoungwomen.”
“‘Provocative’?That’saninterestingchoiceofword.”
“Isit,miss?”
Hewasbeingdeliberatelycoy,andMarianawonderedwhy.
“Whatdoyoumeanbyit?”
Morrissmiled.“Justthatthey’realittle…boisterous,ifyoutakemymeaning.Wehadtokeepafirmeyeonthem,andtheirparties.Ihadtoshutthemdownafewtimes.Allsortsofgoings-on.”
“Isee.”
Itwashardtoreadhisexpression.Marianawonderedwhatlaybeneathhisgoodmannersandgenialdemeanor.Whatwashereallythinking?
Morrissmiled.“Ifyou’recuriousaboutTara,I’dtalktoabedder.Theyalwaysseemtoknowwhat’sgoingonincollege.Allthegossip.”
“I’llbearthatinmind,thankyou.”
“Ifthat’sall,miss,I’llleaveyouinpeace.Goodnight.”
Morriswalkedtothedoorandslippedout.Hecloseditsilentlybehindhim.
Marianawasaloneatlast—afteralongandexhaustingday.Shesatonthebed,drained.
Shelookedatherwatch.Nineo’clock.Sheshouldjustgotobed—butsheknewshewouldn’tbeabletosleep.Shewastooagitated,tooupset.
Andthen,assheunpackedherovernightbag,shefoundtheslimvolumeofpoetryClarissahadgivenher.
InMemoriam.
Shesatonthebedandopenedit.Theyearshaddehydratedthepages,warpingandstiffeningthem,leavingripplesandwaves.Shecrackedopenthebookandstrokedtheroughpageswithherfingertips.
WhathadClarissasaidaboutit?Thatshewouldhaveadifferentperspectiveonitnow.Why?BecauseofSebastian?
Marianarememberedreadingthepoemasastudent.Likemostpeople,shewasputoffbyitsimmenselength.Itwasoverthreethousandlineslong,andshe’dfeltahugesenseofachievementjusttohavegotthroughit.Shedidn’trespondtoitatthetime—butshewasyoungerthen,happyandinlove,andinnoneedofsadpoetry.
Intheintroductionbyanoldscholar,MarianareadthatAlfredTennysonhadanunhappychildhood—the“blackblood”oftheTennysonswasinfamous.Hisfatherwasadrunkandadrugaddict,andviolentlyabusive—Tennyson’ssiblingssufferedfromdepressionandmentalillness,andwereeitherinstitutionalizedorcommittedsuicide.Alfredfledhomeattheageofeighteen.AndlikeMariana,hestumbledintoaworldoffreedomandbeautyinCambridge.Andhealsofoundlove.WhethertherelationshipbetweenArthurHenryHallamandTennysonwassexualornot,itwasobviouslydeeplyromantic:fromthedaytheymet,attheendoftheirfirstyear,theyspenteverywakingmomenttogether.Theywereoftenseenwalkinghandinhand—until,afewyearslater,in1833…Hallamsuddenlydiedfromananeurysm.
ItwasarguablethatTennysonneverfullyrecoveredfromthelossofHallam.Depressed,disheveled,unwashed,Tennysongaveintohisgrief.Hefellapart.Forthenextseventeenyears,hegrieved,writingonlyscrapsofpoetry—lines,verses,elegies—allofitaboutHallam.Finally,theseverseswerecollectedtogetherasoneenormouspoem.ItwaspublishedasInMemoriamA.H.H.andquicklyrecognizedasoneofthegreatestpoemseverwrittenintheEnglishlanguage.
Marianaperchedonthebedandbegantoread.Shesoondiscoveredhowpainfullyauthenticandfamiliarhisvoicesounded—shehadthestrange,out-of-bodysensationthiswashervoice,notTennyson’s;thathewasarticulatingherinexpressiblefeelingsforher:“Isometimesholdithalfasin/ToputinwordsthegriefIfeel;/Forwords,likeNature,halfreveal/AndhalfconcealtheSoulwithin.”JustlikeMariana,ayearafterHallam’sdeath,TennysonmadethetripbacktoCambridge.HewalkedthesamestreetshehadwalkedwithHallam;hefoundit“feltthesame,butnotthesame”—hestoodoutsideHallam’sroom,seeing“anothernamewasonthedoor.”
AndthenMarianastumbledonthoselinesthathadbecomesofamoustheypassedintotheEnglishlanguageitself—comingacrossthemhere,buriedamongsomuchotherverse,theyretainedtheirabilitytosneakupbehindher,takeherbysurprise,andleaveherbreathless:
Iholdittrue,whate’erbefall;IfeelitwhenIsorrowmost;’TisbettertohavelovedandlostThannevertohavelovedatall…
Mariana’seyesfilledwithtears.Sheloweredthebookandlookedoutofthewindow.Butitwasdarkoutside,andherfacewasreflectedbackather.Shestaredatherselfasthetearsstreameddownhercheeks.
Wherenow?shethought.Whereareyougoing?
Whatareyoudoing?
Zoewasright—shewasrunningaway.Butwhere?BacktoLondon?BacktothathauntedhouseinPrimroseHill?Itwasnolongerahome—justaholeforhertohidein.
Zoeneededherhere,whethersheadmitteditornot;Marianasimplycouldn’tabandonher—thatwasoutofthequestion.
ShesuddenlyrememberedwhatZoehadsaidoutsidethechapel—thatSebastianwouldtellMarianatostay.Zoewasright.
SebastianwouldwantMarianatostandherground,andfight.
Well,then?
HermindwentbacktoProfessorFosca’sperformanceinthecourtyard.Perhaps“performance”wasagoodword.Wastheresomethingalittletoopolishedabouthisdelivery,alittlerehearsed?Evenso,hehadanalibi.Andunlesshehadpersuadedhisstudentstolieforhim,whichseemedunlikely,hemustbeinnocent…
Andyet—?
Somethingdidn’taddup.Somethingdidn’tmakesense.
TaraaccusedFoscaofthreateningtokillher.Then…afewhourslater,Tarawasdead.
Itwouldn’thurttostayforafewdaysinCambridge,andaskafewquestionsaboutTara’srelationshipwiththeprofessor.ProfessorFoscacouldcertainlybearsomeinvestigating.
Andifthepoliceweren’tgoingtopursuehim,thenperhapsMariana—asadebtofhonortoZoe’sfriend—couldlistentothisyoungwoman’sstory…andtakeherseriously.
Ifonlybecausenooneelsedid.
PartTwo
Myargumentwithsomuchofpsychoanalysisisthepreconceptionthatsufferingisamistake,orasignofweakness,orasignevenofillness.Wheninfact,possiblythegreatesttruthsweknowhavecomeoutofpeople’ssuffering.
—ARTHURMILLER
TheLestrygoniansandtheCyclops,AndthefiercePoseidonyouwillneverencounter,Ifyoudonotcarrythemwithinyoursoul,Ifyoursouldoesnotsetthemupbeforeyou.
—C.P.CAVAFY,“Ithaca”
1
Icouldn’tsleepagaintonight.Tooenergized,toowoundup.Overexcited,mymotherwouldsay.
SoIgaveuptrying—andwentforawalk.
AsIwanderedthedesertedstreetsofthecity,Iencounteredafox.Hehadn’theardmecomingandlookedup,startled.
ItwastheclosestI’veeverbeentoone.Whatamagnificentcreature!—thatcoat,thattail—andthosedarkeyes,staringrightbackatme.
Igazedintothemand…whatdidIsee?
It’shardtodescribe—Isawallthewonderofcreation,thewonderoftheuniverse,thereinthatanimal’seyes,inthatsecond.ItwaslikeseeingGod.And—forasecond—Ihadastrangefeeling.Akindofpresence.AsifGodwasthere,onthestreet,nexttome,holdingmyhand.
Ifeltsafe,suddenly.Ifeltcalm,andatpeace—asifaragingfeverhadabated,adeliriumburneditselfout.Ifelttheotherpartofme,thegoodpart,risingwiththedawn…
Butthen—thefoxvanished.Itdisappearedintotheshadows,andthesuncameup…Godwasgone.Iwasalone,andsplitintwo.
Idon’twanttobetwopeople.Iwanttobeoneperson.Iwanttobewhole.ButIhavenochoice,itseems.
AndasIstoodthereonthestreet,asthesuncameup,Ihadahorriblefeelingofrecollection—anotherdawn,yearsago.Anothermorning—justlikethis.
Thatsameyellowlight.Thatsamefeelingofbeingsplitintwo.
Butwhere?
When?
IknowIcanrememberifItry.ButdoIwantto?Ihaveafeelingit’ssomethingItriedveryhardtoforget.WhatisitI’msoafraidof?Isitmyfather?DoIstillbelievehewillemergefromatrapdoorlikeapantomimevillain,andstrikemedown?
Orisitthepolice?DoIfearasuddenhandonmyshoulder,anarrest,andpunishment—retributionformycrimes?
WhyamIsoafraid?
Theanswermustbetheresomewhere.
AndIknowwhereImustlook.
2
Earlynextmorning,MarianawenttoseeZoe.
Zoehadjustwokenup,andwasgroggy,clutchingZebrawithonehandandpushingawaytheeyemaskfromherfacewiththeother.
SheblinkedatMariana,whopulledbackthecurtainstoletinthedaylight.Zoedidn’tlookgood—hereyeswerebloodshot,andshelookedexhausted.
“Sorry,Ididn’tsleepwell.Kepthavingbaddreams.”
MarianahandedZoeamugofcoffee.“AboutTara?IthinkIdidtoo.”
Zoenoddedandsippedhercoffee.“Thisallfeelslikeanightmare.Ican’tbelieveshe’sreally—gone.”
“Iknow.”
TearswelledupinZoe’seyes.Marianadidn’tknowwhethertocomfortherordistracther.Shedecidedonthelatter.Shepickedupthepileofbooksonthedesk,andlookedatthetitles—TheDuchessofMalfi,TheRevenger’sTragedy,TheSpanishTragedy
“Letmeguess.Tragedythisterm?”
“Revengetragedy,”Zoesaidwithasmallgroan.“Sodumb.”
“You’renotenjoyingit?”
“TheDuchessofMalfiisokay…it’sfunny—Imean,it’ssoinsane.”
“Iremember.PoisonedBiblesandwerewolves.Butsomehow—itstillworks,doesn’tit?Atleast,Ialwaysthoughtso.”MarianalookedatTheDuchessofMalfi.“I’venotreaditinyears.”
“They’restagingitattheADCTheatrethisterm.Comeandseeit.”
“Iwill.It’sagoodpart.Whydon’tyouaudition?”
“Idid.Didn’tgetit.”Zoesighed.“Storyofmylife.”
Marianasmiled.Thenthislittlepretensethatnothingwaswrongcollapsed.Zoestaredather,adeepeningfrownonherface.
“Areyouleaving?Areyousayinggoodbye?”
“No.I’mnotleaving.I’vedecidedtostay,atleastforafewdays—andasksomequestions.SeeifIcanhelp.”
“Really?”Zoe’seyeslitup,andherfrownmeltedaway.“That’samazing.Thankyou.”Shehesitated.“Listen.WhatIsaidyesterday—aboutwishingSebastianwashereinstead—I’msorry.”
Marianashookherhead—sheunderstood.ZoeandSebastianhadalwayshadaspecialbond.Whenshewasverysmall,itwastoSebastianthatZoewouldinvariablyrunifshegrazedakneeorcutherself,orneededcomforting.Marianadidn’tmind—sheknewhowimportantitwastohaveafather.AndSebastianwastheclosesttoafatherZoeeverhadsincethelossofherparents.Shesmiled.
“Youdon’thavetoapologize.Sebastianalwayswasmuchbetterinacrisisthanme.”
“Iguesshealwayslookedafterus.Andnow…”Zoeshrugged.
Marianagaveanencouragingsmile.“Nowwelookaftereachother.Okay?”
“Okay.”Zoenodded.Thenshespokemorefirmly,pullingherselftogether.“Justgivemetwentyminutestoshowerandgetready.Wecanmakeaplan—”
“Whatdoyoumean?Don’tyouhavelecturestoday?”
“Yeah,but—”
“Nobuts,”saidMarianafirmly.“Gotoyourlectures.Gotoyourclasses.I’llseeyouforlunch.Wecantalkthen.”
“Oh,Mariana—”
“No.Imeanit.It’smoreimportantnowthaneverthatyoukeepbusy—andfocusonyourwork.Okay?”
Zoesighedheavilybutdidn’tprotestfurther.“Okay.”
“Good,”Marianasaid,kissinghercheek.“I’llseeyoulater.”
MarianaleftZoe’sroomandwentdowntotheriver.
Shepassedthecollegeboathouse—andtherowofmooredpuntsbelongingtoSt.Christopher’s,chainedtothebank,swayinginthewater.
Asshewalked,Marianaphonedherpatientstocancelherweek’ssessions.
Shedidn’ttellherpatientsaboutwhathadhappened.Shemerelysaidshehadafamilyemergency.Andthemajorityofthemtookthenewswell—apartfromHenry.Marianadidn’texpecthimtoreactwell,andhedidn’t.
“Thanksalot,”Henrysaidsarcastically.“Cheers,mate.Muchappreciated.”
Marianatriedtoexplaintherehadbeenanemergency,buthewasn’tinterested.Likeachild,Henrycouldonlyseehisownneedsbeingfrustrated,andhisonlyinterestwasinpunishingher.
“Doyoucareaboutme?Doyouevengiveashit?”
“Henry,thisisbeyondmycontrol—”
“Whataboutme?Ineedyou,Mariana.That’sbeyondmycontrol.Thingsarehappening.I—I’mdrowninghere—”
“Whatisit?What’swrong?”
“Ican’ttalkaboutitonthephone.Ineedyou…Whyaren’tyouhome?”
Marianafroze.Howdidheknowshewasn’tthere?Hemusthavebeenwatchingthehouseagain.
Shefeltasuddenalarmbellringinginherhead—thissituationwithHenrywasuntenable;shefeltangrywithherselfforhavingallowedittohappeninthefirstplace.She’dhavetodealwithit—dealwithHenry.Butnotnow.Nottoday.
“Ihavetogo,”shesaid.
“Iknowwhereyouare,Mariana.Youdon’tknowthat,doyou?I’mwatching.Icanseeyou…”
Marianahungup.Shefeltunnerved.Shelookedaroundtheriverbankandthepathoneitherside—butcouldn’tseeHenryanywhere.
Ofcourseshecouldn’t—hewasjusttryingtoscareher.Shefeltannoyedwithherselfforrisingtothebait.
Sheshookherhead—andkeptwalking.
3
Itwasabeautifulmorning.Allalongtheriver,sunlightshimmeredthroughthewillowtrees,makingtheleavesglowaluminousgreenaboveMariana’shead.Andunderherfeet,wildcyclamengrewalongthepathinpatches,liketinypinkbutterflies.Itwashardtoreconcilesuchbeautywithherreasonforbeingthere,orwithherthoughts,whichrevolvedaroundmurderanddeath.
WhatthehellamIdoing?shethought.Thisiscrazy.
Itwashardnottodwellonthenegative—oneverythingshedidn’tknow.Shehadnoideahowtocatchamurderer.Shewasn’tacriminologistorforensicpsychologist,likeJulian.Allshehadwasaninstinctiveknowledgeofhumannatureandhumanbehavior,derivedfromyearsofworkingwithpatients.Anditwouldhavetodo;shehadtobanishthisself-doubt,oritwouldcrippleher.Shehadtotrustherinstincts.Shethoughtforasecond.
Wheretobegin?
Well,firstly—andmostimportantly—sheneededtounderstandTara:whoshewasasaperson,whosheloved,whoshehated—andwhoshefeared.MarianasuspectedthatJulianwasright:Taraknewherkiller.SoMariananeededtodiscoverhersecrets.Itshouldn’tbetoodifficult.Ingroupslikethese,insmallcloisteredcommunities,gossipwasrifeandpeoplehadintimateknowledgeofoneanother’sprivatelives.IftherewasanytruthtotheaffairTaraallegedshewashavingwithEdwardFosca,forinstance,therewasboundtobesomegossip.Agreatdealcouldbelearnedfromwhatothersincollegehadtosay.ThiswaswhereMarianawouldbegin—byaskingquestions.
And,moreimportant,bylistening.
Shehadreachedabusierpartoftheriver,byMillLane.Upahead,peoplewerewalking,running,biking.Marianacontemplatedthem.Thekillercouldbeanyoneofthesepeople.Hecouldbestandinghererightnow.
Hecouldbewatchingher.
Howwouldsherecognizehim?Well,thesimpleanswerwasshecouldn’t.AnddespiteallofJulian’sclaimsofexpertise,hecouldn’teither.Marianaknewthat,ifaskedaboutpsychopathy,Julianwouldpointtofrontalortemporallobedamageinthebrain;orquoteaseriesofmeaninglesslabels—antisocialpersonalitydisorder,malignantnarcissism—alongwithaglibsetofcharacteristicslikehighintelligence,superficialcharm,grandiosity,pathologicallying,acontemptformorality—allofwhichexplainedverylittle.Itdidn’texplainhow—orwhy—apersonmightenduplikethis:asamercilessmonster,usingotherhumanbeingsasiftheywerebrokentoystobesmashedtobits.
Alongtimeago,psychopathyusedtobecalledsimply“evil.”Peoplewhowereevil—whotookadelightinhurtingorkillingothers—werewrittenabouteversinceMedeatookanaxetoherchildren,andprobablylongbeforethat.Theword“psychopath”wascoinedbyaGermanpsychiatristin1888—thesameyearJacktheRipperterrorizedLondon—fromtheGermanwordpsychopastiche,literallymeaning“sufferingsoul.”ForMarianathiswastheclue—thesuffering—thesensethatthesemonsterswerealsoinpain.Thinkingaboutthemasvictimsallowedhertobemorerationalinherapproach,andmorecompassionate.Psychopathyorsadismneverappearedfromnowhere.Itwasnotavirus,infectingsomeoneoutoftheblue.Ithadalongprehistoryinchildhood.
Marianabelievedthatchildhoodwasareactiveexperience,meaningthatinordertoexperienceempathyforanotherhumanbeing,wemustfirstbeshownempathy—byourparentsorcaregivers.ThemanwhokilledTarawasoncealittleboy—aboywhowasshownnoempathy,nokindness.Hehadsuffered—andsufferedhorribly.
Yetmanychildrengrowupinterriblyabusiveenvironments—andtheydon’tendupasmurderers.Why?Well,asMariana’soldsupervisorusedtosay:“Itdoesn’ttakemuchtosaveachildhood.”Alittlekindness,someunderstandingorvalidation:someonetorecognizeandacknowledgeachild’sreality—andsavehissanity.
Inthiscase,Marianasuspectedtherehadbeennoone—nokindlygrandmother,nofavoriteuncle,nowell-meaningneighbororteachertoseehispain,nameit,andmakeitreal.Theonlyrealitybelongedtohisabuser,andthesmallchild’sfeelingsofshame,fear,andangerweretoodangeroustoprocessalone—hedidn’tknowhow—sohedidn’tprocessthesefeelings;hedidn’tfeelthem.Hesacrificedhistrueself,allthatunfeltpainandanger,totheUnderworld,tothemurkyworldoftheunconscious.
Helosttouchwithwhohereallywas.AndthemanwholuredTaratothatisolatedspotwasastrangerasmuchfromhimselfashewasfromeveryoneelse.Hewas,Marianasuspected,abrilliantperformer:impeccablypolite,genial,andcharming.ButTaraprovokedhimsomehow—andtheterrifiedchildinsidehimlashedout,andreachedforaknife.
Butwhathadtriggeredhim?
Thatwasthequestion.IfonlyMarianacouldseeintohismindandreadhisthoughts—whereverhewas.
“Hellothere.”
ThevoicebehindhermadeMarianajump.Shequicklyturnedaround.
“Sorry,”hesaid.“Ididn’tmeantoscareyou.”
ItwasFred,theyoungmanshe’dmetonthetrain.Hewaspushingabicycle,withastashofpapersunderhisarm,eatinganapple.Hegrinned.
“Rememberme?”
“Yes,Iremember.”
“Saidwe’dmeetagain,didn’tI?Ipredictedit.Toldyou,I’mabitpsychic.”
Marianasmiled.“Cambridgeisasmallplace.It’sacoincidence.”
“Takeitfromme.Asaphysicist.Nosuchthingascoincidence.ThispaperI’mwritinghereactuallyprovesit.”
Frednoddedathisstackofpapers,whichslippedoutfromunderhisarm—andpagesofmathematicalequationscascadedalloverthepath.
“Bugger.”
Hethrewdownhisbiketotheground,andranaroundtryingtoretrievethepages.Marianakneltdowntohelp.
“Thanks,”hesaidastheycollectedthelastofthepages.
Hewasinchesawayfromherface,staringintohereyes.Theylookedateachotherforasecond.Hehadniceeyes,shethought,beforebanishingthethought.Shestoodup.
“I’mgladyou’restillhere,”hesaid.“Willyoubestayinglong?”
Marianashrugged.“Idon’tknow.I’mhereformyniece—she—she’shadsomebadnews.”
“Youmeanthemurder?YournieceisatSt.Christopher’s,right?”
Marianablinked,confused.“I—don’tremembertellingyouthat.”
“Oh—well,youdid.”Fredwentonquickly.“Everyone’stalkingaboutit—aboutwhathappened.I’vebeenthinkingaboutitalot.Ihaveafewtheories.”
“Whatkindoftheories?”
“AboutConrad.”Fredglancedathiswatch.“I’vegottorunrightnow,butIdon’tsupposeyoufancyhavingadrink?Say—tonight?Wecouldtalk.”Helookedatherhopefully.“Imean,onlyifyouwantto—obviously,nopressure—nobigdeal…”
Hewastyinghimselfintoknots;Marianawasabouttorefuseandputhimoutofhismisery.Butsomethingstoppedher.WhatdidheknowaboutConrad?PerhapsMarianacouldpickhisbrains—hemightknowsomethinguseful.Itwasaworthashot.
“Okay,”shesaid.
Fredlookedsurprisedandexcited.“Really?Fantastic.Howaboutnineo’clock?TheEagle?Letmegiveyoumynumber.”
“Idon’tneedyournumber.I’llbethere.”
“Okay,”hesaidwithagrin.“It’sadate.”
“It’snotadate.”
“No,ofcoursenot.Idon’tknowwhyIsaidthat.Okay…Seeyoulater.”
Hegotonhisbike.
MarianawatchedFredcycleawayalongtheriverpath.Thensheturnedandstartedwalkingbacktocollege.
Timetobegin.Timetorolluphersleevesandgettowork.
4
MarianahurriedacrossMainCourt,towardagroupofmiddle-agedwomen,allsippingteafromsteamingmugs,sharingbiscuits,andgossiping.Thesewerethebedders—ontheirteabreak.
“Bedder”wasatermpeculiartotheuniversity,andsomethingofaninstitution—forhundredsofyears,armiesoflocalwomenhadbeenemployedatthecollegestomakebeds,emptyrubbishbins,andcleanrooms—although,itmustbesaid,thebedders’dailycontactwiththestudentsmeanttheroleoftencrossedoverfromdomesticservicetopastoralcare.Mariana’sbedderwassometimestheonlypersonshespoketoeveryday,untilshemetSebastian.
Thebedderswereaformidablebunch.Marianafeltalittleintimidatedassheapproachedthem.Shewondered—notforthefirsttime—whattheyreallythoughtofthestudents;theseworking-classwomenwhohadnoneoftheadvantagesoftheseprivileged,oftenspoiledyoungpeople.
Perhapstheyhateusall,Marianasuddenlythought.Shewouldn’tblamethemiftheydid.
“Goodmorning,ladies,”shesaid.
Theirconversationsfadedtosilence.ThewomengaveMarianaacuriousandslightlysuspiciouslook.Shesmiled.
“Iwonderifyoumightbeabletohelpme.I’mlookingforTaraHampton’sbedder.”
Severalheadsturnedtowardonewomanwhowasstandingattheback,lightingacigarette.
Thewomanwasinherlatesixties,possiblyolder.Shewaswearingabluesmock,andcarryingabucketofvariouscleaningproductsandafeatherduster.Shewasnotplump,butstolidandmoonfaced.Herhairwasdyedred,whiteattheroots,andhereyebrowswerepaintedondaily;todayshehaddrawnthemhighonherforehead,makingherlookratherstartled.Sheseemedalittleirritatedtohavebeensingledout.ShegaveMarianaastrainedsmile.
“That’llbeme,dear.I’mElsie.HowcanIhelp?”
“Myname’sMariana.Iwasastudenthere.AndI…”shewenton,improvising,“I’mapsychotherapist.ThedeanhasaskedmetotalktovariousmembersofcollegeabouttheimpactofTara’sdeath.Iwaswonderingifwemight…havealittlechat.”
Shefinishedlamely,anddidn’tholdoutmuchhopethatElsiewouldtakethebait.Shewasright.
Elsiepursedherlips.“Idon’tneedatherapist,dear.Nothingwrongwithmyhead,thankyouverymuch.”
“Ididn’tmeanthat—it’sformyownbenefit,really.It’s—I’mconductingsomeresearch.”
“Well,Ireallydon’thavethetime—”
“Itwon’ttakelong.PerhapsIcanbuyyouacupoftea?Asliceofcake?”
Atthementionofcake,aglintappearedinElsie’seye.Hermannersoftened.Sheshrugged,andtookadragofhercigarette.
“Verywell.We’llhavetobequick.I’veanotherstaircasetodobeforelunch.”
Elsiestubbedouthercigaretteonthecobbles,thenpulledoffherapronandthrustitatanotherbedder,whotookitwordlessly.
ThenshewalkedovertoMariana.
“Followme,dear,”shesaid.“Iknowthebestspot.”
Elsiemarchedoff.Marianafollowed,andthemomentherbackwasturned,shecouldheartheotherwomenwhisperingtooneanotherfuriously.
5
MarianafollowedElsiealongKing’sParade.TheypassedMarketSquare,withitsgreenandwhitemarqueesandstallssellingflowers,books,andclothes;andtheSenateHouse,gleamingwhitebehindshinyblackrailings.Theywalkedpastthefudgeshop—andfromitsopendoorsfloodedoutanoverwhelminglysweetsmellofsugarandhotfudge.
Elsiestoppedoutsidethered-and-whiteawningoftheCopperKettle.“Thisismylocal,”shesaid.
Mariananodded.Sherememberedthetearoomfromherstudentdays.“Afteryou.”
ShefollowedElsieinside.Itwasbusywithamixofstudentsandtourists,alltalkingindifferentlanguages.
Elsiewentstraightuptotheglasscounterwithallthecakes.Sheperusedtheselectionofbrownies,chocolatecake,coconutslices,applepie,andlemonmeringue.“Ishouldn’t,really,”shesaid.“Well…perhapsjustone.”
Sheturnedtotheelderly,white-hairedwaitressbehindthecounter.“Asliceofthechocolatecake.AndapotofEnglishbreakfast.”ShenoddedatMariana.“She’spaying.”
Marianaorderedsometea,andtheysatdownatatablebythewindow.
Therewasapause.Marianasmiled.“I’mwonderingifyouknowmyniece,Zoe?ShewasTara’sfriend.”
Elsiegrunted.Shedidn’tlookimpressed.“Oh,she’syourniece,isshe?Yes,Ilookafterher.Quitethelittlemadam,sheis.”
“Zoe?Whatdoyoumean?”
“She’sbeenveryrudetome—onseveraloccasions.”
“Oh—I’msorrytohearthat.Thatdoesn’tsoundlikeher.I’llhaveawordwithher.”
“Do,dear.”
Therewasamoment’sawkwardness.
Theywereinterruptedbytheappearanceofawaitress—young,pretty,EasternEuropean—bearingteaandcake.Elsie’sfacebrightenedconsiderably.
“Paulina.Howareyou?”
“I’mgood,Elsie.You?”
“Haven’tyouheard?”Hereyeswidenedandatremorofmockemotioncreptintohervoice.“OneofElsie’slittleonesgotbutchered—cuttobitsbytheriver.”
“Yes,yes,Iheard.I’msorry.”
“Mindyouwatchhowyougonow.It’snotsafe—aprettygirllikeyou,outdoorsatnight.”
“I’llbecareful.”
“Good.”Elsiesmiledandwatchedthewaitresswalkaway.Thensheturnedherattentiontothecake,whichsheattackedwithrelish.“Notbad,”shesaidbetweenbites.Thereweretracesofchocolatearoundhermouth.“Fancysome?”
Marianashookherhead.“I’mfine,thanks.”
Thecakedidthetrick,improvingElsie’smood.ShewatchedMarianathoughtfullyasshechewed.“Now,dear,”shesaid,“Ihopeyoudon’texpectmetobelieveanyofthatnonsenseaboutpsychotherapy.Research,indeed.”
“You’reveryperceptive,Elsie.”
Elsiechuckledanddroppedasugarcubeintohertea.“Elsiedoesn’tmissmuch.”
Elsiehadratheradisconcertinghabitofreferringtoherselfinthethirdperson.ShegaveMarianaapiercinglook.“Comeonthen—what’sthisreallyabout?”
“IjustwanttoaskyousomequestionsaboutTara…”Sheadoptedaconfidentialtone.“YouwereclosetoTara,weren’tyou?”
Elsiegaveheraslightlywarylook.“Whotoldyouthat?Zoe?”
“No—Ijustpresumedthat,asherbedder,yousawalotofher.Iwasveryfondofmybedder.”
“Wereyou,dear?That’snice.”
“Well,it’ssuchanimportantserviceyouprovide…I’mnotsureyou’realwaysappreciated.”
Elsienoddedwithenthusiasm.“You’rerightaboutthat.Peoplethinkbeingabedderisjustamatterofwipingdownafewsurfacesandemptyingtheoddbin.Butthelittleonesareawayfromhomeforthefirsttime—theycan’tbelefttofendforthemselves—theyneedlookingafter.”Shesmiledsweetly.“It’sElsiewholooksafterthem.It’sElsiewhochecksonthemeveryday—andwakesthemupeverymorning—orfindsthemdead,ifthey’vehangedthemselvesinthenight.”
Marianahesitated,takenaback.“Whenwasthelasttimeyousawher?”
“Thedayshedied,ofcourse…I’llneverforgetit.Isawthepoorgirlwalktoherdeath.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Well,Iwasinthecourtyard,waitingforacoupleoftheotherladies—wealwaysgetthebushometogether.AndIsawTaraleaveherroom.Shelookedawfullyupset.Iwavedtoherandcalledtoher—butshedidn’thearmeforsomereason.Isawherwalkoff—andshenevercameback…”
“Whattimewasthat?Doyouremember?”
“Quartertoeightexactly.IrememberitbecauseIwascheckingmywatch—wewereindangerofmissingthebus.”Elsietutted.“Notthatit’severontimeanymore.”
MarianapouredElsiesomemoreteafromthepot.
“Youknow,Iwaswonderingaboutherfriends.What’syourimpressionofthem?”
Elsieraisedaneyebrow.“Oh,youmeanthem,doyou?”
“‘Them’?”
Elsiesmiled,butdidn’treply.Marianawenton,cautiously.
“WhenIspoketoConrad,hecalledthem‘witches.’”
“Didhe,indeed?”Elsiechuckled.“‘Bitches’ismorelikeit,dear.”
“Youdon’tlikethem?”
Elsieshrugged.“Theyweren’therfriends,notreally.Tarahatedthem.Yourniecewastheonlyonewhowasnicetoher.”
“Andtheothers?”
“Oh,theybulliedher,poorlove.Usedtocryonmyshoulderaboutit,shedid.‘You’remyonlyfriend,Elsie,’she’dsay.‘Iloveyouso,Elsie.’”
Elsiewipedawayanimaginarytear.Marianafeltnauseated:thisperformancewasassicklysweetasthechocolatecakeElsiehadjustdevoured—andMarianadidn’tbelieveawordofit.Elsiewaseitherafantasistorjustanold-fashionedliar.Ineithercase,Marianawasfeelingincreasinglyuncomfortableinhercompany.Nonetheless,shepersevered
“WhydidtheybullyTara?Idon’tunderstand.”
“Theywerejealous,weren’tthey?Becauseshewassobeautiful.”
“Isee…Iwonderiftheremightbemoretoitthanthat…”
“Well—you’dbestaskZoeaboutthat,hadn’tyou?”
“Zoe?”Marianawastakenaback.“Whatdoyoumean?What’sZoegottodowithit?”
Elsiegaveheracrypticsmileinresponse.“Now,that’saquestion,isn’tit,dear?”
Shedidn’telaboratefurther.Marianafeltannoyed.“AndwhataboutProfessorFosca?”
“Whatabouthim?”
“ConradsaidhehadacrushonTara.”
Elsielookedunimpressedandunsurprised.“Theprofessor’saman,isn’the?—likealltherest.”
“Meaning?”
Elsiesniffedbutdidn’tcomment.Marianahadthesensethattheconversationwascomingtoanend,andtoprobeanyfurtherwouldonlybemetwithstonydisapproval.So,ascasuallyasshecould,sheslippedintherealreasonshehadbroughtElsiehereandbribedherwithflatteryandcake.
“Elsie.Doyouthink…ImightseeTara’sroom?”
“Herroom?”Elsielookedasifsheweregoingtorefuse.Butthensheshrugged.“Can’tdoanyharm,Isuppose.Thepolicehavebeenalloverit—Iwasgoingtogiveitagoodcleantomorrow…Tellyouwhat.Letmefinishthiscuppa,andwecanwalkovertogether.”
Marianasmiled,pleased.“Thankyou,Elsie.”
6
ElsieunlockedthedoortoTara’sroom.Shewentinsideandturnedonthelight.Marianafollowedher.
Itwaslikeanyotherteenager’sbedroom,messierthanmost.Thepolicehadgonethroughherthingsinvisibly—itfeltasifTarahadjuststeppedoutandmightreturnanysecond.Therewasstillatraceofherperfumeintheairandthemuskyscentofmarijuanaclingingtothefurnishings.
Marianadidn’tknowwhatshewaslookingfor.Shewassearchingforsomethingthatthepolicehadmissed—butwhat?TheyhadtakenawayallthedevicesZoehadbeenpinningherhopesontoprovidesomekindofclue—Tara’scomputer,phone,andiPadwereallmissing.Herclothesremained,inthewardrobeandstrewnoverthearmchair,inpilesonthefloor—expensiveclothestreatedlikerags.Booksweresimilarlydisrespected,discardedmid-read,openonthefloor,spinescracked.
“Wasshealwaysthismessy?”
“Oh,yes,dear.”Elsietuttedandgaveanindulgentchuckle.“Hopeless.Idon’tknowwhatshewouldhavedonewithoutmetolookafterher.”
Elsiesatonthebed.ShehadapparentlytakenMarianaintoherconfidence.Andherconversationwasnolongerguarded;quitethecontrary.
“Herparentsareboxingupherthingstoday,”shesaid.“Iofferedtodoit.Savethemthebother.Theydidn’twantmeto,forsomereason.Nopleasingsomepeople.I’mnotsurprised.IknowwhatTarathoughtofthem.Shetoldme.ThatLadyHamptonisarightstuck-upbitch—andnolady,letmetellyouthat.Asforherhusband…”
Marianawasonlyhalflistening,wishingElsiewouldgoawaysoshecouldfocus.Shewentovertoasmalldressingtable.Shelookedatit.Therewasamirrorwithsomephotosstuckintheedgesoftheframe.OneofthephotographswasofTaraandherparents.Tarawasincrediblybeautiful,luminouslyso.Shehadlongredhair,andexquisitefeatures—thefaceofaGreekgoddess.
Marianaconsideredtherestoftheobjectsonthedressingtable.Acoupleofperfumebottles,somemakeup,andahairbrush.Shelookedatthehairbrush.Astrandofredhairwascaughtinit.
“Shehadlovelyhair,”saidElsie,watchingher.“Iusedtobrushitforher.Shelovedmedoingthat.”
Marianasmiledpolitely.Shepickedupasmallsofttoy—afluffyrabbitthatwasproppedupagainstthemirror.UnlikeZoe’soldZebra,batteredandbeatenupfromyearsofabuse,thistoylookedstrangelynew—almostuntouched.
Elsiequicklysolvedthemystery.
“Iboughtherthat.Shewassolonelywhenshefirstgothere.Neededsomethingsofttocuddle.SoIgotherthebunny.”
“Thatwasniceofyou.”
“Elsie’sallheart.Igotherthehot-waterbottletoo.Itgetsawfullycoldinhereatnight.Thatblankettheygivethemisnouse—thinascardboard.”Sheyawned,lookingalittlebored.“Doyouthinkyou’llbemuchlonger,dear?OnlyIreallyoughttobegettingon.I’veanotherstaircasetodo.”
“Idon’twanttokeepyou.Perhaps…perhapsIcouldletmyselfoutinafewminutes?”
Elsiedeliberatedforasecond.“Allright.I’llpopoutandhaveaciggieandgetbacktowork.Pullthedoorclosedwhenyouleave.”
“Thanks.”
Elsielefttheroom,shuttingthedoorbehindher.Marianaletoutasigh.ThankGodforthat.Shelookedaround.Shehadn’tfoundityet,whateveritwasshewasseeking.Shehopedshewouldrecognizeitwhenshesawit.Somekindofclue—aninsightintoTara’sstateofmind.SomethingthatwouldhelpMarianaunderstand—butwhatwasit?
Shewentovertothechestofdrawers.Sheopenedeachdrawer,examiningthecontents.Adepressing,morbidtask.Itfeltsurgical,asifshewerecuttingopenTara’sbodyandpickingthroughherinternalorgans.Marianalookedthroughallhermostintimatepossessions—herunderwear,makeup,hairproducts,passport,driver’slicense,creditcards,childhoodphotographs,snapshotsofherselfasababy,littleremindersandnotesshehadwrittentoherself,oldshoppingreceipts,loosetampons,emptycocainevials,loosetobacco,andtracesofmarijuana
Itwasstrange;Tarahadvanished,justlikeSebastian—leavingallherthingsbehind.Afterwedie,Marianathought,allthatremainsofusisamystery;andourpossessions,ofcourse,tobepickedoverbystrangers.
Shedecidedtogiveup.Whatevershewaslookingforwasn’there.Perhapsithadneverexistedinthefirstplace.Sheclosedthelastdrawer,andwenttoleavetheroom.
Then,asshereachedthedoor,somethingmadeherstop…andturnback.Sheglancedaroundtheroomonemoretime.
Hereyesrestedonthecorkboardonthewallabovethedesk.Notices,flyers,postcards,acoupleofphotosstuckintoit.
OneofthepostcardswasanimageMarianaknew:apaintingbyTitian—TarquinandLucretia.Marianastopped.Shelookedatitmoreclosely.
Lucretiawasinherbedroom,onthebed,nakedanddefenseless;Tarquinwasstandingaboveher—raisingadaggerthatwasglintinginthelight,andpoisedtostrike.Itwasbeautiful,butdeeplyunsettling.
Marianapulledthepostcardawayfromtheboard.Sheturneditover.
There,ontheback,wasahandwrittenquotationinblackink.Fourlines,inAncientGreek:
?νδ?π?σιγν?ματα?τ?ν?μπρ?πει:σφ?ξαικελε?ουσ?νμεπαρθ?νονκ?ρ?Δ?μητρο?,?τι??στ?πατρ??ε?γενο??,τροπα??τ??χθρ?νκα?π?λεισωτ?ριαν.
Marianastaredatit,puzzled.
7
MarianafoundClarissasittinginherarmchairbythewindow,pipeinhand,surroundedbycloudsofsmoke,correctingapileofpapersonherlap.
“MayIhaveaword?”saidMariana,hoveringbythedoor.
“Oh,Mariana?Areyoustillhere?Comein,comein.”Clarissawavedherintotheroom.“Sit.”
“I’mnotinterrupting?”
“Anythingthattakesmeawayfrommarkingundergraduateessaysisatrulywelcomereprieve.”Clarissasmiledandputdownthepapers.ShegaveMarianaacuriouslookasshesatonthesofa.“You’vedecidedtostay?”
“Justforafewdays.Zoeneedsme.”
“Good.Verygood.I’msopleased.”Clarissarelitherpipeandpuffedawayforamoment.“Now,whatcanIdoforyou?”
Marianareachedintoherpocketandpulledoutthepostcard.ShehandedittoClarissa.“IfoundthisinTara’sroom.Iwaswonderingwhatyoumakeofit.”
Clarissaglancedatthepictureforamoment,thenturneditover.Sheraisedaneyebrowandreadthequotationout.“?νδ?π?σιγν?ματα?τ?ν?μπρ?πει:/σφ?ξαικελε?ουσ?νμεπαρθ?νονκ?ρ?/Δ?μητρο?,?τι??στ?πατρ??ε?γενο??,/τροπα??τ??χθρ?νκα?π?λεισωτ?ριαν.”
“Whatisit?”askedMariana.“Doyourecognizeit?”
“Ithink…it’sEuripides.TheChildrenofHeracles,ifI’mnotmistaken.You’refamiliarwithit?”
Marianafeltaflickerofshamethatshe’dneverevenheardoftheplay,letalonereadit.“Remindme?”
“It’ssetinAthens,”Clarissasaid,reachingforherpipe.“KingDemophonispreparingforwar,toprotectthecityagainsttheMycenaeans.”Shewedgedthepipeinthecornerofhermouth,struckamatch,andrelitit.Shespokebetweenpuffs.“Demophonconsultstheoracle…tofindouthischancesofsuccess…Thequotationcomesfromthatpartoftheplay.”
“Isee.”
“Doesthathelpyou?”
“Notreally.”
“No?”Clarissawavedawayacloudofsmoke.“Where’syourdifficulty?”
Marianasmiledatthequestion.SometimesClarissa’sbrilliancemadeherabitobtuse.“MyAncientGreekisalittlerusty,I’mafraid.”
“Ah…yes.Ofcourse,forgiveme—”Clarissaglancedatthepostcard,andtranslatedit.“Roughlyspeaking,itsays…‘Theoraclesagree:inordertodefeattheenemyandsavethecity…amaidenmustbesacrificed—amaidenofnoblebirth—’”
Marianablinkedinsurprise.“Noblebirth?Itsaysthat?”
Clarissanodded.“Thedaughterofπατρ??ε?γενο??—anobleman…mustbesacrificedtoκ?ρ?Δ?μητρο?…”
“‘Δ?μητρο?’?”
“ThegoddessDemeter.And‘κ?ρ?,’ofcourse,means—”
“‘Daughter.’”
“That’sright.”Clarissanodded.“AnoblemaidenmustbesacrificedtothedaughterofDemeter—toPersephone,thatis.”
Marianafeltherheartbeatingfast.It’sjustacoincidence,shethought.Itdoesn’tmeananything.
Clarissagaveherthepostcardwithasmile.“Persephonewasratheravengefulgoddess,asI’msureyouknow.”
Marianadidn’ttrustherselftospeak.Shenodded.
Clarissapeeredather.“Areyouallright,mydear?Youlookalittle—”
“I’mfine…it’sjust—”
ForasecondsheconsideredtryingtoexplainherfeelingstoClarissa.Butwhatcouldshesay?Thatshehadasuperstitiousfantasythisvengefulgoddesshadahandinherhusband’sdeath?Howcouldshepossiblysaythatoutloudwithoutsoundingcompletelyinsane?Instead,sheshrugged,andsaid,“It’salittleironic,that’sall.”
“What?Oh,youmeanTarabeingofnoblebirth—andbeingsacrificed,sotospeak?Indeed,amostunpleasantirony.”
“Andyoudon’tthinkitcouldbemorethanthat?”
“Meaningwhat?”
“Idon’tknow.Except…whywasitthere?Inherroom?Wheredidthepostcardcomefrom?”
Clarissawavedthepipedismissively.“Oh,that’seasy…TarawasdoingtheGreektragedypaperthisterm.It’shardlybeyondtherealmsofpossibilityforhertohavecopiedaquotationfromoneoftheplays,isit?”
“No…Isupposenot.”
“Itisalittleoutofcharacter,Igrantyouthat…AsI’msureProfessorFoscawouldattest.”
Marianablinked.“ProfessorFosca?”
“HetaughtherGreektragedy.”
“Isee.”Marianatriedtosoundcasual.“Didhe?”
“Oh,yes.Heistheexpert,afterall.He’squitebrilliant.Youshouldseehimlecturewhileyou’rehere.Veryimpressive.Doyouknowhislecturesarebyfarthebestattendedinthefaculty—studentsqueuefromdownstairstogetin,sittingontheflooriftheyrunoutofseats.Haveyoueverheardofsuchathing?”Clarissalaughed,thenaddedquickly,“Ofcourse,one’sownlectureshavealwaysbeenverywellattended.I’vebeenveryfortunateinthatregard.Butnottothatdegree,Imustadmit…Youknow,ifyou’recuriousaboutFosca,youshouldreallytalktoZoe.Sheknowshimbest.”
“Zoe?”Marianawastakenabackbythis.“Doesshe?Why?”
“Well,heisherdirectorofstudies,afterall.”
“Oh—Isee.”Mariananoddedthoughtfully.“Yes,ofcourse.”
8
MarianatookZoeoutforlunch.TheywenttoanearbyFrenchbrasseriethathadrecentlyopened.Itwaspopularwithstarvingstudentswhohadvisitingrelatives.
ItwasagooddealmoresophisticatedthantherestaurantsMarianarememberedfromherdaysasastudent.Itwasbusy,andtherewasthesoundofconversationandlaughter,andcutlerychimingonplates.Itsmelledenticinglyofgarlicandwineandsizzlingmeat.Anelegantwaiter,inawaistcoatandtie,directedMarianaandZoetoaboothinthecorner,whichhadawhitetableclothandblackleatherseats.
Somewhatextravagantly,Marianabeganbyorderinghalfabottleofroséchampagne.Thiswasunlikeher,andZoeraisedaneyebrow.
“Well,whynot?”saidMarianawithashrug.“Wecouldusecheeringup.”
“I’mnotcomplaining,”saidZoe.
Whenthechampagnearrived,thepinkbubbles,fizzingandsparklinginthickcrystalglasses,liftedtheirspiritsconsiderably.Theydidn’tdiscussTaraorthemurderatfirst.Theyjumpedaroundfromtopictotopic,catchingup.TheyspokeaboutZoe’sstudiesatSt.Christopher’s,andhowshefeltaboutenteringherthirdyear—andherfrustratinglackofclarityaboutherlifeandwhatshewantedtodo.
Andthentheyspokeaboutlove.MarianaaskedZoeifshewasseeinganyone.
“Ofcoursenot.They’resuchboyshere.”Sheshookherhead.“I’mtotallyhappybeingself-partnered.I’llneverfallinlove.”
Marianasmiled.Shesoundedsoyoung,shethought,whenshetalkedlikethat.Stillwaters.ShesuspectedthatdespiteZoe’sprotestations,whenshedidfall,itwouldbehardanddeep.
“Oneday,”Marianasaid,“you’llsee.It’llhappen.”
“No.”Zoeshookherhead.“No,thanks.AsfarasIcansee,loveonlybringssorrow.”
Marianahadtolaugh.“That’salittlepessimistic.”
“Don’tyoumeanrealistic?”
“Hardly.”
“WhataboutyouandSebastian?”
Marianawasunpreparedforthisblow,decidedlybelowthebelt,anddeliveredsocasually.Ittookherasecondtofindhervoice.
“Sebastianbroughtmealotmorethansorrow.”
Zoewasimmediatelyapologetic.“Sorry.Ididn’tmeantoupsetyou—I—”
“I’mnotupset.It’sokay.”
Butitwasn’tokay.Beinghere,inthislovelyrestaurant,drinkingchampagne,itallowedthemtopretendforawhile—toescapethemurderandalltheunpleasantness—andexisthappilyinalittlebubbleofthepresentmoment.ButnowZoehadpuncturedthatbubble,andMarianafeltallhersadness,worry,andfearfloodback.
Theyateinsilenceforamoment.ThenMarianasaidinalowvoice:
“Zoe.Howareyoudoing…?AboutTara?”
Zoedidn’treplyforasecond.Sheshrugged.Shedidn’tlookup.
“Okay.Notgreat.Ican’tstopthinkingaboutit—thewayshedied,Imean.Ican’t—getitoutofmyhead.”
ZoelookedatMariana.AndMarianafeltanacheoffrustratedempathy;shewantedtomakeitallokay,takeawayZoe’spain,thewaysheusedtowhenshewasalittlegirl—putabandageonthewoundandkissitbetter—butsheknewshecouldn’t.Shereachedacrossthetableandsqueezedherhand.
“Iknowit’shardtobelieverightnow—butitwillgeteasier.”
“Willit?”Zoeshrugged.“It’sbeenoverayearsinceSebastiandied—andit’snotanyeasier.Itstillhurts.”
“Iknow.”Mariananodded,unabletobringherselftocontradictZoe.Shewasright,sotherewasnopoint.“Allwecando,”shesaid,“istryandhonortheirmemory—thebestwaywecan.”
Zoeheldhergazeandnodded.“Okay.”
Marianawenton:“AndthebestwaytohonorTara…”
“Istocatchhim?”
“Yes.Andwewill.”
Zoeseemedcomfortedbythethought.Shenodded.“So,haveyoumadeanyprogress?”
“Ihave,asamatteroffact.”Marianasmiled.“IspoketoTara’sbedder,Elsie.Andshesaid—”
“OhGod.”Zoerolledhereyes.“Justsoyouknow,Elsieisasociopath.AndTarahatedher.”
“Oh,really?Elsiesaidtheywereveryclose…Elsiealsosaidthatyouwererudetoher.”
“Becauseshe’sapsycho,that’swhy.Shegivesmethecreeps.”
“Psycho”wasn’tthewordMarianawouldhaveused,butshedidn’tentirelydisagreewithZoe’simpression.“Allthesame,it’snotlikeyoutoberude.”Shehesitated.“Elsiealsoimpliedthatyouknowmoreaboutthisthanyou’retellingme.”
ShewatchedZoecarefully.ButZoejustshruggeditoff.
“Whatever.DidshealsotellyouTarabannedherfromherroom?BecauseElsiekeptcominginwithoutknocking,tryingtocatchhercomingoutoftheshower?Shewaspracticallystalkingher.”
“Isee.”Marianathoughtforamoment,andreachedintoherpocket.“Andwhatdoyouthinkaboutthis?”
ShepulledoutthepostcardshehadfoundinTara’sroom.Shetranslatedthequotation,andaskedZoewhatshethought.“Doyouthinkit’spossiblethatTaramighthavewrittenit?”
Zoeshookherhead.“Idoubtit.”
“Whydoyousaythat?”
“Well,Taradidn’treallygiveashitaboutGreektragedy,tobehonest.”
Marianacouldn’thelpbutsmile.“Anyideasaboutwhomighthavesentit?”
“Notreally.It’ssuchaweirdthingtodo.Suchacreepyquote.”
“WhataboutProfessorFosca?”
“Whatabouthim?”
“Doyouthinkitmightbehim?”
Zoeshrugged.Shedidn’tlookconvinced.“Imean,maybe—butwhysendamessageinAncientGreek?Andwhythatmessage?”
“Why,indeed?”Mariananoddedtoherself.SheeyedZoeforamoment.“Tellmeabouthim.Abouttheprofessor.”
“Whatabouthim?”
“Well,what’shelike?”
Zoeshrugged,asaslightfrownappearedonherface.“Youknow,Mariana.Ididtellyouallabouthim,whenhefirststartedteachingme.ItoldyouandSebastian.”
“Didyou?”Mariananoddedasitcamebacktoher.“Oh,yes—theAmericanprofessor.That’sit.Iremembernow.”
“Doyou?”
“Yes,itstuckinmyheadforsomereason.IrememberSebastianwonderedifyouhadacrushonhim.”
Zoepulledaface.“Well,hewaswrong.Ididn’t.”
Zoesaidthiswithsuchdefensiveness,suchsurprisingvehemence,thatMarianasuddenlywonderedifZoedidhaveacrush—andwhatifshedid?Itwashardlyunusualforstudentstohavecrushesontutors—particularlywhentheywereascharismaticandhandsomeasEdwardFosca.
Butthen,shemightbereadingZoewrong…Shemightbepickinguponsomethingelseentirely.
Shedecidedtoletitgo,forthemoment.
9
Afterlunch,theywalkedbacktocollegealongtheriver.
Zoeboughtachocolateicecream,andwasengrossedineatingit.Theywalkedincompanionablesilenceforamoment.
Allthetime,Marianawasconsciousofakindofdoubleimage—anotherfaintpictureprojectedontothisone:amemoryofZoeasalittlegirl,walkingonthisexactsamepathwayofbroken,cracked-upstones,eatinganothericecream.Itwasonthatvisit,whenMarianawasastudent,thatlittleZoefirstmetSebastian.SherememberedZoe’sshyness—andhowSebastiangotoveritwithalittlemagictrick,conjuringupapoundcoinfrombehindZoe’sear,atrickthatcontinuedtodelightherforyears.
AndnowSebastianwaswalkingwiththemtoo,ofcourse,anotherghostlyimageprojectedonthepresent.
Funny,thethingsyouremember.Marianaglancedatanoldweatheredwoodenbenchastheypassedit.Theyhadsatthere,onthatbench—sheandSebastian—afterMariana’sfinalexams,celebratingwithproseccomixedwithcrèmedecassis,andsmokingblueGauloisescigarettes,stolenbySebastianfromapartythenightbefore.Sherememberedkissinghim,andhowsweethiskissestasted,withthefainttraceofliqueurmingledwithtobaccoonhislips.
Zoeglancedather.“You’rebeingveryquiet.Youokay?”
Mariananodded.“Canwesitdownforasecond?”Andthen,quickly,“Notthisbench.”Shepointedatanotherbench,fartheralong.“Thatone.”
Theywalkedovertothebenchandsatdown.
Itwasapeacefulspot,inthedappledshadeofawillowtree,rightbythewater’sedge.Thewillow’sbranchesmovedinthebreeze,andtheendsweretrailinglazilyinthewater.Marianawatchedapuntdriftbyunderthebridge.
Thenaswanglidedpast,andhereyesfollowedit.
Theswanhadanorangebeak,withblackmarkingsarounditseyes.Itlookedalittleworseforwear.Itsonce-gleamingfeathersweredirtyanddiscoloredaroundtheneck,stainedgreenfromtheriver.Nonetheless,itwasanimpressivecreature—raggedbutserene,andhighlyimperious.Itturneditslongneck,andlookedinMariana’sdirection.
Wasitherimagination—orwasitstaringdirectlyather?
Forasecond,theswanheldherinitsgaze.Itsblackeyesseemedtobesizingherup,withacoolintelligence.
Andthentheappraisalwasover.Itturneditshead,andMarianawasdismissed—forgotten.Shewatcheditdisappearunderthebridge.
“Tellme,”shesaid,glancingatZoe.“Youdon’tlikehim,doyou?”
“ProfessorFosca?Ineversaidthat.”
“It’sjustanimpressionIhave.Doyou?”
Zoeshrugged.“Idon’tknow…Theprofessor—hedazzlesme,Isuppose.”
Marianawassurprisedbythis,andnotentirelyclearwhatshemeant.“Andyoudon’tlikebeingdazzled?”
“Ofcoursenot.”Zoeshookherhead.“IliketoseewhereI’mgoing.Andthere’ssomethingabouthim—Idon’tknowhowtodescribeit—it’slikehe’sacting—likehe’snotwhohepretendstobe.Likehedoesn’twantyoutoseewhohereallyis.ButmaybeI’mwrong…Everyoneelsethinkshe’samazing.”
“Yes,Clarissasaidhe’sverypopular.”
“You’venoidea.It’slikeacult.Thegirls,especially.”
Marianasuddenlythoughtofthegirlsinwhite,gatheredaroundFoscaattheserviceforTara.“YoumeanTara’sfriends?Thatgroupofgirls?Aren’ttheyyourfriendstoo?”
Zoeshookherheadforcefully.“Noway.Iavoidthemliketheplague.”
“Isee.Theydon’tseemverypopular.”
Zoegaveherapointedlook.“Dependsonwhoyouask.”
“Meaning?”
“Well,they’reProfessorFosca’sfavorites…Hisfanclub.”
“Whatdoyoumean,fanclub?”
Zoeshrugged.“They’reinhisprivatestudygroup.Asecretsociety.”
“Whysecret?”
“It’sonlyforthem—his‘special’students.”Zoerolledhereyes.“HecallsthemtheMaidens.Isn’tthatthedumbestthingyou’veeverheard?”
“TheMaidens?”Marianafrowned.“Aretheyallgirls?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Isee.”
AndMarianadidsee—orwasbeginningto,atleast,haveaninklingwhereallthismightbeleading,andwhyZoehadbeensoreticent.
“AndwasTaraoneoftheMaidens?”
“Yeah.”Zoenodded.“Shewas.”
“Isee.Andtheothers?CanImeetthem?”
Zoepulledaface.“Doyouwantto?They’renotexactlyfriendly.”
“Wherearetheynow?”
“Now?”Zoelookedatherwatch.“Well,ProfessorFoscaislecturinginahalfanhour.Everyonewillbethere.”
Mariananodded.“Thensowillwe.”
10
MarianaandZoearrivedattheEnglishFacultywithonlyafewmomentstospare.
Theylookedattheboardoutsidethelecture-theaterbuildingandconsultedtheschedulefortheday.TheafternoonlecturebyProfessorFoscawasinthebiggestroomupstairs.Theymadetheirwayupthere.
Thelecturetheaterwasalarge,well-litspace,withrowsofdarkwoodendesksdescendingtothestageatthebottom,wheretherewasapodiumandamicrophone
ClarissawasrightaboutthepopularityofFosca’slectures—theauditoriumwaspacked.Theyfoundacoupleofremainingseatshighupattheback.Therewasapalpablesenseofanticipationastheaudiencewaited,moreakintoaconcertortheaterperformancethanalectureonGreektragedy,Marianathought.
Andthen,ProfessorFoscaentered.
Hewasdressedinasmartblacksuit,andhishairwaspulledbackandtiedinatightknot.Hewasholdingafolderofnotes,andwalkedacrossthestage,uptothepodium.Headjustedthemicrophone,surveyedtheroomforamoment,thenbowedhishead.
Therewasarippleofexcitementintheaudience.Alltalkingfadedtoahush.Marianacouldn’thelpbutfeelalittleskeptical—herbackgroundingrouptheorytoldher,asarule,tobesuspiciousofanygroupinlovewithateacher;thosesituationsrarelyendedwell.ToMariana,Foscalookedmorelikeabroodingpopstarthanalecturer,andshehalfexpectedhimtoburstintosong.Butwhenhelookedup,hedidn’tsing.Tohersurprise,hiseyeswerefulloftears.
“Today,”Foscasaid,“IwanttotalkaboutTara.”
Marianaheardwhisperingaroundherandsawheadsturning,looksbeingexchanged;thiswaswhatthestudentshadbeenhopingfor.Sheevennoticedacoupleofthemstartingtocry.
Fosca’sowntearsspilledoutofhiseyesandfelldownhischeeks,withouthimbrushingthemaway.Herefusedtoreacttothem,andhisvoiceremainedcalmandsteady.Heprojectedsowell,Marianathought,hedidn’treallyneedthemike
WhathadZoesaid?Hewasalwaysperforming?Ifso,theperformancewassogoodthatMariana—liketherestoftheaudience—couldn’thelpbeingaffected.
“Asmanyofyouknow,”Foscasaid,“Tarawasoneofmystudents.AndI’mstandinghereinastateof—heartbreak.Inearlysaid‘despair.’Iwantedtocanceltoday’slecture.ButwhatIlovedmostaboutTarawasherstrength,herfearlessness—andshewouldn’twantustogiveintodespair,andbedefeatedbyhate.Wemustgoon.Thatisouronlydefenseagainstevil…andthebestwaytohonorourfriend.I’mheretodayforTara.Andsoareyou.”
Therewasthunderousapplause,andcheersfromtheaudience.Heacknowledgeditwithabowofthehead.Hecollectedhisnotesandlookedupagain.“Andnow,ladiesandgentlemen—towork.”
ProfessorFoscawasanimpressivespeaker.Herarelyconsultedhisnotes—andgavetheimpressionofimprovisingtheentirelecture.Hewasanimated,engaging,witty,impassioned—and,mostimportant,present;heseemedtobecommunicatingdirectlywitheachmemberofhisaudience.
“Today,”hesaid,“Ithoughtitwouldbeagoodideatotalkabout,amongotherthings,theliminalinGreektragedy.Whatdoesthatmean?Well,thinkofAntigone,pushedtoachoicebetweendeathanddishonor;orIphigenia,preparingherselftodieforGreece;orOedipus,decidingtoblindhimselfandwanderthehighways.Theliminalisbetweentwoworlds—ontheveryedgeofwhatitmeanstobehuman—whereeverythingisstrippedawayfromyou;whereyoutranscendthislife,andexperiencesomethingbeyondit.Andwhenthetragediesareworking,theygiveusaglimpseofwhatthatfeelslike.”
Then,Foscashowedaslide,projectedontothelargescreenbehindhim.Itwasamarblereliefoftwowomen,standingoneithersideofanudemaleyouth,eachwithherrighthandextendedtowardhim.
“Anyonerecognizethesetwoladies?”
Aseaofshakingheads.Marianahadaslightinklingofwhotheymightbe,andsheverymuchhopedshewaswrong.
“Thesetwogoddesses,”hesaid,“areabouttoinitiateayoungmanintothesecretcultofEleusis.Theyare,ofcourse,Demeterandherdaughter,Persephone.”
Marianacaughtherbreath.Shedidherbestnottobedistracted.Shetriedtofocus.
“ThisistheEleusiniancult,”Foscasaid.“ThesecretriteofEleusis—thatgivesyouexactlythatliminalexperienceofbeingbetweenlifeanddeath—andoftranscendingdeath.Whatwasthiscult?Well,EleusisisthestoryofPersephone—theMaiden,asshewasknown—thegoddessofdeath,queenoftheUnderworld…”
AsFoscawasspeaking,forasecondhecaughtMariana’seye.Hesmiled,eversoslightly.
Heknows,shethought.HeknowswhathappenedtoSebastian—andthat’swhyhe’sdoingthis.Totormentme.
Buthow—howcouldheknow?Hecouldn’tknow.Itwasn’tpossible.Shehadtoldnoone,notevenZoe.Itwasjustacoincidence—that’sall;itmeantnothing.Sheforcedherselftocalmdown,andconcentrateonwhathewassaying.
“WhenshelostherdaughteratEleusis,Demeterplungedtheworldintowintrydarkness,untilZeuswasforcedtointervene.HeallowedPersephonetoreturnfromthedead,everyyear,forsixmonths,whichisourspringandsummer.Andthen,forthesixmonthssheresidesintheUnderworld,wehavefallandwinter.Lightanddark—lifeanddeath.ThisjourneyPersephonegoeson—fromlifetodeathandbackagain—gavebirthtothecultofEleusis.Andthere,atEleusis,attheentrypointtotheUnderworld,youtoocouldtakepartinthissecretrite—thatgivesyouthesameexperienceasthegoddess.”
Heloweredhisvoice,andMarianacouldseeheadsleaningforward,neckscraningtocatcheveryword.Hehadtheminthepalmofhishand.
“TheexactnatureoftheritesatEleusishaveremainedsecretforthousandsofyears,”hesaid.“Therites,themysteries,theywere‘unspeakable’—becausetheywereanattempttoinitiateusintosomethingbeyondwords.Peoplewhoexperiencedthemwereneverthesameagain.Therewerestoriesofvisionsandghostlyvisitationsandjourneystotheafterlife.Astheriteswereopentoeveryone—men,women,slaves,orchildren—youdidn’tevenhavetobeGreek.TheonlyrequirementwasthatyouunderstoodGreek,soyoucouldunderstandwhatwasbeingsaidtoyou.Inpreparation,youhadadrinkcalledkykeon—whichwasmadeofbarley.Andonthisparticularbarleytherewasablackfunguscalledergot,whichhadhallucinogenicproperties;thousandsofyearslater,LSDwouldbemadefromit.WhethertheGreeksknewitornot,theywerealltrippingslightly.Whichmightaccountforsomeofthevisions.”
Foscasaidthiswithawink,anditgotalaugh.Heletthelaughtersubside,andwentoninamoreserioustone.
“Imagineit.Justforasecond.Imaginebeingthere—imaginetheexcitementandtheapprehension.AllthosepeoplemeetingatmidnightbytheOracleoftheDead—andbeingledbythepriestsintothechambersoftherock—intothecaveswithin.Theonlylightsweretorchescarriedbythepriests.Howdarkandsmokyitmusthavebeen.Cold,wetstone,goingdeeperanddeeperunderground,intoavastchamber—aliminalspace,ontheveryborderoftheUnderworld.TheTelesterion,wherethemysteriestookplace.Itwashuge—forty-twotoweringmarblecolumns—aforestmadeofstone.Itcouldaccommodatethousandsofinitiatesatonetimeandwasbigenoughtohouseanothertemple—theAnaktoron,thesacredspacewhereonlytheprieststhemselvescouldenter—wheretherelicsoftheMaidenwerekept.”
Fosca’sblackeyessparkledashespoke.Hewasseeingitallbeforehim,asheconjureditupwithhiswords,asifcastingaspell.
“We’llneverknowexactlywhathappenedthere—themysteryofEleusisremains,afterall,amystery—butatdawn,theinitiatesemergedintothelight,havingundergoneanexperienceofdeathandrebirth—andwithanewunderstandingofwhatitmeanstobehuman—tobealive.”
Hepaused,andstaredattheaudienceforamoment.Hespokeinadifferenttone,now—quiet,impassioned,emotional.
“Letmetellyousomething—thisiswhatthoseoldGreekplaysareabout.Whatitmeanstobehuman.Whatitmeanstobealive.Andifyoumissthatwhenyoureadthem—ifallyouseeisabunchofdeadwords—thenyou’remissingthewholedamnthing.Idon’tjustmeanintheplays—Imeaninyourlives,rightnow.Ifyou’renotawareofthetranscendent,ifyou’renotawaketothegloriousmysteryoflifeanddeaththatyou’reluckyenoughtobepartof—ifthatdoesn’tfillyouwithjoyandstrikeyouwithawe…youmightaswellnotbealive.That’sthemessageofthetragedies.Participateinthewonder.Foryoursake—forTara’ssake—liveit.”
Youcouldhaveheardapindrop.Andthen—sudden,loud,emotional,spontaneousapplause.
Theapplausewentonforsometime.
11
ZoeandMarianaqueuedonthestairstoexitthelecturetheater.
“Well?”Zoesaid,givingheracuriouslook.“Whatdidyouthink?”
Marianalaughed.“Youknow,‘dazzling’isagoodword.”
Zoesmiled.“Toldyouso.”
Theyemergedintothesunlight.Marianaconsideredthecrowdsofstudentsmillingaround.“Aretheyhere?TheMaidens?”
Zoenodded.“Overthere.”
Shepointedatsixyoungwomengatheredaroundabench,talking.Fourofthemwerestanding,twoweresitting;acoupleweresmoking.
Unliketheotherstudentsmillingaroundthefaculty,thesegirlsweren’tscruffyoreccentricallydressed.Theirclotheswereelegantandlookedexpensive.Theyalltookcareofthemselves,andweremade-up,well-groomed,manicured.Mostdistinctiveofallwasthewaytheyheldthemselves:withanobviousairofconfidence,evensuperiority.
Marianaconsideredthemforamoment.“Theydon’tlookfriendly;you’reright.”
“They’renot.They’resuchsnobs.Theythinkthey’reso‘important.’Iguesstheyare—butstill…”
“Whydoyousaythat?Whyaretheyimportant?”
Zoeshrugged.“Well…”Shepointedatatallblondeperchedonthearmrestofthebench.“Forinstance—that’sCarlaClarke.HerdadisCassianClarke.”
“Who?”
“Oh,Mariana.He’sanactor.He’sreallyfamous.”
Marianasmiled.“Isee.Okay.Andtheothers?”
Zoeproceededtodiscreetlypointouttheothermembersofthegroup.“Theoneontheleft,theprettyonewiththeshortdarkhair?That’sNatasha.She’sRussian.Herdad’sanoligarchorsomething—heownshalfofRussia…DiyaisanIndianprincess—shegotthehighestfirstintheuniversitylastyear.She’spracticallyagenius—she’stalkingtoVeronica—herdadisasenator—Ithinkheranforpresident—”SheglancedatMariana.“Gettheidea…?”
“Ido.Youmeanthey’reintelligent—andhighlyprivileged.”
Zoenodded.“Justhearingabouttheirholidaysisenoughtomakeyouthrowup.It’salwaysyachtsandprivateislandsandskichalets…”
Marianasmiled.“Icanimagine.”
“Nowondereveryonehatesthem.”
Marianaglancedather.“Doeseveryonehatethem?”
Zoeshrugged.“Well,everyone’sjealous,anyway.”
Marianathoughtforasecond.“Okay.Let’sgiveitashot.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Let’stalktothem—aboutTara,andFosca.”
“Now?”Zoeshookherhead.“Noway.That’llneverwork.”
“Whynot?”
“Theydon’tknowyou,sothey’llclamup—orturnonyou—particularlyifyoumentiontheprofessor.Trustme,don’t.”
“Soundslikeyou’reafraidofthem.”
Zoenodded.“Iam.Terrified.”
BeforeMarianacouldrespond,shesawProfessorFoscawalkoutofthelecture-theaterbuilding.Hewentuptothegirls,andtheygatheredcloselyaroundhim,whisperingintimately.
“Comeon,”saidMariana.
“What?No,Mariana,don’t—”
ButsheignoredZoe,andmarchedovertoFoscaandthestudents.
HelookedupasMarianaapproached.Hesmiled.
“Goodafternoon,Mariana,”Foscasaid.“IthoughtIsawyouinthelecturetheater.”
“That’sright.”
“Ihopeyouenjoyedit.”
Marianasearchedfortherightwords.“Itwasvery…informative.Veryimpressive.”
“Thankyou.”
Marianalookedattheyoungwomengatheredaroundtheprofessor.“Aretheseyourstudents?”
Foscaglancedattheyoungwomenwithaslightsmile.“Someofthem.Someofthemoreinterestingones.”
Marianasmiledatthestudents.Theyreturnedhergazestonily,ablankwall.
“I’mMariana,”shesaid.“Zoe’saunt.”
Shelookedaround,butZoehadn’tfollowedheroverandwasnowheretobeseen.Marianaturnedbacktotheothers,smiling.
“Youknow,Icouldn’thelpbutnoticeyouattheserviceforTara.Youallstoodout,wearingwhite.”Shegavethemasmile.“I’mcuriouswhy.”
Therewasaslighthesitation.Thenoneofthem,Diya,glancedatFosca,andsaid,“Itwasmyidea.InIndia,wealwayswearwhiteatburials.AndwhitewasTara’sfavoritecolor,so…”
Sheshrugged,andanothergirlcompletedthesentenceforher.
“Soweworewhiteinherhonor.”
“Shehatedblack,”saidanother.
“Isee,”saidMariana,nodding.“That’sinteresting.”
Shesmiledagainatthegirls.Theydidn’tsmileback.
Therewasaslightpause.MarianaglancedatFosca.“Professor.Ihaveafavortoask.”
“Goahead.”
“Well,thedeanhasaskedme,asapsychotherapist,tohaveafewinformalchatswiththepupils,seehowtheyarecopingwithwhat’shappened.”Sheglancedatthegirls.“CanIborrowsomeofyourstudents?”
Marianasaidthisasinnocentlyasshecould,butnow,asshekeptlookingatthegirls,shecouldfeelFosca’slaser-likeeyesonher—staringather,tryingtosizeherup.Shecouldimaginehimthinking,wonderingifsheweregenuine—orsecretlytryingtocheckuponhim.Heglancedathiswatch.
“We’reabouttohaveaclass,”hesaid.“ButIdaresayIcanspareacoupleofthem.”Henoddedattwoofthegirls.“Veronica?Serena?Howaboutit?”
ThetwoyoungwomenglancedatMariana.Itwasimpossibletoreadtheirfeelings
“Sure,”saidVeronicawithashrug.ShespokewithanAmericanaccent.“Imean,I’vealreadygotashrink…ButI’llhaveadrinkifshe’sbuying.”
Serenanodded.“Iwilltoo.”
“Okay,then.Adrink,itis.”MarianasmiledatFosca.“Thankyou.”
Fosca’sdarkeyesfixedonMariana’sface.Hesmiledbackather.
“Apleasure,Mariana.Isincerelyhopeyougeteverythingyouwant.”
12
MarianafoundZoeskulkingbytheentranceasshelefttheEnglishFaculty.SheaskedZoetojointhem—andtheofferofadrinkmadehercautiouslyaccept.TheymadetheirwaytoaSt.Christopher’sCollegebarthatwaslocatedinacornerofMainCourt.
Thecollegebarwasentirelymadeofwood—old,warped,andknottedfloorboards,oak-paneledwalls,andalargewoodenbar.Marianaandthethreeyoungwomensattogetheratthelargeoaktablebythewindow,whichoverlookedanivy-coveredwalloutside.MarianasatnexttoZoe,oppositeVeronicaandSerena.
MarianahadrecognizedVeronicaastheyoungwomanwhogaveanemotionalBiblereadingatTara’sservice.HernamewasVeronicaDrake,andshecamefromawealthyAmericanpoliticalfamily—herfatherwasasenatorinWashington.
Veronicawasstriking,andknewit.Shehadlongblondhair,whichshehadahabitoftossingandplayingwithasshespoke.Hermakeupwasheavy,emphasizinghermouthandherbigblueeyes.Shehadagreatfigure,whichsheshowedoffintightjeans.Andshecarriedherselfwithconfidence,withtheunselfconscioussenseofauthorityofsomeonewhohasknowneveryadvantagesincebirth.
VeronicaorderedapintofGuinness,whichshedrankquickly.Shespokealot.Therewassomethingeversoslightlystiltedaboutherspeech.Marianawonderedifshe’dhadelocutionlessons.WhenVeronicarevealedthat,aftergraduation,sheintendedtobeanactress,Marianawasn’tsurprised.Shethoughtthatbeneaththemakeup,deportment,andelocution,therewasanotherpersonentirely,butMarianahadnoideawhothatwas,andsuspectedVeronicamightnoteither.
ItwasVeronica’stwentiethbirthdayinaweek’stime.Shewastryingtoorganizeaparty,despitethecurrentgrimcircumstancesincollege.
“Lifemustgoon,right?It’swhatTarawouldhavewanted.Anyway,I’mhiringoutaprivateroomattheGrouchoClubinLondon.Zoe,youmustcome,”sheadded,somewhatunconvincingly.
Zoegruntedandfocusedonherdrink.
Marianaglancedattheothergirl—SerenaLewis,silentlysippingwhitewine.Serenahadaslim,petitebuild,andthewayshesatthereremindedMarianaofalittleperchingbird,watchingeverythingbutsayingnothing.
UnlikeVeronica,Serenaworenomakeup—notthatsheneededto;shehadaclearandflawlesscomplexion.Herlongdarkhairwastightlyplaited,andsheworeapalepinkblouseandaskirtthatwentbelowtheknee.
SerenawasfromSingapore,buthadbeenbroughtupinaseriesofEnglishboardingschools.Shehadasoftvoice,withadistinctlyupper-classEnglishaccent.SerenawasasreservedasVeronicawasforward.Shekeptcheckingherphone;herhandwasdrawntoitlikeamagnet.
“TellmeaboutProfessorFosca,”saidMariana.
“Whatabouthim?”
“IheardheandTarawerequiteclose.”
“Idon’tknowwhereyouheardthat.Theyweren’tcloseatall.”VeronicaturnedtoSerena.“Werethey?”
Oncue,Serenalookedupfromtextingonherphone.Sheshookherhead.“No,notatall.TheprofessorwaskindtoTara—butshejustusedhim.”
“Usedhim?”Marianasaid.“Howdidsheusehim?”
“Serenadidn’tmeanthat,”Veronicasaid,interrupting.“ShemeansTarawastedhistimeandenergy.ProfessorFoscaputsalotofworkintous,youknow.He’sthebesttutoryoucouldfind.”
Serenanodded.“Heisthemostwonderfulteacherinthewholeworld.Themostbrilliant.And—”
Marianacutshorttheeulogy.“Iwaswonderingaboutthenightofthemurder.”
Veronicashrugged.“WewerewithProfessorFoscaallevening.Hewasgivingusaprivatetutorialinhisrooms.Tarawasmeanttobethere,butshedidn’tshowup.”
“Andwhattimewasthis?”
VeronicaglancedatSerena.“Itstartedateight,right?Andwewentonuntil,what?Ten?”
“Yeah,Ithinkso.Tenorjustafter.”
“AndProfessorFoscawaswithyoutheentiretime?”
Bothgirlsansweredatonce.
“Yeah,”saidVeronica.
“No,”saidSerena.
TherewasaflashofirritationinVeronica’seyes.ShegaveSerenaanaccusinglook.“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”
Serenalookedflustered.“Oh,I—nothing.Imean,heonlyleftforacoupleofminutes,that’sall.Justtohaveacigaretteoutside.”
Veronicabackeddown.“Yeah,hedid.Iforgot.Hewasonlygoneaminute.”
Serenanodded.“Hedoesn’tsmokeinsidewhenI’mtherebecauseIhaveasthma.He’sreallyconsiderate.”
Herphonesuddenlybeepedasatextcamethrough.Shepouncedonit.Herfacelitupasshereadthemessage.
“I’vegottogo,”Serenasaid.“Ihavetomeetsomeone.”
“Oh,what?”Veronicarolledhereyes.“Themysteryman?”
Serenaglaredather.“Stopit.”
Veronicalaughed,andsaidinasingsongvoice,“Serenahasasecretboyfriend.”
“He’snotmyboyfriend.”
“Butheisasecret—shewon’ttelluswhoheis.Evenme.”Shegaveaknowingwink.“Iwonder…ishemarried?”
“No,he’snotmarried,”saidSerena,goingred.“He’snotanything—justafriend.Ihavetogo.”
“Actually,sodoI,”saidVeronica.“Ihavearehearsal.”ShesmiledsweetlyatZoe.“It’ssuchashameyoudidn’tgetintoTheDuchessofMalfi.It’sgoingtobeanamazingproduction.Nikos,thedirector,isagenius.He’sgoingtobereallyfamousoneday.”VeronicaglancedtriumphantlyatMariana.“I’mplayingtheDuchess.”
“Ofcourseyouare.Well,thankyoufortalkingtome,Veronica.”
“Noproblem.”
VeronicagaveMarianaaslylook;thensheleftthebar,followedbySerena.
“Ugh…”Zoepushedawayheremptyglassandgavealongsigh.“Toldyou.Totallytoxic.”
Marianadidn’tdisagree.Shedidn’tlikethemmucheither.
Moreimportant,Marianahadthefeeling,honedfromyearsofworkingwithpatients,thatVeronicaandSerenahadbothbeenlyingtoher.
Butaboutwhat—andwhy?
13
Foryears,Iwasafraideventoopenthecupboardthatcontainedit.
ButtodayIfoundmyselfstandingonachair,reachingupandtakingholdofthesmallwickerbox—thiscollectionofthingsIwantedtoforget.
Isatbythelight,andopenedit.Isiftedthroughthecontents:thesad,lonelylovelettersIwrotetoacoupleofgirlsbutneversent—acoupleofchildishstoriesaboutfarmlife—somebadpoemsIhadforgottenabout.
ButthelastthinginthisPandora’sboxwassomethingIrememberedalltoowell.ThebrownleatherjournalIkeptthatsummer,whenIwastwelve—thesummerIlostmymother.
Iopenedthejournalandflickedthroughthepages—longentrieswritteninimmature,childishhandwriting.Itlookedsotrivial.Butifitweren’tforthecontentsofthesepages,mylifewouldbeverydifferent.
Sometimesitwashardtodecipherthewriting.Itwaserraticandscrawled,particularlytowardtheend,asifwritteninsomehaste,inafitofmadness—orsanity.AsIsatthere,itwasasifafogstartedtolift.
Apathappeared,leadingallthewaybacktothatsummer.Backtomyyouth.
It’safamiliarjourney.Imakeitoftenenoughinmydreams:turningontothewindingdirtroad,headingtowardthefarmhouse.
Idon’twanttogoback.
Idon’twanttoremember…
Andyet—Ineedto.Becausethisismorethanjustaconfession.Thisisasearchforwhatwaslost,forallthevanishedhopesandforgottenquestions.It’saquestforexplanation:fortheterriblesecretshintedatinthatchild’sjournal—whichInowconsultlikeafortune-teller,peeringintoacrystalball.
ExceptIdon’tseekthefuture.
Iseekthepast.
14
Atnineo’clock,MarianawenttomeetFredattheEagle.
TheEaglewastheoldestpubinCambridge,aspopularnowasithadbeeninthe1600s.Itwasacollectionofsmall,interconnectingwood-paneledrooms.Itwaslitbycandlelight,andsmelledofroastlamb,rosemary,andbeer.
ThemainroomwasknownastheRAFbar.Severalpillarshelduptheunevenceiling,whichwascoveredwithgraffitifromWorldWarII.AsMarianawaitedatthebar,shebecameconsciousofthemessagesfromdeadmenaboveherhead.BritishandAmericanpilotsusedpens,candles,andcigarettelighterstoinscribetheirnamesandsquadronnumbersontheceiling,andtheyscribbleddrawings—likecartoonsofnakedwomeninlipstick.
Marianagottheattentionofthebaby-facedbarman,wearingagreen-and-black-checkedshirt.Hesmiledasheremovedasteamingtrayofglassesfromadishwasher.“WhatcanIgetyou,love?”
“Aglassofsauvignonblanc,please.”
“Comingup.”
Hepouredheraglassofwhite.Marianapaidforit,thenlookedforsomewheretosit.
Therewereyoungcoupleseverywhere,holdinghandsandhavingromanticconversations.Sherefusedtoletherselflookatthecornertable,wheresheandSebastianalwaysusedtosit.
Shecheckedherwatch.Tenminutespastnine.
Fredwaslate—perhapshewasn’tcoming.Shefelthopefulatthethought.Shewouldwaittenminutes,thengo.
Shegaveinandglancedatthecornertable.Itwasempty.Andshewentoverandsatdown.
Shesatthere,strokingthecracksinthewoodentablewithherfingertips,justlikesheusedto.Sittinghere,sippingthecoldwineandshuttinghereyes,listeningtothetimelesssoundofchatterandlaughterallaround,shecouldimagineherselftransportedbackintothepast—aslongshekepthereyesshut,shecouldbethere,nineteenyearsold,waitingforSebastiantoappearinhiswhiteT-shirtandhisfadedbluejeanswiththeripacrosstheknee.
“Hello,”hesaid.
Butitwasthewrongvoice—notSebastian’s—andMarianafeltasplitsecondofconfusionbeforesheopenedhereyes.Andthespellwasbroken.
ThevoicebelongedtoFred,whowasholdingapintofGuinnessandgrinningather.Hiseyeswerebrightandhelookedflushed.
“Sorrytobelate.Mysupervisionranover,soIcycledasfastasIcould.Icollidedwithalamppost.”
“Areyouallright?”
“I’mallright.Thelamppostgottheworstofit.MayI?”
Mariananodded,andhesatdown—inSebastian’schair.ForasecondMarianathoughtaboutaskingiftheycouldmovetoanothertable.Butshestoppedherself.HowdidClarissaputit?Shehadtostoplookingoverhershoulder.Shehadtofocusonthepresent.
Fredgrinned.Heproducedasmallpacketofnutsfromhispocket.HeofferedthemtoMariana.Sheshookherhead.
Hetossedacoupleofcashewsintohismouthandcrunchedonthem,keepinghiseyesonMariana.Therewasanawkwardpause,asshewaitedforhimtosaysomething.Shewasfeelingannoyedwithherself.Whatwasshedoingherewiththisearnestyoungman?Whatastupidideaitwas.Shedecidedtobeuncharacteristicallyblunt.Afterall,shehadnothingtolose.
“Listen,”shesaid.“Nothingisgoingtohappenbetweenus.Youunderstand?Ever.”
Fredchokedonacashewnut,andstartedcoughing.Hegulpedsomebeerandmanagedtocatchhisbreath.“Sorry,”hesaid,lookingembarrassed.“I—Iwasn’texpectingthat.Messagereceived.You’reoutofmyleague,obviously.”
“Don’tbesilly.”Marianashookherhead.“That’snotit.”
“Thenwhy?”
Sheshrugged,uncomfortable.“Amillionreasons.”
“Nameone.”
“You’remuchtooyoungforme.”
“What?”Fred’sfacecolored.Helookedindignantandembarrassed.“That’sridiculous.”
“Howoldareyou?”
“Notthatyoung—I’mnearlytwenty-nine.”
Marianalaughed.“That’sridiculous.”
“Why?Howoldareyou?”
“Oldenoughnottoroundmyageup.I’mthirty-six.”
“Sowhat?”Fredshrugged.“Agedoesn’tmatter.Notwhenyoufeel—howyoufeel.”Heglancedather.“Youknow,whenIfirstsawyou,onthetrain,Ihadthestrongestpremonitionthat,oneday,Iwouldaskyoutomarryme.Andyouwouldsayyes.”
“Well,youwerewrong.”
“Why?Areyou…married?”
“Yes—no,Imean—”
“Don’ttellmeheleftyou?Whatanidiot.”
“Yes,Ithinksofrequently.”Marianasighed,thenspokequicklytogetitoverwith.“He—died.Aboutayearago.It’shard—totalkabout.”
“I’msorry.”Fredlookedcrestfallen.Hedidn’tspeakforamoment.“Ifeelstupidnow.”
“Don’tbe.It’snotyourfault.”
Marianafeltsotired,suddenly,andfrustratedwithherself.Shedrainedherwine.“Ishouldgo.”
“No,notyet.I’venottoldyouwhatIthinkaboutthemurder.AboutConrad.That’swhyyou’rehere,isn’tit?”
“Well?”
Fredlookedatherwithasly,sidelongglance.“Ithinkthey’vegotthewrongman.”
“Havethey?Whatmakesyousaythat?”
“I’vemetConrad.Iknowhim.He’snomurderer.”
Mariananodded.“Zoedoesn’tthinksoeither.Butthepolicedo.”
“Well,I’vebeenthinking.I’vehalfamindtotryandsolveitmyself.Ilikesolvingpuzzles.Ihavethatkindofbrain.”Fredsmiledather.“Howaboutit?”
“Howaboutwhat?”
“Youandme,”Fredsaidwithagrin.“Teamingup?Solvingittogether?”
Marianathoughtforasecond.Shecouldprobablyusehishelp,andshewavered—butsheknewshe’dregretit.Sheshookherhead.
“Idon’tthinkso,butthanks.”
“Well,letmeknowyouifyouchangeyourmind.”Hetookoutapenfromhispocketandscrawledhisphonenumberonthebackofthebeermat.Hehandedittoher.“Here.Ifyouneedanything—anythingatall—callme.”
“Thanks—butI’mnotstayinglong.”
“Youkeepsayingthat,butyou’restillhere.”Fredgrinned.“Ihaveagoodfeelingaboutyou,Mariana.Ahunch.I’mabigbelieverinhunches.”
Astheyleftthepub,FredchattedhappilytoMariana.“You’refromGreece,right?”
Shenodded.“Yes.IgrewupinAthens.”
“Ah,Athensisalotoffun.IloveGreece.Haveyoubeentomanyislands?”
“Afewofthem.”
“HowaboutNaxos?”
Marianafroze.Shestoodthereawkwardlyonthestreet,suddenlyunabletolookathim.
“What?”shewhispered.
“Naxos?Iwentlastyear.I’mabigswimmer—well,diving,mainly—andit’sgreatforthat.Haveyoubeen?Youshouldreally—”
“Ihavetogo.”
MarianaturnedawaybeforeFredcouldseethetearsinhereyes,andshekeptwalkingoffwithoutlookingback.
“Oh,”sheheardhimsay.Hesoundedalittleshocked.“Okay,then.I’llseeyoulater—”
Marianadidn’treply.It’sjustacoincidence,shetoldherself.Itdoesn’tmeananything—forgetit,it’snothing.Nothing.
Shetriedtobanishthementionoftheislandfromhermind,andkeptwalking.
15
AssheleftFred,Marianahurriedbacktothecollege.
Itwasgettingcolderintheeveningnow,andtherewasaslightchillintheair.Mistwasspreadingabovetheriver—upahead,thestreetdisappearedinacloudyhaze,themisthoveringlikethicksmokeovertheground.
Marianasoonbecameawareshewasbeingfollowed.
ThesamesetoffootstepshadbeenbehindhersoonaftershelefttheEagle.Itwasaheavytread,aman’stread;forceful,hard-soledbootsrepetitivelyhittingthecobbles,echoingalongthedesertedstreet—andalittlewaybehindher.Itwashardtojudgejusthownearthefootstepswere,notwithoutturningaround.Shesummonedhercourage,andglancedoverhershoulder.
Therewasnoonethere—notasfarasshecouldsee,whichwasn’tfar.Cloudsofmistenvelopedthestreet,swallowingit.
Marianakeptgoing.Sheturnedacorner.
Afewsecondslater,thefootstepsfollowedher.
Shespedup.Sodidthefootsteps.
Shelookedoverhershoulder—andthistime,shesawsomeone.
Theshadowofaman,notfarbehindher.Hewaswalkingawayfromthestreetlight,againstthewall,keepinginthedark.
Marianacouldfeelherheartbeatingfast.Shelookedaroundforanescape—andshesawamanandawoman,ontheothersideofthestreet,walkingarminarm.Shequicklysteppedoffthecurbandwalkedacrosstheroadtowardthem.
Butjustasshereachedthepavement,theywentupsomestepstoafrontdoor,unlockedit,anddisappearedinside.
Marianakeptwalking,listeningforfootsteps.Andglancingoverhershoulder,therehewas—amanwearingdarkclothing,hisfaceinshadow—crossingthemistystreetafterher.
Marianaglancedatanarrowalleywaytoherleft.Shemadeasuddendecision,andturneddownthealley.Withoutlookingback,shebrokeintoarun.
Sheranalongthealley,allthewaydowntotheriver.Thewoodenbridgelayaheadofher.Shekeptgoingandhurriedoverit—acrossthewater,totheotherside.
Itwasdarkerhere,downbythewater,withnostreetlampstoilluminatethegloom.Themistwasthicker,feelingcoldandwetagainstherskin,anditsmelledicy,likesnow.
Marianacarefullybentbacksomebranchesofatree.Thenshesteppedarounditandhidbehindit.Sheheldontothetrunk,feelingitssmoothwetbark,andtriedtobeasstillandsilentaspossible.Shetriedtoslowherbreathingdown,andquietit.
Andshewatched,andwaited.
Sureenough,afewsecondslater,sheglimpsedhim—orhisshadow—sneakoverthebridgeandontothebank.
Shelostsightofhim,butcouldstillhearhisfootsteps,onsoftergroundnow,onearth—prowlingaround,barelyafewfeetaway.
Andthen,silence.Nosoundatall.Sheheldherbreath.
Wherewashe?Wheredidhego?
Shewaitedforwhatseemedaninterminabletime,justtomakesure.Hadhegone?Itseemedhehad.
Shecautiouslyemergedfrombehindthetree.Ittookherafewsecondstofindherbearings.Thensherealized—theriverwasthereinfrontofher,gleaminginthedarkness.Allshehadtodowasfollowit.
Shehurriedalongtheriverbank,allthewaytothebackentranceofSt.Christopher’s.There,shecrossedthestonebridge—andwentuptothebigwoodengateinthebrickwall.
Shereachedout,grippedthecoldbrassring,andpulled.Thegatedidn’tmove.Itwaslocked.
Marianahesitated,unsurewhattodo—then…sheheardfootsteps.
Thesameurgentfootsteps.Thesameman.
Andhewasgettingcloser.
Marianalookedaround—butcouldn’tseeanything—justcloudsofmistdisappearingintothedarkshadows.
Butshecouldhearhimapproaching,crossingthebridgetowardher.
Shetriedthegateagain—butitwouldn’tbudge.Shewastrapped.Shecouldfeelherselfstartingtopanic.
“Whoisit?”shecalledintothedarkness.“Who’sthere?”
Therewasnoreply.Justfootstepsgettingcloser,closer—
Marianaopenedhermouthtocryout—
Then,suddenly,onherleft,alittlefartheralong,therewasacreakingsound.Asmallgateopenedinthewall.Itwaspartlyhiddenbyabush,andMarianahadn’tregistereditbefore.Itwasathirdofthesizeofthemaingate,andmadeofplain,unvarnishedwood.Thebeamofatorchshonefromit,outintothedarkness.Itshoneontoherface,blindingher.
“Everythingallright,miss?”
SherecognizedMorris’svoiceatonce,andfeltinstantlyrelieved.Hemovedthelightoutofhereyes,andshesawhimstandupstraight,havingstoopeddowntopassthroughthelowgate.Morriswasdressedinablackovercoatandblackgloves.Hepeeredather.
“Areyouallright?”hesaid.“Justdoingmyrounds.Thebackgateislockedatteno’clock,youshouldknowthat.”
“Iforgot.Yes—I’mfine.”
Heshonethetorcharoundthebridge.Marianafollowedthelightanxiouslywithhereyes.Nosignofanyone.
Shelistened.Silence.Nofootsteps.
Hehadgone.
“Canyouletmein?”shesaid,glancingbackatMorris.
“Certainly.Gointhisway.”Hegesturedatthesmallgatebehindhim.“Ioftenuseitasashortcut.Goalongthepassageandyou’llcomeoutinMainCourt.”
“Thankyou,”Marianasaid.“I’msograteful.”
“Notatall,miss.”
Shewalkedpasthim,uptotheopengate.Shebowedherheadandstoopedslightly,andwentinside.Theancientbrickpassagewasverydarkandsmelledofdamp.Thegateshutbehindher.SheheardMorrislockit.
Marianacautiouslymadeherawayalongthepassage,thinkingaboutwhathadhappened.Shehadamomentofdoubt—hadsomeonereallybeenfollowingher?Ifso,who?Orwasshejustbeingparanoid?
Inanycase,shewasrelievedtobebackinSt.Christopher’s.
Sheemergedintoanoak-paneledcorridor,partofthebuildingthathousedthebutteryinMainCourt.Shewasabouttoexitthroughthemaindoorway—whensheglancedback.Andshestopped.
Therewereaseriesofportraitshangingalongthedimlylitpassage.Attheendofthepassage,oneportraitcaughthereye.Itoccupiedawalltoitself.Marianastaredatit.Itwasafacesherecognized.
Sheblinkedafewtimes,unsureshewasseeingcorrectly—andthensheslowlyapproachedit,likeawomaninatrance.
Shereacheditandstoodthere,herfacelevelwiththefaceinthepainting.Shestaredatit.Yes,itwashim.
ItwasTennyson.
Butitwasn’tTennysonasanoldman,withwhitehairandalongbeard,asinotherpaintingsthatMarianahadseen.ThiswasAlfredTennysonasayoungman.Justaboy,really.
Hecouldn’thavebeenmorethantwenty-ninewhenitwaspainted.Helookedevenyounger.Butitwasunmistakablyhim.
HehadoneofthehandsomestfacesMarianahadeverseen.Andseeinghimhere,closeup,hisbeautyquitetookherbreathaway.Hehadastrongangularjaw,sensuouslips,anddark,tousledshoulder-lengthhair.ForamomentshewasremindedofEdwardFosca,butshebanishedhimfromhermind.Foronething,theeyeswerequitedifferent.Fosca’seyesweredark,andTennyson’swerelightblue,wateryblue
Hallamhadprobablybeendeadaroundsevenyearswhenthiswaspainted,meaningTennysonhadanotherlongdecadeaheadofhimbeforeInMemoriamwasfinallycompleted.Anothertenyearsofgrief.
Andyet—thiswasn’tafaceravishedbydespair.Therewassurprisinglylittle,ifany,detectableemotioninthisface.Nosadness,nohintofmelancholia.Therewasstillness,andglacialbeauty.Butlittleelse.
Why?
Itwas,Marianathought,squintingatthepicture,asifTennysonwerelookingatsomething…somethingintheneardistance.
Yes,shethought—hispaleblueeyesappearedtobestaringatsomethingjustoutofsight,somethingofftooneside,behindMariana’shead.
Whatwashelookingat?
Shewalkedawayfromthepaintingfeelingratherdisappointed—asifshehadbeenpersonallyletdownbyTennyson.Shedidn’tknowwhatshehadhopedtofindinhiseyes—alittlecomfort,perhaps?—solaceorstrength;evenheartbreakwouldhavebeenpreferable.
Butnotnothing
Shebanishedtheportraitfromhermind.Shehurriedbacktoherroom.
Outsideherdoor,somethingwaswaitingforher.
Ablackenvelopeonthefloor.
Marianapickeditupandopenedit.Inside,therewasapieceofnotepaper,foldedinhalf.Sheunfoldeditandreadit.
Itwasahandwrittenmessageinblackink,inelegant,slantedwriting:
DearMariana,Ihopeyouarewell.Iwaswonderingifyoumightcaretojoinmeforalittlechattomorrowmorning?Howaboutteno’clockintheFellows’Garden?Yours,EdwardFosca16
IfI’dbeenborninAncientGreece,therewouldhavebeennumerousbadomensandhoroscopespredictingdisasteratmybirth.Eclipses,blazingcomets,anddoom-ladenportents—
Asitwas,therewasnothing—andinfact,mybirthwascharacterizedbyanabsenceofevent.Myfather,themanwhowouldwarpmylifeandmakemeintothismonster,wasn’tevenpresent.Hewasplayingagameofcardswithsomeofthefarmhands,smokingcigarsanddrinkingwhiskeyintothenight.
IfItrytopicturemymother—ifIsquint—Icanjustaboutseeher,hazyandoutoffocus—mybeautifulmother,justagirlatnineteen,inaprivateroominthehospital.Shecanhearthesoundofnursestalkingandlaughingattheendofthecorridor.Sheisalone,butthisisnotaproblem.Alone,shecanfindalevelofpeace—shecanthinkherthoughtswithoutfearofattack.She’slookingforwardtoherbaby,sherealizes,becausebabiesdon’ttalk.
Sheknowsherhusbandwantsason—butsecretlyshepraysit’sagirl.Ifit’saboy,he’llgrowintoaman.
Andmenarenottobetrusted.
She’srelievedwhenthecontractionsresume.Theyareadistractionfromthinking.Shepreferstofocusonthephysical:thebreathing,thecounting—thesearingpainthatwipesallthoughtsfromhermind,likechalkscrubbedfromablackboard.Thenshegivesintoit,theagony,andlosesherself—
Until,atdawn,Iwasborn.
Tomymother’sdismay,Iwasnotagirl.Whenmyfatherheardthenews,thathehadaboy,hewaselated.Farmers,likekings,haveneedofmanysons.Iwashisfirst.
Preparingtocelebratemybirth,hearrivedatthehospitalwithabottleofcheapsparklingwine.
Butwasitacelebration?
Oracatastrophe?
Wasmyfatealreadydecided,eventhen?Wasittoolate?Shouldtheyhavesmotheredmeatbirth?Leftmetodieandrotonthehillside?
Iknowwhatmymotherwouldsay,ifshecouldreadthis,mysearchforculpability,myquestforblame.Shewouldhavenopatiencewithit.
Nooneisresponsible,she’dsay.Don’tglorifytheeventsofyourlifeandtrytogivethemmeaning.Thereisnomeaning.Lifemeansnothing.Deathmeansnothing.
Butshedidn’talwaysthinkthatway.
Therewasmorethanoneofher.Therewasanotherpersononce,whopressedflowersandunderlinedpoetry:asecretpastIfoundhiddeninashoebox,atthebackofacupboard.Oldphotos,flattenedflowers,badlyspelledlovepoemsfrommyfathertomymother,writtenduringtheircourtship.Butmyfatherquicklystoppedwritingpoetry.Andmymotherstoppedreadingit.
Shemarriedamanshebarelyknew.Andhetookherawayfromeveryoneshehadeverknown.Hetookhertoaworldofdiscomfort—ofcold,earlymorningsandall-day-longstrenuousphysicallabor:weighingthelambs,shearingthem,feedingthem.Again,andagain.Andagain.
Thereweremagicalmoments,ofcourse—likelambingseason,whentinyinnocentlittlecreatureswouldpopuplikewhitemushrooms.Thatwasthebestofit.
Butsheneverletherselfgetattachedtothelambs.Shelearnednotto.
Theworstofitwasdeath.Constant,never-endingdeath—andallitsassociatedprocesses:markingtheonestobekilled,whichweregainingtoolittleweightortoomuch,ornotfallingpregnant.Andthenthebutcherwouldappear,inthathorriblebloodstainedsmockofhis.Andmyfatherwouldhover,eagertohelp.Heenjoyeddoingtheslaughtering.Heseemedtorelishit.
Mymotherwouldalwaysrunandhidewhileitwenton,smugglingabottleofvodkaintothebathroom,intotheshower,whereshethoughthertearscouldn’tbeheard.AndIwouldgotothefarthestpartofthefarm,asfarawayasIcouldget.I’dcovermyears,butIstillheardthescreaming.
WhenI’dreturntothefarmhouse,thestenchofdeathwaseverywhere.Bodies,cutupintheopenbarn,nearesttothekitchen—andguttersrunningredwithblood.Therewasastinkofflesh,asitwasweighedandpackagedinourkitchen.Bitsofcongealedmeatstucktothetable,andpoolsofbloodcollectedonthesurfaces,circledbyfatflies.
Theunwantedpartsofthebodies—entrails,guts,andotherremains—wereburiedbymyfather.He’dthrowtheminthepitatthebackofthefarm.
ThepitwassomethingIalwaysavoided.Itterrifiedme.MyfatherwouldthreatentoburymealiveinthepitifIdisobeyedhim,ormisbehaved—orbetrayedhissecrets.
Noonewilleverfindyou,he’dsay.Noonewilleverknow.
Iusedtoimaginebeingburiedaliveinthepit—surroundedbytherottingcarcasses,writhingwithmaggotsandwormsandothergrayflesh-eatingcreatures—andIwouldshiverwithfear.
IstillshuddernowwhenIthinkaboutit.
17
Atteno’clockthenextmorning,MarianawenttomeetProfessorFosca.
ShearrivedattheFellows’Gardenasthechapelclockstruckten.Theprofessorwasalreadythere.Hewaswearingawhiteshirt,unbuttonedaroundtheneck,andadark-graycorduroyjacket.Hishairwasdown,fallingaroundhisshoulders.
“Goodmorning,”hesaid.“I’mhappytoseeyou.Iwasn’tsureyou’dcome.”
“I’mhere.”
“Andsopunctual.Whatdoesthatsayaboutyou,Mariana,Iwonder?”
Hesmiled.Marianadidn’tsmileback.Shewasdeterminedtogiveawayaslittleaspossible.
Foscaopenedthewoodengateandgesturedintothegarden.“Shallwe?”
Shefollowedhiminside.TheFellows’Gardenwasonlyforusebythefellowsandtheirguests—itwasn’tpermittedforundergraduatestoenter.Marianacouldn’trecallhavingbeeninsidebefore.
Shewasimmediatelystruckbyhowpeacefulitwas,howbeautiful.ItwasalowTudorsunkengarden—surroundedbyanold,unevenbrickwall.Bloodredvalerianflowersweregrowinginbetweenthebricks,inthecracks,veryslowlyrippingthewallapart.Andcolorfulplantsgrewallthewayaroundtheperimeter,inpinksandbluesandfieryreds.
“It’slovely,”shesaid.
Foscanodded.“Oh,yes,indeed.Ioftencomehere.”
TheybeganwalkingalongthepathasFoscamusedonthebeautyofthegardenandCambridgeingeneral.“There’sakindofmagichere.Youfeelittoo,don’tyou?”Heglancedather.“I’msureyoufeltitfromthestart—asIdid.Icanpictureyou—anundergraduate,freshofftheboat,newtothiscountry—asIwas—newtothislife.Unsophisticated—lonely…AmIright?”
“Areyoutalkingaboutmeoryou?”
Foscasmiled.“Isuspectwebothhadverysimilarexperiences.”
“Idoubtit.”
Foscaglancedather.Hestudiedherforasecond,asifheweregoingtosaysomething—butdecidedagainstit.Theywalkedinsilence.
Eventually,hesaid,“You’reveryquiet.NotatallwhatIwasexpecting.”
“Whatwereyouexpecting?”
Foscashrugged.“Idon’tknow.Aninquisition.”
“Inquisition?”
“Interrogation,then.”Heofferedheracigarette.Sheshookherhead.
“Idon’tsmoke.”
“Noonedoesanymore—exceptme.I’vetriedandfailedtoquit.Noimpulsecontrol.”
Heputacigaretteinhismouth.ItwasanAmericanbrand,withawhitefilterontheend.Hestruckamatch,litit—andblewoutalonglineofsmoke.Marianawatchedthesmokedanceintheairanddisappear.
“Iaskedyouheretomeetme,”hesaid,“becauseIfeltweshouldtalk.Ihearyou’vebeentakinganinterestinme.Askingmystudentsallkindsofquestions…Bytheway,”headded,“Icheckedwiththedean.Asfarasheisaware,heneverrequestedyoutalktoanystudents,informallyorotherwise.Sothequestionis,Mariana,whatthehellareyouupto?”
MarianaglancedathimandsawFoscastaringather,tryingtoreadhermindwithhispiercingeyes.Sheevadedhisgazeandshrugged.“I’mintrigued,that’sall…”
“Aboutmeinparticular?”
“AbouttheMaidens.”
“TheMaidens?”Foscalookedsurprised.“Whyisthat?”
“Itseemsodd,havingaspecialsetofstudents.Surelyitonlyfostersrivalriesandresentmentsamongtheothers?”
Foscasmiledandtookadragonhiscigarette.“You’reagrouptherapist,aren’tyou?So,ofallpeople,youshouldknowsmallgroupsprovideaperfectenvironmentforexceptionalmindstoflourish…That’sallI’mdoing—creatingthatspace.”
“Acocoon—forexceptionalminds?”
“Wellput.”
“Femaleminds.”
Foscablinkedandgaveheracoollook.“Themostintelligentmindsareoftenfemale…Isthatsohardtoaccept?There’snothingsinistergoingon.I’matamefellowwithagenerousalcoholallowance,that’sall—ifanyoneisbeingabusedhere,it’sme.”
“Whosaidanythingaboutabuse?”
“Don’tbecoy,Mariana.Icanseeyouhavecastmeasthevillain—apredatorpreyingonmyvulnerablestudents.Exceptnowyou’vemettheseyoungladies,youcanseethere’snothingvulnerableaboutthem.Nothinguntowardhappensatthesemeetings—it’sjustasmallstudygroup,discussingpoetry,enjoyingwineandintellectualdebate.”
“Exceptnowoneofthosegirlsisdead.”
ProfessorFoscafrowned.Therewasanunmistakableflashofangerinhiseyes.Hestaredather.“Doyouthinkyoucanseeinsidemysoul?”
Marianalookedaway,embarrassedbythequestion.“No,ofcoursenot.Ididn’tmean—”
“Forgetit.”Hetookanotherdragofhiscigarette,allangerapparentlygone.“Theword‘psychotherapist,’asyouknow,comesfromtheGreekpsyche,meaning‘soul,’andtherapeia,meaning‘healing.’Areyouahealerofsouls?Willyouhealmine?”
“No.Onlyyoucandothat.”
Foscadroppedhiscigaretteontothepath.Hegrounditintotheearthwithhisfoot.“You’redeterminedtodislikeme.Idon’tknowwhy.”
ToMariana’sannoyance,sherealizedshedidn’tknowwhyeither.“Shallwegoback?”
Theystartedwalkingbacktothegate.HekeptglancingatMariana.“I’mintriguedbyyou,”hesaid.“Ifindmyselfwonderingwhatyou’rethinking.”
“I’mnotthinking.I’m—listening.”
Andshewas.Marianamightnotbeadetective,butshewasatherapist,andsheknewhowtolisten.Tolistennotonlytowhatwasbeingsaid,butalsotoeverythingunsaid,allthewordsunspoken—thelies,evasions,projections,transferences,andotherpsychologicalphenomenathatoccurredbetweentwopeople,andthatrequiredaspecialkindoflistening.MarianahadtolistentoallthefeelingsFoscawasunconsciouslycommunicatingtoher.Inatherapeuticcontext,thosefeelingswerecalledthetransference,andwouldtellhereverythingsheneededtoknowaboutthisman,whohewas—andwhathewashiding.Aslongasshecouldkeepherownemotionsoutofit,ofcourse—whichwasn’teasy.Shetriedtolistentoherbodyastheywalked,andcouldfeelarisingtension:atightjaw,teethclenchedintoabite.Shefeltaburningsensationinherstomach,apricklinginherskin—whichsheassociatedwithanger.
Butwhoseanger?Hers?
No—itwashis
Hisanger.Yes,shecouldfeelit.Hewassilentnowastheywalked—butunderneaththesilence,therewasfury.Hewasdisowningit,ofcourse,butitwasthere,bubblingbeneaththesurface:somehow,Marianahadangeredhimduringthismeeting;shehadbeenunpredictable,hardtoread,difficult—andhadtriggeredhisrage.Shesuddenlythought,Ifhecangetthismad,thisfast—whathappensifIreallyprovokehim?
Shewasn’tsureshewantedtofindout.
Then,astheyreachedthegate,Foscastopped.Heglancedather,weighingsomethingup.Hemadeadecision.“I’mwondering,”hesaid,“ifyou’dcaretocontinuethisconversation…overdinner?Howabouttomorrownight?”
Hegazedather,waitingforherresponse.Marianamethisgazewithoutblinking
“Okay,”shesaid.
Foscasmiled.“Good…Myrooms,ateight?Andonemorething—”
Beforeshecouldstophim,heleanedforward—
Andhekissedheronthelips.
Itonlylastedasecond.BythetimeMarianacouldreact,hehadalreadypulledback.
Foscaturnedandwentthroughtheopengate.Marianaheardhimwhistlingashewalkedaway.
Shebrushedawaythekisswithherfist.
Howdarehe?
Shefeltasifshehadbeenassaulted—attacked;andthathehadwonsomehow,succeededinwrong-footing,intimidatingher.
Asshestoodthere,feelinghotandcoldinthemorningsun,burningwithanger,sheknewonethingforcertain.
Thistime,therageshewasfeelingwasn’this.
Itwashers.
Allhers.
18
AfterleavingFosca,MarianatookoutthebeermatFredhadgivenher.Sheranghisnumber,andaskedifhewasfreetomeet.
Twentyminuteslater,shemetFredbySt.Christopher’smaingate.Shewatchedhimchainhisbiketotherailings.Hereachedintohisbagandpulledoutacoupleofredapples.
“I’mcallingthisbreakfast.Wantone?”
Heofferedheranapple.Shewasautomaticallyabouttorefusewhensherealizedshewashungry.Shenodded.
Fredlookedpleased.Heselectedthebetterofthetwoapples,polisheditonhissleeve,andhandedittoher.
“Thanks.”Marianatookitandbitintotheapple.Itwascrispandsweet.
Fredsmiledather,speakingbetweenmouthfuls.“Iwashappyyoucalled.Lastnight…youleftabitsuddenly—IthoughtIupsetyouorsomething.”
Marianashrugged.“Itwasn’tyou—itwas…Naxos.”
“Naxos?”Fredpeeredather,confused.
“It’s—wheremyhusbanddied.He…drownedthere.”
“Oh,Jesus.”Fred’seyeswidened.“OhGod.I’msosorry—”
“Youdidn’tknow?”
“HowcouldIknow?Ofcoursenot.”
“Soit’sjustacoincidence?”Shewatchedhimcarefully.
“Well…Itoldyou.I’malittlepsychic.SomaybeIwaspickinguponit—that’swhyNaxospoppedintomyhead.”
Marianafrowned.“I’msorry,Idon’tbelievethat.”
“Well,it’strue.”Therewasanawkwardpause.ThenFredwenton,quickly,“Look,I’msorryifIhurtyourfeelings—”
“Youdidn’t,really.Itdoesn’tmatter.Forgetit.”
“Isthatwhyyoucalledme?Totellmethis?”
Marianashookherhead.“No.”
Shewasn’tsurewhyshehadcalledhim.Itwasprobablyamistake.ShehadtoldherselfsheneededFred’shelp,butintruththiswasanexcuse—shewasprobablyjustlonely,andupsetbyhermeetingwithFosca.Shefeltannoyedwithherselffordoingit—buttoolate,hewasherenow.Theymightaswellmakethebestofit.“Comeon,”shesaid.“Iwanttoshowyousomething.”
Theymadetheirwayinsidethecollege,andwalkedacrossMainCourt,andthenthroughthearchway,intoErosCourt.
Astheyenteredthecourtyard,MarianaglancedupatZoe’sroom.Zoewasn’tthere—shewasinaclasswithClarissa.Marianapurposelyhadn’ttoldheraboutFred,becauseMarianadidn’tquiteknowhowtoexplainhimtoZoe,ortoherself.
AstheynearedTara’sstaircase,Mariananoddedattheground-floorwindow.“ThisisTara’sroom.Onthenightshedied,herbeddersawherleavethisroomataquartertoeightexactly.”
FredgesturedatthegateattherearofErosCourt—whichledoutontotheBacks.“Andshewentoutthatway?”
“No.”Marianashookherhead.Shepointedintheotherdirection,throughthearchway.“ShewentoutthroughMainCourt.”
“Hmm.That’sodd…Thebackgateleadsontotheriver—thequickestwaytoParadise.”
“Whichsuggests…shewasgoingsomewhereelse.”
“TomeetConrad,likehesaid?”
“Possibly.”Marianathoughtforamoment.“There’ssomethingelse—Morris,theporter,sawTaraleavebythefrontgateateighto’clock.Soifsheleftherroomataquartertoeight—?”
Sheleftthequestionhanging.Fredfinishedit.
“Whydidittakeherfifteenminutestowalkadistancethattakesaminuteortwoatmost?Isee…Well,itcouldbeanything.Shecouldhavebeentextingsomeone,orseenafriend,or—”
Ashewastalking,MarianalookedattheflowerbedunderTara’swindow—apatchofpurpleandpinkfoxgloves.
Andthere,ontheearth,wasacigarettebutt.Shebentdownandpickeditup.Ithadadistinctivewhitefilter.
“That’sanAmericanbrand,”saidFred.
Mariananodded.“Yes…likeProfessorFoscasmokes.”
“Fosca?”Fredspokeinalowvoice.“Iknowabouthim.I’vegotfriendsinthiscollege.I’veheardthestories.”
Marianaglancedathim.“Whatstories?Whatareyoutalkingabout?”
“Cambridgeisasmallplace.Everybodytalks.”
“Andwhatdotheysay?”
“ThatFosca’sfamous—orinfamous…Hispartiesare,anyway.”
“Whatparties?Whatdoyouknow?”
Fredshrugged.“Notmuch.They’reonlyforhisstudents.ButImean—Iheardthey’reprettywild.”Hestaredatherclosely,readingherexpression.“Youthinkhehadsomethingtodowithit?WithTara’smurder?”
Marianadeliberated,thengavein.“Listen,”shesaid.“I’lltellyou.”
TheywalkedaroundtheperimeterofthecourtyardasshetoldhimallaboutTara’saccusationsagainstFosca—andhissubsequentdenial,hiscorroboratedalibi;andhow,despitethis,Marianawasunabletoletitgo.SheexpectedFredtolaughorscoff,orattheveryleastdisbelieveher—buthedidn’t.Andshefeltgratefultohimforthat.Shefoundherselfwarmingtohim,and,forthefirsttime,feelinglessalone.
“UnlessVeronicaandSerenaandtheothersarelying,”Marianafinishedbysaying,“Foscawaswiththemthewholetime—exceptforacoupleofminutes,whenhewentoutsideforacigarette…”
“Plentyoftime,”saidFred,“ifhehadseenTarathroughthewindow,togodownandmeethere,inthecourt.”
“AndarrangetomeetherinParadiseatteno’clock?”
“That’sright.Whynot?”
Marianashrugged.“Hestillcouldn’thavedoneit.IfTarawasmurderedatten,hecouldn’thavegotthereintime.Ittakestwentyminutestowalkthere,atleast,andprobablylongerbycar…”
Fredthoughtforasecond.“Unlesshewentbywater.”
Marianalookedathimblankly.“What?”
“Maybehetookapunt.”
“Apunt?”Shealmostlaughed,itsoundedsoabsurd.
“Whynot?Noonewatchestheriver—noonewouldnoticeapunt—particularlyatnight.Hecouldarriveandleaveinvisibly…inacoupleofminutes.”
Marianathoughtaboutit.“Perhapsyou’reright.”
“Canyoupunt?”
“Notverywell.”
“Ican.”Fredgrinned.“Asithappens,I’mquitegood—ifIsaysomyself…Howaboutit?”
“Howaboutwhat?”
“Wegototheboathouse,borrowapunt—andtestitout?Whynot?”
BeforeMarianacouldrespond,herphonerang.ItwasZoe.Sheansweredimmediately.
“Zoe?Areyouokay?”
“Whereareyou?”Zoe’svoicehadthaturgent,anxiousquality,tellingMarianathatsomethingwaswrong.
“I’mincollege.Whereareyou?”
“I’mwithClarissa.Thepolicewerejusthere—”
“Why?Whathappened?”
Therewasapause.Marianacouldhearhertryingnottocry.Zoespokeinalowwhisper.“It’shappenedagain.”
“What—doyoumean?”
MarianaknewwhatZoemeant.Sheneededhertospellitout,justthesame.
“Anotherstabbing,”Zoesaid.“Theyfoundanotherbody.”
PartThree
Theperfectplot,accordingly,musthaveasingle,andnot(assometellus)adoubleissue;thechangeinthehero’sfortunesmustbenotfrommiserytohappiness,butonthecontraryfromhappinesstomisery;andthecauseofitmustlienotinanydepravity,butinsomegreaterroronhispart.
—ARISTOTLE,Poetics
1
Thebodyhadbeenfoundinafield,ontheedgeofParadise.Itwasmedievalcommonland,forwhichfarmershadancientgrazingrights,andafarmer,puttinghisherdofcowsouttograzethatmorning,hadmadethegrislydiscovery.
Marianawasanxiousaboutgettingthereassoonaspossible.DespiteZoe’sfuriousprotestations,Marianarefusedtoallowhertoaccompanyher.ShewasdeterminedtoshieldZoefromasmuchunpleasantnessaspossible.Andthiswasboundtobeunpleasant.
Instead,shesetoffwithFred.Heusedthemaponhisphonetoguidethemtothefield.
Astheywalkedalongtheriver,pastthecollegesandmeadows,Marianabreathedinthesmellofgrassandearthandthetrees—andwastransportedbacktothatfirstautumn,allthoseyearsago,whenshehadarrivedinEngland,havingexchangedthehumidheatofGreeceforthecharcoalskiesandwetgrassofEastAnglia.
Sincethen,theEnglishcountrysidehadneverlostitsthrillforMariana—untiltoday.Todayshefeltnothrill,justasicksenseofdread.Thesefieldsandmeadowssheloved,thesepathwaysshe’dwalkedwithSebastian,wereforevertainted.Nolongersynonymouswithloveandhappiness—fromnowon,theywouldonlyevermeanbloodanddeath.
Theywalkedmainlyinsilence.Afterabouttwentyminutes,Fredpointedupahead.“Thereitis.”
Infrontofthemlayafield.Attheentrytothefieldwasalineofvehicles—policecars,newsvans—parkedbehindoneanotheralongthedirttrack.MarianaandFredwalkedpastthecarsuntiltheyreachedthepolicecordon,whereseveralofficerswerekeepingthepressatbay.Therewasalsoasmallcrowdofonlookers.
Marianaglancedattheonlookers,andsuddenlyrememberedtheghoulishcrowdthathadgatheredonthebeachtowatchasSebastian’sbodywasdraggedfromthewater.Sherememberedthosefaces—expressionsofconcernmaskingprurientexcitement.God,she’dhatedthem—andnow,seeingthesameexpressionshere,shefeltsick.
“Comeon,”shesaid.“Let’sgo.”
ButFreddidn’tmove.Helookedalittleuncertain.“Wherearewegoing?”
Marianapointedpastthepolicecordon.“Thatway.”
“Howarewegoingtogetin?They’llseeus.”
Marianalookedaround.“Howaboutyougooveranddistractthem—givemethechancetoslippast?”
“Sure.Icandothat.”
“Youdon’tmindnotcoming?”
Fredshookhishead.Hedidn’tmeethereye.“Tobehonest,I’mabitsqueamishaboutblood—bodiesandthings.I’dratherwaithere.”
“Okay.Iwon’tbelong.”
“Goodluck.”
“Youtoo,”shesaid.
Hetookamomenttosummonuphisnerve.Thenhewalkedovertothepoliceofficers.Hestartedtalkingtothem,askingthemquestions—andMarianaseizedherchance.
Shewentuptothecordon,lifteditup,andduckedunderneath.
Thenshestraightenedupandkeptgoing—butonlytookafewstepsbeforesheheardavoice.
“Hey!Whatareyoudoing?”
Marianaturnedaround.Apoliceofficerwaschargingtowardher.
“Stop.Whoareyou?”
BeforeMarianacouldreply,theywereinterruptedbyJulian.Heemergedfromaforensictent,andwavedattheofficer.“It’sallright.She’swithme.She’sacolleague.”
ThepoliceofficergaveMarianaamistrustfullook,butsteppedaside.MarianawatchedhimdepartandsheturnedtoJulian.“Thanks.”
Juliansmiled.“Noteasilydiscouraged,areyou?Ilikethat.Let’shopewedon’tbumpintotheinspector.”Hewinkedather.“Doyouwanttohavealook?Thepathologist’sanoldfriendofmine.”
Theywalkedtothetent.Thepathologistwasstandinginfrontofit,textingonhisphone.Hewasamaninhisforties,tall,completelybald,withpiercingblueeyes.
“Kuba,”saidJulian,“I’vebroughtacolleague,ifthat’sokay.”
“Byallmeans.”KubaglancedatMariana.HespokewithaslightPolishaccent.“Iwarnyou,it’snotaprettysight.Worsethanlasttime.”
Hegesturedaroundthebackofthetentwithhisglovedhand.Marianatookadeepbreathandwalkedaround.
Andthereitwas.
ItwasthemosthorriblethingMarianahadeverseen.Shefeltafraidtolookatit.Itdidn’tseemreal.
Thebodyofayoungwoman,ortheremainsofone,wasstretchedoutinthegrass.Thetorsowasslashedbeyondrecognition—allthatwasleftwasamixtureofbloodandguts,mudandearth.Theheadwasuntouched,andtheeyeswereopen,seeingandunseeing—inthisgaze,apathledtooblivion.
Marianakeptstaringattheeyes,unabletolookaway;transfixedbythisMedusa’slook—eyesthathadthepowertopetrifyevenafterdeath…
AlinefromTheDuchessofMalfiflashedintohermind—“Coverherface,mineeyesdazzle—shediedyoung.”
Shediddieyoung.Tooyoung.Shewasonlytwenty.Itwasherbirthdaynextweek—shewasorganizingaparty.
Marianaknewthisbecausesherecognizedheratonce.
ItwasVeronica.
2
Marianastartedwalkingawayfromthebody.
Shefeltphysicallysick.Shehadtoputsomedistancebetweenherselfandwhatshehadseen.Shewantedtogetaway,butsheknewtherewasnorunningaway—itwasasightthatwouldhauntherfortherestofherdays.Theblood,thehead,thosegapingeyes—
Stopit,shethought.Stopthinking.
Shekeptwalkinguntilshereachedaricketywoodenfence,formingaboundarybetweenthisfieldandthenext.Itfeltunsteadyandliabletocollapse;sheleanedagainstit—flimsysupport,butbetterthannothing.
“Youallright?”
Julianappearedatherside.Hegaveheraconcernedlook.
Mariananodded.Sherealizedhereyeswerefulloftears.Shebrushedthemaway,embarrassed.“I’mfine.”
“Whenyou’veseenasmanycrimescenesasIhave,yougetusedtoit.Forwhatit’sworth,Ithinkyou’rebrave.”
Marianashookherhead.“I’mnot,notatall.”
“AndyouwererightaboutConradEllis.Hewasincustodyatthetimeofthemurder,sothatletshimoffthehook…”JulianglancedatKubaasheapproachedthem.“Unlessyoudon’tthinktheywerekilledbythesameperson?”
Kubashookhishead,pullingoutavapefromhispocket.“No,it’sthesameguy.SameMO—Icountedtwenty-twostabwounds.”Hetookadragandexhaledcloudsofvapor.
Marianapeeredathim.“Therewassomethinginherhand.Whatwasit?”
“Ah.Younoticedthat?Apinecone.”
“Ithoughtso.Howodd.”
Julianglancedather.“Whydoyousaythat?”
Marianashrugged.“Justtherearen’tanypinetreesaroundhere.”Shethoughtforasecond.“I’mwonderingifthere’saninventoryofeverythingfoundwithTara’sbody?”
“Funnyyousaythat,”Kubasaid.“Thesamethingoccurredtome—soIchecked.AndtherewasalsoapineconefoundwithTara’sbody.”
“Apinecone?”saidJulian.“Howinteresting.Itmustmeansomethingtohim…Butwhat,Iwonder?”
Ashesaidthat,MarianasuddenlyrememberedoneoftheslidesProfessorFoscahadshowedinhislectureonEleusis:amarblereliefofapinecone.
Yes,shethought.Itdoesmeansomething.
Julianwaslookingaround,frustrated.Heshookhishead.“Howdoeshedoit?Killsthemintheopenair—thenvanishes,coveredinblood,leavingnowitnesses,nomurderweapon,nodiscernibleevidence…nothing.”
“Justaglimpseintohell,”saidKuba.“Butyou’rewrongabouttheblood.Hewouldn’tnecessarilybecoveredinblood.Afterall,thestabbingtakesplacepostmortem.”
“What?”Marianastaredathim.“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Exactlythat.Hecuttheirthroatsfirst.”
“Areyousure?”
“Oh,yes.”Kubanodded.“Inbothcases,thecauseofdeathwasadeepincision—severingthetissuesallthewaytotheboneintheneck.Deathmusthavebeeninstantaneous.Judgingbythedepthofthewound…Isuspecthestruckfrombehind.IfImay?”
HesteppedbehindJulian,andelegantlydemonstrated—usinghisvapeasaknife.MarianawincedashemimedslashingJulian’sthroat.
“Yousee?Thearterialspraygoesforward.Then,layingthebodyontheground,duringthestabbing,thebloodjusttricklesdownward,intotheearth.Sohemighthavenobloodonhimatall.”
Marianashookherhead.“But—thatdoesn’tmakeanysense.”
“Whynot?”
“Becausethat’snot—afrenzy.That’snotlosingcontrol,that’snotrage—”
Kubashookhishead.“No.Theopposite.He’sverycalm,incontrol—likehe’sperformingakindofdance.It’sveryprecise.It’s…rytualistyczny…”HesearchedforthewordinEnglish.“Ritualistic…?Isthatcorrect?”
“Ritualistic?”
Marianastaredathim—asaseriesofimagesflashedthroughhermind:EdwardFoscaonstage,lecturingaboutreligiousrites;thepostcardinTara’sroom,withanAncientGreekoracledemandingsacrifice;and—atthebackofhermind—theindeliblememoryofabrightbluesky,withaburningsunandaruinedtemplededicatedtoavengefulgoddess.
Therewassomething—somethingsheneededtothinkabout.ButbeforeshecouldpressKubafurther,therewasavoicebehindher.
“What’sgoingonhere?”
Theyallturnedaround.ChiefInspectorSanghawasstandingthere.Hedidnotlookhappy.
3
“What’sshedoinghere?”saidSangha,frowning.
Juliansteppedforward.“Mariana’swithme.Ithoughtshemighthavesomeinsight—andshe’sbeenextremelyhelpful.”
Sanghaunscrewedthelidfromhisflask,balanceditprecariouslyonthefencepost,andpouredsometea.Helookedtired,Marianathought—shedidn’tenvyhimhisjob.Hisinvestigationhadjustdoubledinsize,andhe’dlosthisonlysuspect.Shewashesitanttomakethingsworse,buthadnochoice.
“ChiefInspector,”shesaid,“areyouawarethevictimisVeronicaDrake?ShewasastudentatSt.Christopher’s.”
Theinspectorstaredatherwithaslightlookofdismay.“Areyousure?”
Mariananodded.“AndareyoualsoawareProfessorFoscataughtbothvictims?Theywerebothpartofhisspecialgroup.”
“Whatspecialgroup?”
“Ireallythinkyoushouldaskhimaboutit.”
InspectorSanghadrainedhisteabeforeresponding.“Isee.Anymoretips,Mariana?”
Marianadidn’tlikehistone,butshesmiledpolitely.“That’sitforthemoment.”
Sanghapouredthedregsfromthecupontotheground.Heshookthelidandscreweditbackon.
“Ihavealreadyaskedyouoncenottointrudeonmyinvestigation.Soletmeputitlikethis.IfIcatchyoutrespassingonanothercrimescene,Iwillarrestyoumyself.Okay?”
Marianaopenedhermouthtoreply.ButJulianrespondedfirst.
“Sorry.Won’thappenagain.Comeon,Mariana.”
HeguidedareluctantMarianaawayfromtheothers,backtowardthepolicecordon.
“I’mafraidSangha’sgotitinforyou,”Juliansaid.“IfIwereyou,I’dkeepoutofhisway.Hisbiteisinfinitelyworsethanhisbark.”Hewinkedather.“Don’tworry—I’llkeepyouinformedaboutanydevelopments.”
“Thanks.I’mgrateful.”
Juliansmiled.“Whereareyoustaying?They’reputtingmeupatahotelbythestation.”
“I’mstayingincollege.”
“Verynice.Fancyadrinktonight?Wecancatchup?”
Marianashookherhead.“No—I’msorry,Ican’t.”
“Oh,whynot?”Julianflashedasmileather—butthenhefollowedhergaze…AndhesawshewaslookingatFred,wavingatherfromtheothersideofthecordon.
“Ah.”Julianfrowned.“Iseeyoualreadyhaveplans.”
“What?”Marianashookherhead.“No.He’sjustafriend—ofZoe’s.”
“Sure.”Juliangaveheradisbelievingsmile.“Noworries.I’llbeseeingyou,Mariana.”
Julianlookedalittleannoyed.Heturnedandwalkedaway.
Marianawasalsofeelingannoyed—withherself.SheduckedunderthecordonandwalkedbacktowardFred.Shefeltincreasinglyangry.WhytellthatstupidlieaboutFredbeingZoe’sfriend?Marianawasn’tguiltyofanything;shehadnothingtohide—sowhylie?
Unless,ofcourse,shewasn’tbeinghonestwithherselfaboutherfeelingsforFred.Wasthatpossible?Ifso,itwasadeeplyunnervingthought.
Whatelsewasshelyingtoherselfabout?
4
WhenthenewsbrokethatasecondstudentfromSt.Christopher’sCollegehadbeenmurdered—andthatshewasthedaughterofaU.S.senator—thestorymadeheadlinesaroundtheworld.
SenatorDrakeboardedthenextavailableflightfromWashingtonwithhiswife,pursuedbytheU.S.mediaandfollowedbytherestoftheworld’spress,whichdescendedonSt.Christopher’sinamatterofhours.
ItremindedMarianaofamedievalsiege.Invadinghordesofjournalistsandcameramenheldbackbyaflimsybarrier,severaluniformedpoliceofficers,andafewcollegeporters;Mr.Morriswasattheforefront,sleevesrolledup,readytodefendthecollegewithhisfists.
Asprawlingmediacampwassetuponthecobblesoutsidethemaingate,anditspreadallthewaytoKing’sParade,wherelinesofsatellitevanswereparked.Aspecialpresstentwassetupbytheriver,whereSenatorDrakeandhiswifegaveatelevisioninterview,makinganemotionalappealforanyinformationthatmightleadtothecaptureoftheirdaughter’skiller.
AtSenatorDrake’srequest,ScotlandYardbecameinvolved.ExtrapoliceofficersweresentupfromLondon—andtheyerectedblockades,madehouse-to-housecalls,andpatrolledthestreets.
Theknowledgetheywerenowdealingwithaserialkillermeantthewholecitywasonalert.Andinthemeantime,ConradElliswasreleased,andallchargesdropped.
Anervous,edgyenergywasintheair.Amonsterwithaknifewasamongthem,unseen,prowlingthestreets,apparentlyabletostrikeandthenmeltawayinvisiblyintothedarkness…Hisinvisibilitymadehimintosomethingmorethanhuman,somethingsupernatural:acreaturebornfrommyth,aphantom.
ExceptMarianaknewhewasn’taphantom,oramonster.Hewasjustaman,andhedidn’tmeritbeingmythologized;hedidn’tdeserveit.
Hedeservedonly—ifshecouldsummonitinherheart—pityandfear.Theveryqualities,accordingtoAristotle,thatconstitutedcatharsisintragedy.Well,Marianadidn’tknowenoughaboutthismadmantoaccesspity.
Butshedidfeelfear.
5
Mymotheroftensaidshedidn’twantitforme,thislife.
She’dtellmethat,oneday,wewouldleave,sheandI.Butitwouldn’tbeeasy.
Idon’thaveaneducation,she’dsay.Ileftschoolatfifteen.Promisemeyouwon’tdothesame.Youneedtobeeducated—that’showtomakemoney.That’showtosurvive,howtobesafe.
I’veneverforgottenthat.Morethananything,Iwantedtobesafe.
Evennow,Istilldon’tfeelsafe.
Myfatherwasadangerousman,that’swhy.Afterasteadyflowofwhiskeys,asmallflamewouldappearinhiseyes.He’dbecomeincreasinglyargumentative.Avoidinghisangerwasaminefield.
Iwasbetteratitthanmymother—betteratkeepingthingssteady,stayingseveralstepsahead,keepingtheconversationonsafeground,guessingwhereitwasgoing—outmaneuveringhim,ifnecessary—guidinghimawayfromanysubjectsthatmightincurhiswrath.Soonerorlater,mymotherwouldalwaysfail.Eitheraccidentally—ordeliberately,throughmasochism—she’dsaysomething,dosomething,disagreewithhim,criticizehim,servehimsomethinghedidn’tlike.
Hiseyeswouldglint.Hislowerlipwoulddroop.He’dbarehisteeth.Toolate,she’drealizehewasinarage.Atablewouldthenbeoverthrown,aglasssmashed.I’dwatch,helplesstodefendorprotecther,assherantothebedroominsearchofrefuge.
She’dfranticallytrytolockthedoor…buttoolate—he’dbashitopen,andthen,then—
Idon’tunderstand.
Whydidn’tsheleave?Whydidn’tshepackourbagsandspiritmeawayinthenight?Wecouldhavelefttogether.Butshedidn’tmakethatchoice.Whynot?Wasshetooscared?Ordidshenotwanttoadmitthatherfamilywasright—thatshe’dmadeaterriblemistakeandwasrunninghome,tailbetweenherlegs?
Orwassheindenial,clingingtoahopethatthingswouldmagicallyimprove?Perhapsthatwasit.Afterall,shewashighlyskilledatignoringwhatshedidn’twanttosee—andwasstaringherintheface.
Ilearnedtodothattoo.
Ialsolearned,fromayoungage,thatIdidnotwalkontheground—butonanarrownetworkofinvisibleropes,suspendedabovetheearth.Ihadtonavigatethemcarefully,tryingnottosliporfall.Certainaspectsofmypersonalitywereoffensive,itseemed.Ihadterriblesecretstohide—evenIdidn’tknowwhattheywere.
Myfatherknew,though.Heknewmysins.
Andhepunishedmeaccordingly.
He’dcarrymeupstairs.He’dtakemeintothebathroomandlockthedoor—
Anditwouldbegin.
IfIpicturehimnow,thatfrightenedlittleboy—doIfeelanacheofsorrow?Apangofempathy?He’sjustakid,guiltyofnoneofmycrimes—he’sterrified,he’sinpain.DoIexperienceasecondofcompassion?DoIfeelforhisplight,andallhewentthrough?
No.Idon’t.
Ibanishallpityfrommyheart.
Idon’tdeserveit.
6
VeronicawaslastseenaliveleavingarehearsalofTheDuchessofMalfiattheADC—theAmateurDramaticClub—Theatreatsixo’clock.Then,sheapparentlydisappearedintothinair—untilherbodywasfoundthenextday.
Howwasthispossible?
Howdidherkilleremergefromnowhere,abductherinbroaddaylight,leavenowitnessesandnotrace?Marianacoulddrawonlyoneconclusion:Veronicawentwithhimwillingly.Shewenttoherdeathquietlyandcooperatively—becausesheknewandtrustedthemanwhotookherthere.
Thenextmorning,MarianadecidedtohavealookatwhereVeronicawaslastseen.SoshemadeherwaytotheADCTheatreonParkStreet.
Thetheaterwasoriginallyanoldcoachinginn,convertedinthe1850s.Thelogowasinblackletterspaintedabovetheentrance.
Alargeboarddisplayedaposterfortheupcomingproduction,TheDuchessofMalfi,whichMarianapresumedwouldnownottakeplace—notwithVeronicaplayingtheDuchess.
Shewentuptothemaindoor.Shetriedit.Itwaslocked.Therewerenolightsoninthefoyer.
Shethoughtamoment.Thensheturnedandwalkedaroundthecorner,tothesideofthebuilding.Twolargeblackwroughtirongatesenclosedacourtyard,whichoncehousedthestables.Marianatriedthegate—anditwasunlocked.Itswungopeneasily.Soshewentinsidethecourtyard.
Thestagedoorwasthere.Shewalkedoverandtriedit,butitwaslocked.
Shewasfrustratedandabouttogiveup—whenshethoughtofsomething.Shelookedatthefireescape.Aspiralstaircase,leadinguptothetheaterbaronthefloorabove.
WhenMarianawasastudent,theADCbarhadbeenfamousforstayingopenlate.SheandSebastianwouldsometimesgoforlastordersonaSaturdaynight,dancinganddrunkenlykissinginthebar.
Shestartedclimbingthesteps,goingroundandrounduntilshereachedthetop—whereshewasconfrontedwiththeemergencyexit.
Withoutholdingoutmuchhope,Marianareachedoutandpulledthehandle.Tohersurprise,thedooropened.
Shehesitated.Andwentinside.
7
TheADCbarwasanold-fashionedtheaterbar—ithadvelvet-coveredbarstools,andsmelledofbeerandoldcigarettesmoke.
Thelightswereoff.Itwasgloomy,shadowy,andMarianawasdistractedforamoment—byacoupleofghostskissingbythebar.
Andthenaloudbangmadeherjump.
Anotherbang.Thewholebuildingseemedtoshakewithit.
Marianadecidedtoinvestigate.Itwascomingfromdownstairs.Sheleftthebarandwentfartherintothebuilding.Tryingtobeasquietaspossible,shedescendedthecentralstaircase.
Anotherbang.
Itseemedtobecomingfromtheauditoriumitself.Shewaitedatthebottomofthestairsandlistened.Buttherewassilence.
Shecreptovertotheauditoriumdoors.Sheopenedthemslightlyandlookedinside.
Theauditoriumseemedempty.ThesetforTheDuchessofMalfiwasonstage—anightmarishimpressionofaprisonintheGermanExpressioniststyle,withslantedwallsandbarsstretchedintodistortedangles.
Andonstagewasayoungman.
Hewasshirtless,andhistorsowasdrippingwithsweat.Heseemedtobeintentondemolishingtheentiresetwithahammer.Therewasaviolencetohisactionsthatwasquitealarming.
Marianacautiouslymadeherwaydowntheaisle,passingrowafterrowofemptyredseats,untilshereachedthestage.
Hedidn’tnoticeheruntilshewasstandingjustbeneathhim.Hewasaboutsixfeettall,withshortblackhairandaweek’sworthofstubble.Hecouldn’thavebeenmorethantwenty-one,butitwasnotayouthfulnorafriendlyface.
“Whoareyou?”hesaid,glaringather.
Marianadecidedtolie.“I’m—apsychotherapist—I’mworkingwiththepolice.”
“Uh-huh.Theywerejusthere.”
“Right.”Marianathoughtsherecognizedhisaccent.“AreyouGreek?”
“Why?”Helookedatherwithanewinterest.“Areyou?”
Funnythat,hersplit-secondinstincttolie.Forsomereason,shedidn’twanthimknowinganythingabouther.Butshe’dgetmoreoutofhimifsheexpressedsomekindofkinship.“Half,”shesaidwithasmallsmile.Then,inGreek,shesaid,“IgrewupinAthens.”
Helookedpleasedtohearthis.Heseemedtocalmdown,andhisangercooledslightly.“AndI’mfromThessaloniki.Apleasuretomeetyou.”Hesmiled,baringhisteeth;theyweresharp,razor-like.“Letmehelpyouup.”
Then,withasudden,violentmovement,hereacheddownandpulledherupwithease,placingheronthestage.Shelandedunsteadilyonherfeet.“Thanks.”
“I’mNikos.NikosKouris.Andyourname?”
“Mariana.You’reastudent?”
“Yes.”Nikosnodded.“I’mresponsibleforthis.”Hegesturedattheruinedsetaroundhim.“I’mthedirector.You’relookingatthedestructionofmytheatricalambitions.”Hegaveahollowlaugh.“Theperformancehasbeencanceled.”
“BecauseofVeronica?”
Nikosscowled.“IhadanagentcomingupfromLondontoseeit.Iworkedallsummer,planningit.Andit’sfornothing…”
Hepulleddownpartofthewallwithferocity—itlandedwithathudthatmadethefloorshake.
Marianawatchedhimclosely.Everythingabouthimseemedtovibratewithanger;abarelyrestrainedrage,asifhemightflyoffthehandleatanysecond,lashoutindiscriminately—andstrikeherdowninsteadoftheset.Heratherfrightenedher.
“Iwaswondering,”shesaid,“ifImightaskyouaboutVeronica?”
“Whatabouther?”
“I’mcuriousaboutwhenyoulastsawher?”
“Thedressrehearsal.Igavehersomecriticalnotes.Shedidn’tlikethem.Shewasratheramediocreactor,ifyouwantthetruth.Notnearlyastalentedasshethoughtshewas.”
“Isee.Whatwashermoodlike?”
“AfterIgaveherthenotes?Notgood.”Hesmiled,baringhisteeth.
“Whattimedidsheleave?Doyouremember?”
“Aroundsix,I’dsay.”
“Didshesaywhereshewasgoing?”
“No.”Nikosshookhishead.“ButIthinkshewasgoingtomeettheprofessor.”Heturnedhisattentiontostackingupsomechairs.
Marianawatchedhim,herheartbeatingfaster.Shesoundedalittlebreathlesswhenshespoke.
“Theprofessor?”
“Yeah.”Nikosshrugged.“Can’trememberhisname.Hecametowatchthedressrehearsal.”
“Whatdidhelooklike?Canyoudescribehim?”
Nikosthoughtforasecond.“Tall.Beard.American.”Heglancedathiswatch.“Whatelsedoyouneedtoknow?BecauseI’mbusy.”
“That’sall,thanks.ButcanIhavealookinthedressingroom?DidVeronicaleaveanythinghere,doyouknow?”
“Idon’tthinkso.Thepolicetookeverything.Therewasn’tmuch.”
“I’dstillliketosee.Ifthat’sokay.”
“Goahead.”Hepointedintothewings.“Downthestairs,ontheleft.”
“Thanks.”
Nikosstaredatherforasecond,asifcontemplatingsomething.Buthedidn’tspeak.Marianahurriedintothewings.
Itwasdark,andittookafewsecondsforhereyestoadjust.Somethingmadeherlookbackoverhershoulder,backatthestage—andshesawNikos’sface,contortedwithrage,asherippedaparttheset.Hehatesnotgettinghisownway,shethought.Therewasrealangerinthatyoungman;shewasgladtogetawayfromhim.
Sheturnedandhurrieddownthenarrowsteps,tothebellyofthetheater—intothedressingroom.
Thedressingroomwasratheracrampedspace,sharedbyalltheactors.Railsofcostumescompetedforspacewithwigs,makeup,props,books,anddressingtables.Shelookedatalltheclutter—therewasnowayoftellingwhathadbelongedtoVeronica.
Marianadoubtedshe’dfindanythingusefulhere.Andyet…
Shelookedatthedressingtables.Eachhadanindividualmirror—andthemirrorsweredecoratedwithheartsandkissesandgood-luckmessagesscrawledinlipstick.Thereweresomecardsandphotographstuckedintothemirrorframes.
OnepostcardimmediatelycaughtMariana’seye.Itdidn’tlooklikeanyoftheothers.
Shelookedatitclosely.Itwasareligiouspicture—theikonofasaint.Thesaintwasbeautiful,withlongblondhair…likeVeronica.Asilverdaggerwasstickingoutofherneck.Evenmoredisturbing,shewasholdingatraywithtwohumaneyeballsonit.
Marianafeltsicklookingatit.Herhandtrembledasshereachedout.Shepulledthepostcardfromthemirrorframe.Sheturneditover.
Andthere—asbefore—wasahandwrittenquotation,inAncientGreek:
?δεσθετ?ν?λ?ουκα?Φρυγ?ν?λ?πτολινστε?χουσαν,?π?κ?ραστ?φηβαλουμ?νανχερν?βωντεπαγ??,βωμ?νγεδα?μονο?θε???αν?σινα?ματορρ?τοι?χρανο?σανε?φυ?τεσ?ματο?δ?ρηνσφαγε?σαν.8
Afterthesecondmurder,therewasastunned,lifelessatmosphereinSt.Christopher’s.
Itfeltasifakindofpestilence,aplague,werespreadingthroughthecollege—asinaGreekmyth,thesicknessthatdestroyedThebes;aninvisibleairbornepoisondriftingthroughthecourtyards—andtheseancientwalls,oncearefugefromtheoutsideworld,nolongerofferedanyprotection.
Despitethedean’sprotestationsandassurancesofsafety,parentswereremovingtheirchildreninincreasingnumbers.Marianadidn’tblamethem;nordidsheblamethestudentsforwantingtoleave.PartofherwishedshecouldscoopupZoeandtakeherawaytoLondon.Butsheknewbetterthantosuggestit:itwastakenforgrantednowthatZoewasstaying—andsowasMariana.
Veronica’smurderinparticularhadhitZoehard.ThefactitupsethersomuchastonishedZoeherself.Shesaidshefeltlikeahypocrite.
“Imean,Ididn’tevenlikeVeronica—Idon’tknowwhyIcan’tstopcrying.”
MarianasuspectedthatZoewasusingVeronica’sdeathasameansofexpressingsomeofhergriefforTara,griefthathadbeentoooverwhelmingandfrighteningforhertoface.Sothesetearswereagoodthing,ahealthything,andshetoldZoesoassheheldher,sittingonthebed,rockingbackandforthasZoewept.
“It’sokay,darling.It’sokay.You’llfeelbetter,justletitout.”
Andfinally,Zoe’stearssubsided.ThenMarianainsistedontakingZoeoutforsomelunch;she’dbarelyeatenanythinginthepasttwenty-fourhours.AndZoe,red-eyedandweary,agreed.OnthewaytoHall,theybumpedintoClarissa,whosuggestedtheyjoinherathightable.
Hightablewasthepartofthedininghallthatwasreservedexclusivelyforthefellowsandtheirguests.Itwassituatedatoneendofthelargehall,onaraised,stagelikedaisbeneathportraitsofpastmastersontheoak-paneledwalls.Attheotherendofthehall,therewasabuffetforthestudents,operatedbythebutterystaff,smartlydressedinwaistcoatsandbowties.Theundergraduatesallsatatlongtablesalongthelengthofthehall.
Thereweren’tmanystudentsinHall.Marianacouldn’thelpbutlookatthestudentswhowerethere,talkinginlowvoiceswithanxiousfaceswhiletheypickedattheirfood.NoneofthemlookedinmuchbettershapethanZoe.
ZoeandMarianasatwithClarissaatthefarendofhightable,awayfromtheotherfellows.Clarissastudiedthemenuwithinterest.Despitetheseawfulevents,herappetiteremainedundiminished.“I’mgoingtoplumpforthepheasant,”shesaid.“Andthen…perhapspearspoachedinwine.Orthestickytoffeepudding.”
Mariananodded.“Howaboutyou,Zoe?”
Zoeshookherhead.“I’mnothungry.”
Clarissagaveheraconcernedlook.“Youmusteatsomething,mydear…You’renotlookingwell.Youneedsomefoodtokeepyourstrengthup.”
“Howaboutthepoachedsalmonandvegetables?”saidMariana.“Okay?”
Zoeshrugged.“Okay.”
Thewaitercameandtooktheirorder,andthenMarianashowedthemthepostcardshehadfoundattheADCTheatre.
Clarissatookthepostcard,closelystudyingthepicture.“Ah.St.Lucy,ifI’mnotmistaken.”
“St.Lucy?”
“You’renotfamiliarwithher?Isupposeshe’salittleobscure,assaintsgo.AmartyrduringDiocletian’sscourgeofChristians—around300AD.Hereyesweregougedoutbeforeshewasstabbedtodeath.”
“PoorLucy.”
“Quite.Hencepatronsaintoftheblind.She’susuallydepictedlikethis,carryinghereyesonaplatter.”Clarissaturnedthepostcardover.HerlipsmovedsilentlyasshereadthelinesinGreekunderherbreath.“Well,”shesaid,“thistime,it’sfromIphigeniainAulis,byEuripides.”
“Whatdoesitsay?”
“It’saboutIphigeniabeingledtoherdeath.”Clarissatookagulpofwine,andtranslatedit:“‘Beholdthemaiden…withgarlandsinherhair,andholywatersprinkleduponher…walkingtothesacrificialaltaroftheunspeakablegoddess—whichwillflowwithblood’—‘α?ματορρ?τοι?’isthewordinGreek—‘asherbeautifulneckissevered.’”
Marianafeltsick.“JesusChrist.”
“Notveryappetizing,Igrantyou.”ClarissahandedthepostcardbacktoMariana.
MarianaglancedatZoe.“Whatdoyouthink?DoyouthinkFoscamighthavesentit?”
“ProfessorFosca?”saidClarissa,withastartledlook,asZoestudiedthepostcard.“You’renotsuggesting—youdon’tthinkthattheprofessor—”
“Foscahasagroupoffavoritestudents.Didyouknowthat,Clarissa?”MarianaglancedatZoeforasecond.“Theymeetprivately—secretly.HecallsthemtheMaidens.”
“TheMaidens?”saidClarissa.“FirstI’veheardofit.AplayontheApostles,perhaps?”
“TheApostles?”
“Tennyson’ssecretliterarysociety—wherehemetHallam.”
Marianastaredather.Ittookherasecondtofindhervoice.Shenodded.“Perhaps.”
“Ofcourse,theApostleswereallmale.PresumablythemembershipoftheMaidensisfemale?”
“Exactly.AndTaraandVeronicawerebothmembers.Don’tyouthinkthat’sastrangecoincidence?Zoe?Whatdoyouthink?”
Zoelookeduncomfortable.Butshenodded,glancingatClarissa.“Tobehonest,Ithinkthisisthekindofthinghe’ddo.Sendingapostcardlikethis.”
“Whydoyousaythat?”
“Theprofessorisold-fashionedlikethat—sendingpostcards,Imean.Heoftensendshandwrittennotes.Andlastterm,hegavealectureontheimportanceoftheletterasanartform…Iknowthatdoesn’tproveanything.”
“Doesn’tit?”saidMariana.“I’mnotsosureaboutthat.”
Clarissatappedthepostcard.“Whatdoyouthinkthismeans?Idon’t—Idon’tunderstandwhatitspurposeis.”
“Itmeans…it’sagame.Announcinghisintentionlikethis—it’sachallenge—andhe’senjoyingit.”Shechoseherwordscarefully.“Andthere’ssomethingelse…thathemightnotevenbeconsciousof.Thereisareasonhechosethesequotations;theymeansomethingtohim.”
“Inwhatsense?”
“Idon’tknow.”Marianashookherhead.“Idon’tunderstand—andweneedtounderstand.That’stheonlywaywe’llstophim.”
“Andby‘him,’youmeanEdwardFosca?”
“Perhaps.”
Clarissalookedextremelydisturbedbythis.Sheshookherheadbutdidn’tcommentfurther.Marianasilentlycontemplatedthepostcardinfrontofher.
Thentheirfoodarrived,andClarissatuckedintoherlunch,andMarianaturnedherattentiontoZoe,makingsureshegotalittlefoodinher.
EdwardFoscawasnotmentionedagainduringthemeal.ButheremainedinMariana’sthoughts—hangingthere,intheshadows,likeabatinherhead.
9
Afterlunch,MarianaandZoewenttothecollegebarforadrink.
Thebarwasdistinctlyquieterthanusual.Onlyahandfulofstudentswerethere,drinking.MariananoticedSerenasittingbyherself.Shedidn’tnoticethem.
Zoeorderedacoupleofglassesofwine,whileMarianamadeherwaytotheendofthebar—whereSerenawasperchedonastool,finishingaginandtonic,andtextingonherphone.
“Hello,”saidMariana.
Serenalookedup,andwentbacktoherphonewithoutresponding.
“Howareyou,Serena?”
Noresponse.MarianaglancedatZoeforhelp,andZoemimeddrinking.Mariananodded.
“CanIgetyouanotherdrink?”
Serenashookherhead.“No.Ihavetogosoon.”
Marianasmiled.“Yoursecretadmirer?”
Thiswasclearlythewrongthingtosay.SerenaturnedonMarianawithsurprisingferocity.
“Whatthefuckisyourproblem?”
“What?”
“WhathaveyougotagainstProfessorFosca?It’slikeyou’reobsessedorsomething.Whatdidyoutellthepoliceabouthim?”
“Idon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout.”
ButMarianawassecretlyrelievedthatChiefInspectorSanghahadtakenherseriouslyenoughtoquestionFosca.
“Ididn’taccusehimofanything,”shesaid.“Ijustsuggestedtheyaskhimsomequestions.”
“Well,theydid.Theyaskedhimalot.Andmetoo.Happynow?”
“Whatdidyoutellthem?”
“Thetruth.ThatIwaswithProfessorFoscawhenVeronicawaskilledonWednesdaynight—Ihadaclasswithhimallevening.Okay?”
“Andhedidn’tleave?Noteventohaveacigarette?”
“Notevenacigarette.”
SerenagaveMarianaacoldlook,andwasdistractedbyatextmessageonherphone.Shereaditandstoodup.
“Ihavetogo.”
“Wait.”Marianaloweredhervoice.“Serena.Iwantyoutobeverycareful,okay?”
“Oh,fuckoff.”Serenagrabbedherbagandwalkedout.
Marianasighed.ZoesatonSerena’semptybarstool.
“Thatdidn’tgowell.”
“No.”Marianashookherhead.“Itdidn’t.”
“Nowwhat?”
“Idon’tknow.”
Zoeshrugged.“IfProfessorFoscawaswithSerenawhenVeronicawaskilled,hecouldn’thavedoneit.”
“UnlessSerenaislying.”
“Youreallythinkshe’dlieforhim?Twice?”Zoegaveheradubiouslookandshrugged.“Idon’tknow,Mariana…”
“What?”
Zoeevadedhergaze.Shedidn’tspeakforamoment.“It’sthewayyouareabouthim—it’sweird.”
“Whatdoyoumean,weird?”
“Theprofessorhasanalibiforbothmurders—andyoustillwon’tletitgo.Isthisabouthim—oryou?”
“Me?”Marianacouldn’tbelieveherears.Shecouldfeelhercheekscoloringwithindignation.“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”
Zoeshookherhead.“Forgetit.”
“Ifthere’ssomethingyouwanttosaytome—justsayit.”
“There’snopoint.IknowthemoreItryandtalkyououtofthisthingaboutProfessorFosca,themoreyou’lldigyourheelsin.You’resostubborn.”
“I’mnotstubborn.”
Zoelaughed.“Sebastianusedtosayyouwerethemoststubbornpersonheevermet.”
“Heneversaidthattome.”
“Well,hesaidittome.”
“Idon’tunderstandwhat’sgoingonhere,Zoe.Idon’tunderstandwhatyou’retryingtosay.WhatthingwithFosca?”
“Youtellme.”
“What?I’mnotattractedtohim—ifthat’swhatyou’resuggesting!”
Shewasawarehervoicewasraised;acoupleofstudentsacrossthebarheardherandlookedover.Forthefirsttimeinaslongasshecouldremember,sheandZoewereteeteringontheedgeofanargument.Marianawasfeelingirrationallyangry.Whywasthat?
Theystaredateachotheramoment.
Zoebackeddownfirst.“Forgetit,”shesaid,shakingherhead.“I’msorry.I’mtalkingcrap.”
“I’msorrytoo.”
Zoecheckedherwatch.“Ihavetogo.I’vegotaclassonParadiseLost.”
“Goon,then.”
“Seeyoufordinner?”
“Oh…”Marianahesitated.“Ican’t.I—I’mseeing—”
Shedidn’twanttotellZoeaboutherdinnerplanswithProfessorFosca—notnow;Zoewouldreadallkindsofthingsintoitthatweren’tthere.
“I—I’mseeingafriend.”
“Who?”
“Nooneyouknow,anoldcollegefriend.Youshouldgo,you’llbelate.”
Zoenodded.ShegaveMarianaaquickpeckonthecheek.Marianasqueezedherarm.“Zoe.Youbecarefultoo.Allright?”
“Don’tgetintoanycarswithstrangemen,youmean?”
“Don’tbesilly.Imeanit.”
“Icantakecareofmyself,Mariana.I’mnotafraid.”
ItwasthatnoteofbravadoinZoe’svoicethatconcernedMarianathemost.
10
AfterZoeleft,Marianasatatthebarforawhile,nursingthewineinherglass.Shekeptgoingovertheirconversationinherhead.
WhatifZoewasright?WhatifFoscawasinnocent?
Foscahadanalibiforbothmurders,andyet,despitethis,Marianahadwovenawebofsuspicionaroundhim,simplybygrabbingatafewstrandsof—what,exactly?Notevenfacts,nothingthatconcrete.Smallthings:thatfearfullookinZoe’seyes,thefacthetaughtTaraandVeronicaGreektragedy,andthefactMarianawasconvincedFoscahadsentthosepostcards.
Andherintuitiontoldherthatwhoeverhadsentthepostcardstothesegirlsalsokilledthem.Whilethatmightseemanirrationalleap,evendelusional,toamanlikeChiefInspectorSangha,foratherapistlikeMariana,herintuitionwasoftenallshehadtogoon.Althoughitseemedincredible—thataprofessoratthisuniversitywouldmurderhisstudents,sohorribly,sopublicly,andhopetogetawaywithit.
Andyet…ifshewasright…
ThenFoscahadgotawaywithit.
Butwhatifshewaswrong?
Mariananeededtothinkclearly—butshecouldn’tthink.Herheadwascloudy,anditwasn’tthewine.Shewasfeelingoverwhelmed,andincreasinglyunsureofherself.Sowhatnow?Shehadnoideawhathernextmoveshouldbe.
Calmdown,shethought.IfIwereworkingwithapatientandfeelinglikethis—sooutofmydepth—whatwouldIdo?
Theanswercametoherimmediately.Shewouldaskforhelp,ofcourse.Shewouldgetsomesupervision.
Thatwasn’tabadidea.
Seeinghersupervisorcouldonlyhelp.Andgettingoutofhere—goingtoLondon,escapingthiscollegeanditspoisonousatmosphere,ifonlyforafewhours—itwouldbeanimmenserelief.
Yes,shethought.That’swhatI’lldo—I’llcallRuth,andseeherinLondontomorrow.
Butfirst,shehadanappointmenttonight,hereinCambridge.
Ateighto’clockshehaddinner—withEdwardFosca.
11
Ateighto’clock,MarianamadeherwaytoFosca’srooms.
Shestaredatthelarge,imposingdoor.ProfessorEdwardFoscawaspaintedinwhitecalligraphicwritingonablackplaquebythedoor.
Shecouldhearclassicalmusiccomingfrominside.Sheknocked.Noreply.
Sheknockedagain,louder.Noresponseforamoment,andthen—
“It’sopen,”saidadistantvoice.“Comeonup.”
Marianatookabreath,steadiedherself—andopenedthedoor.Shewasgreetedbyanelmstaircase:old,narrow,anduneveninplaceswherethewoodhadwarped.Shehadtowatchherstepassheclimbedup.
Themusicwasloudernow.ItwasLatin,areligiousariaorapsalmsettomusic.Shehadhearditbefore,somewhere,butcouldn’tquiteplacewhere.Itwasbeautifulbutominous,withpulsatingstringslikeaheartbeat,ironicallymimickingMariana’sownanxiousheartbeatassheascendedthestairs.
Atthetop,thedoorwasajar.Shewentinside.Thefirstthingshesawwasalargecrosshanginginthehallway.Itwasbeautiful—madeofdarkwood,ornate,Gothic,intricatelycarved—butitssheersizemadeitintimidating,andMarianahurriedpastit.
Sheenteredthelivingroom.Itwashardtosee;theonlylightwasfromthehalf-melted,misshapencandlesdottedaround.Ittookhereyesafewsecondstoadjusttothestygiangloom,thickwithburningincense;itsblacksmokefurtherdiffusingthelightfromthecandles,makingithardertosee.
Itwasalargeroom,withwindowsoverlookingthecourtyard.Severaldoorsledofftootherrooms.Thewallswerecoveredwithpaintings,andshelveswerecrammedwithbooks.Thewallpaperwasdarkgreenandblack,arepeatingpatternofleavesandfoliagewithanunsettlingeffect—itremindedMarianaofbeinginajungle.
Thereweresculpturesandornamentsarrangedonthemantelpieceandthetables:ahumanskullglowinginthegloom,andasmallstatueofPan—shaggy-haired,clutchingawineskin,withthelegs,horns,andtailofagoat.Andnexttoit,apinecone.
Suddenly,Marianawassureshewasbeingobserved—shefelteyesonthebackofherneck.Sheturnedaround.
EdwardFoscawasstandingthere.Shehadn’theardhimenter.Hadhebeenintheshadowsthewholetime,watchingher?
“Goodevening,”hesaid.
Hisdarkeyesandwhiteteethglintedinthecandlelight,andhistousledhairwasfallingaroundhisshoulders.Hewaswearingablackdinnerjacket,crispwhiteshirt,andblackbowtie.Helookedextremelyhandsome,Marianathought—andimmediatelyfeltangrywithherselfforthinkingit.
“Ididn’trealizeweweregoingtohightable,”shesaid.
“We’renot.”
“Butyou’redressed—”
“Ah.”Foscaglancedathisclothes,andsmiled.“Idon’toftenhavetheopportunitytodinewithsuchabeautifulwoman.IthoughtI’ddressfortheoccasion.Letmegetyouadrink.”
Withoutwaitingforareply,hepulledanopenbottleofchampagnefromthesilvericebucket.Herefilledhisownglass,thenpouredoneforMariana.Hehandedittoher.
“Thankyou.”
EdwardFoscastoodthereforamoment,watchingher,hisdarkeyesappraisingher.
“Tous,”hesaid.
Marianadidn’techothetoast.Sheraisedtheglasstoherlipsandsippedthechampagne.Itwasbubblyanddry,refreshing.Ittastedgood,andhopefullywouldsettlehernerves.Shetookanothersip.
Therewasaknockonthedoordownstairs.Foscasmiled.“Ah.ThatwillbeGreg.”
“Greg?”
“Fromthebuttery.”
Therewasaflurryoffootsteps—andGregory,animblyfooted,lithewaiterinwaistcoatandtie,appearedwithahot-boxinonehandandcold-boxintheother.HesmiledatMariana.
“Evening,miss.”Heglancedattheprofessor.“ShouldI—?”
“Absolutely.”Foscanodded.“Goahead.Setitup.I’llserveus.”
“Verygood,sir.”
Hedisappearedintothediningroom.MarianagaveFoscaaquizzicallook.Hesmiled.
“IwantedustohavemoreprivacythanHallcouldafford.ButI’mnotmuchofachef—soIpersuadedthebutterytobringHalltous.”
“Andhowdidyoudothat?”
“Bymeansofaverylargetip.Iwon’tflatteryoubytellingyouhowmuch.”
“You’vegonetoalotoftrouble,Professor.”
“PleasecallmeEdward.Andit’sapleasure,Mariana.”
Hesmiledandstaredatherinsilence.Marianafeltalittleuncomfortable,andlookedaway.Hereyesdriftedtothecoffeetable…andthepinecone.
“What’sthat?”
Foscafollowedhergaze.“Thepinecone,youmean?Nothing,justremindsmeofhome.Why?”
“Iseemtorememberaslideofapinecone,inyourlectureonEleusis.”
Foscanodded.“Yes,indeed.That’sright.Eachinitiateintothecultwaspresentedwithapineconeonentry.”
“Isee.Whyapinecone?”
“Well,it’snotreallyaboutthepineconeitself.It’swhatitsymbolizes.”
“Whichis?”
Hesmiledandstaredatherforamoment.“It’stheseed—theseedinsidethecone.Theseedinsideus—thespiritwithinthebody.It’saboutopeningyourmindtothat.Acommitmenttolookinginsideandfindingyoursoul.”
Foscapickedupthepinecone.Hepresentedittoher.
“Iofferthistoyou.It’syours.”
“No,thankyou.”Marianashookherhead.“Idon’twantit.”
Shesaidthatmoresharplythansheintended.
“Isee.”
Foscagaveheranamusedsmile.Hereplacedthepineconeonthetable.Therewasapause.Amomentlater,Gregemerged.
“Alldone,sir.Andthepuddingisinthefridge.”
“Thankyou.”
“Goodnight.”HenoddedatMarianaandlefttheroom.Marianaheardhimdescendingthestepsandclosingthedoor.
Theywerealone.
Therewasapause,atensionbetweenthemastheystaredateachother.Mariana,atanyrate,feltit;shedidn’tknowwhatFoscawasfeeling—whatlaybeneaththatcool,charmingmannerofhis.Hewasalmostimpossibletoread.
Hegesturedintothenextroom.
“Shallwe?”
12
Inthedark,wood-paneleddiningroom,thelongtablewascoveredwithawhitelinentablecloth.Tallcandlesburnedinsilvercandlesticks.Andabottleofredwinehadbeendecantedandwassittingonthesideboard.
Behindthetable,outthroughthewindow,theoaktreethatgrewinthecenterofthecourtyardwasvisibleagainstadarkeningsky;starsweretwinklingthroughthebranches.Inanyothersituation,thoughtMariana,eatinginthisbeautifuloldroomwouldbeincrediblyromantic.Butnotnow.
“Sitdown,”Foscasaid.
Marianawenttothetable.Twoplaceshadbeensetoppositeeachother.Shesat,andFoscawalkedtothesideboard,wherethefoodhadbeenlaidout—alegoflamb,roastpotatoes,andagreensalad.
“Smellsgood,”hesaid.“Trustme—thiswillbemuchbetterthanifIattemptedtocooksomethingmyself.I’veafairlysophisticatedpalate,butI’mprettybasicinthekitchen.OnlytheusualpastarecipestaughtbyanItalianmothertoherson.”
HesmiledatMarianaandpickedupalargecarvingknife.Itglintedinthecandlelight.Shewatchedashequicklyanddeftlyusedtheknifetocarvethelamb.
“You’reItalian?”shesaid.
Foscanodded.“Secondgeneration.MygrandparentscameoverontheboatfromSicily.”
“YougrewupinNewYork?”
“Notreally.NewYorkState.Afarm,inthemiddleofnowhere.”
FoscaservedMarianawithseveralslicesoflamb,afewpotatoes,andsomesalad.Hepreparedasimilarplateforhimself.
“AndyougrewupinAthens?”
“Idid.”Shenodded.“Justoutside.”
“Howexotic.I’mjealous.”
Marianasmiled.“IcouldsaythesameaboutafarminNewYork.”
“Notifyouwentthere.Itwasadump.Icouldn’twaittogetthehellout.”Hissmilefadedashesaidthis,andhelookedquitedifferentsomehow.Harder,andolder.Heplacedtheplateinfrontofher.Thenhetookhisownplatetotheothersideofthetableandsatdown.“Ilikeitrare.Ihopethat’sokay.”
“That’sfine.”
“Bonappétit.”
Marianalookedattheplateinfrontofher.Theslicesofrazor-thinlambweresorare,soraw,thatashinyredpuddleofbloodwasoozingoutandspreadingacrossthewhitechinaplate.Shefeltsicklookingatit.
“Thankyouforagreeingtohavedinnerwithme,Mariana.AsIsaidintheFellows’Garden—youintrigueme.It’salwaysintriguingwhensomeonetakesaninterestinme.Andyou’vecertainlydonethat.”Hechuckled.“Thiseveningismyopportunitytoreturnthefavor.”
Marianapickedupherfork.Butshecouldn’tbringherselftoeatthemeat.Instead,shefocusedonthepotatoesandsalad,movingthegreenleavesawayfromtheexpandingpoolofblood.
ShecouldfeelFosca’seyesonher.Howchillyhisgazewas—likeabasilisk.
“You’venottriedthelamb.Won’tyou?”
Mariananodded.Shecutupalittlepieceofmeatandslippedaredsliverintohermouth.Ittastedwet,metallic,ofblood.Ittookallherefforttochewandswallowit.
Foscasmiled.“Good.”
Marianareachedforherglass.Shewashedawaythetasteofbloodwiththeremainsofherchampagne.
Noticingherglasswasempty,Foscastoodup.“Let’shavesomewine,shallwe?”
HewenttothesideboardandpouredtwoglassesofdarkredBordeaux.HereturnedandhandedaglasstoMariana.Shebroughtthewinetoherlips,anddrank.Itwasearthy,gravelly,andfull-bodied.Shewasalreadyfeelingtheeffectsofthechampagneonanemptystomach;sheshouldstopdrinking,orshe’dsoonbedrunk.Butshedidn’tstop.
Foscasatdownagain,watchingher,smiling.“Tellmeaboutyourhusband.”
Marianashookherhead.No.
Helookedsurprised.“No?Whynot?”
“Idon’twantto.”
“Notevenhisname?”
Marianaspokeinalowvoice.“Sebastian.”
Andsomehow,justbyutteringhisname,sheconjuredhimupforasecond—herguardianangel—andshefeltsafer,calmer;andSebastianwhisperedinherear,Don’tbescared,love,standupforyourself.Don’tbeafraid—
Shedecidedtotakehisadvice.MarianalookedupandmetFosca’sgazewithoutblinking.“Tellmeaboutyourself,Professor.”
“Edward.Whatwouldyouliketoknow?”
“Tellmeaboutyourchildhood.”
“Mychildhood?”
“Whatwasyourmotherlike?Wereyoufondofher?”
Foscalaughed.“Mymother?Areyougoingtopsychoanalyzemeoverdinner?”
Marianasaid,“I’mjustcurious.Iwonderwhatelseshetaughtyoubesidespastarecipes?”
Foscashookhishead.“Mymothertaughtmeverylittle,unfortunately.Howaboutyou?Whatwasyourmotherlike?”
“Ineverknewmymother.”
“Ah.”Foscanodded.“Idon’tthinkIreallyknewmineeither.”
HeappraisedMarianaforamoment,thinking.Shecouldseehismindturning—hehadatrulybrilliantmind,shethought.Sharpasaknife.She’dhavetobecareful.Sheadoptedacasualtone.“Wasitahappychildhood?”
“Icanseeyou’redeterminedtomakethisintoatherapysession.”
“Notatherapysession—justaconversation.”
“Conversationsgobothways,Mariana.”
Foscasmiled,andwaited.Seeingshehadnochoice,sherosetothechallenge.
“Ididn’thaveaparticularlyhappychildhood,”shesaid.“Sometimes,perhaps.Ilovedmyfatherverymuch,but…”
“Butwhat…?”
Marianashrugged.“Therewastoomuchdeath.”
Theyheldeachother’sgazeforamoment.Foscaslowlynodded.“Yes,Icanseeitinyoureyes.There’sagreatsadnessthere.Youknow,youremindmeofaTennysonianheroine—MarianaoftheMoatedGrange:‘Hecomethnot,’shesaid.‘Iamaweary,aweary.IwouldthatIweredead.’”
Hesmiled.Marianalookedaway,feelingexposedandirritated.Shereachedforherwine.Shedrainedtheglass.Thenshefacedhim.
“Yourturn,Professor.”
“Verywell.”Foscasippedsomewine.“WasIahappychild?”Heshookhishead.“No.Iwasnot.”
“Whywasthat?”
Hedidn’treplyimmediately.Hegotup,andwenttofetchthewine.HerefilledMariana’sglassashespoke.
“Truthfully?Myfatherwasaveryviolentman.Ilivedinfearofmylife,andmymother’slife.Iwatchedhimbrutalizemymotheronmanyoccasions.”
Marianawasn’texpectingsuchafrankadmission.Andcertainly,thewordshadtheringoftruth,andyettheywereentirelydisconnectedfromanyemotion.Itwasasifhefeltnothing.
“I’msorry,”shesaid.“That’sterrible.”
Heshrugged.Hedidn’treplyforamoment.Hesatdownagain.“Youhaveawayofgettingthingsoutofpeople,Mariana.You’reagoodtherapist,Icantell.Despitemyintentionnottorevealmyselftoyou,youhaveendedupgettingmeonyourcouch.”Hesmiled.“Therapeuticallyspeaking.”
Marianahesitated.“Haveyoueverbeenmarried?”
Foscalaughed.“That’sfollowingatrainofthought.Arewemovingfromthecouchtobed?”Hesmiledanddranksomemorewine.“Ihavenotbeenmarried,no.Inevermettherightwoman.”Hestaredather.“Notyet.”
Marianadidn’treply.Hekeptstaring.Hisgazewasheavy,intense,lingering.Shefeltlikearabbitinheadlights.ShethoughtofthewordZoeused—“dazzling.”Finally,unabletobearit,shelookedaway,whichseemedtoamusehim.
“You’reabeautifulwoman,”sheheardhimsay,“butyouhavemorethanbeauty.Youhaveacertainquality—astillness.Likethestillnessinthedepthsoftheocean,farbeneaththewaves,wherenothingmoves.Verystill…andverysad.”
Marianadidn’tsayanything.Shedidn’tlikewherethiswasgoing—shesensedshewaslosingtheupperhand,ifshe’deverhadit.Shewasalsoalittledrunk,andunpreparedforFosca’ssuddenswitchfromromancetomurder.
“Thismorning,”hesaid,“IreceivedavisitfromChiefInspectorSangha.HewantedtoknowwhereIwaswhenVeronicawasmurdered.”
HelookedatMariana,perhapshopingforareaction.Shedidn’tgivehimone.“Andwhatdidyousay?”
“Thetruth.ThatIwasgivingaprivatetutorialtoSerenainmyrooms.Isuggestedhecheckwithherifhedidn’tbelieveme.”
“Isee.”
“Theinspectoraskedmealotofquestions—thelastofwhichwasaboutyou.Youknowwhatheasked?”
Marianashookherhead.“Ihavenoidea.”
“Hewonderedwhyyouweresoprejudicedagainstme.WhatIhaddonetodeserveit.”
“Andwhatdidyousay?”
“IsaidIhadnoidea—butthatIwouldaskyou.”Hesmiled.“SoI’maskingyou.What’sgoingon,Mariana?You’vebeenorchestratingacampaignagainstmesinceTara’smurder.WhatifItoldyouI’maninnocentman?I’dlovetoobligeandbeyourscapegoat,but—”
“You’renotmyscapegoat.”
“No?Anoutsider—ablue-collarAmericanintheelitistworldofEnglishacademia?Istickoutlikeasorethumb.”
“Hardly.”Marianashookherhead.“I’dsayyoufitinextremelywell.”
“Well,naturallyI’vedonemybesttoblendin,butthebottomlineisthatalthoughtheEnglishmaybeinfinitelymoresubtlethanAmericansintheirxenophobia,Iwillalwaysbeaforeigner—andthereforeviewedwithsuspicion.”HefixedhiseyesonMarianaintensely.“Asareyou—youdon’tbelonghereeither.”
“We’renottalkingaboutme.”
“Oh,butweare—we’reoneandthesame.”
Shefrowned.“We’renot.Notatall.”
“Oh,Mariana.”Helaughed.“Youdon’tseriouslybelieveI’mmurderingmystudents?It’sabsurd.That’snottosayafewdon’tdeserveit.”Helaughedagain—andhislaughsentashiverdownMariana’sspine.
Shestaredathim—feelingshehadjustglimpsedwhohereallywas:callous,sadistic,entirelyuncaring.Shewasgettingintodangerousterritory,sheknew,butthewinehadmadeherboldandreckless,andshemightnevergetthischanceagain.Shechoseherwordscarefully.
“I’dliketoknow,then,exactlywhatkindofpersonyouthinkkilledthem?”
Foscalookedather,asifheweresurprisedbythequestion.Buthenodded.“I’vegivenitsomethought,asithappens.”
“I’msureyouhave.”
“And,”hesaid,“thefirstthingthatstrikesmeisthatit’sreligiousinnature.That’sclear.He’saspiritualman.Inhiseyes,anyway.”
Marianarememberedthecrossinhishallway.Likeyou,shethought.
Foscasippedsomewineandwenton.“Thekillingsarenotjustrandomattacks.Idon’tthinkthepolicehaveworkedthatoutyet.Themurdersareasacrificialact.”
Marianalookedupsharply.“Asacrificialact?”
“That’sright—it’saritual—ofrebirthandresurrection.”
“Idon’tseeanyresurrectionhere.Justdeath.”
“Itdependsentirelyonhowyoulookatit.”Hesmiled.“AndI’lltellyousomethingelse.He’sashowman.Helovestoperform.”
Likeyou,shethought.
“ThemurdersremindmeofaJacobeantragedy,”hesaid.“Violenceandhorror—toshockandentertain.”
“Entertain?”
“Theatricallyspeaking.”
Hesmiled.AndMarianawasfilledwithasuddendesiretogetasfarawayfromhimaspossible.Shepushedawayherplate.“I’mfinished.”
“Areyousureyoudon’twantanymore?”
Shenodded.“I’vehadenough.”
13
ProfessorFoscasuggestedtheyhavecoffeeanddessertinthesittingroom,andMarianareluctantlyfollowedhimintothenextroom.Hegesturedatthelargedarksofabythefireplace.“Whydon’tyousitdown?”
Marianafeltunwillingtositnexttohimandbethatclosetohim—itmadeherfeelunsafe,somehow.Andathoughtoccurredtoher—ifshefeltthisuneasybeingalonewithhim,howmightaneighteen-year-oldgirlfeel?
Sheshookherhead.“I’mtired.IthinkI’llskipdessert.”
“Don’tgo,notyet.Letmemakesomecoffee.”
Beforeshecouldobject,Foscalefttheroom,disappearingintothekitchen.
Marianafoughtanimpulsetorun,togetthehelloutofthere.Shefeltwoozyandfrustrated—andannoyedwithherself.Nothinghadbeenaccomplished.She’dlearnednothingnew,nothingshedidn’tknowalready.Sheshouldjustgobeforehecamebackandshewasforcedtofightoffhisamorousadvances,orworse.
Asshedeliberatedwhattodo,hereyeswanderedaroundtheroom.Hergazecametorestonasmallstackofbooksonthecoffeetable.Shestaredatthefirstbookonthepile.Shetiltedherheadtoreadthetitle.
TheCollectedWorksofEuripides.
Marianaglancedoverhershouldertowardthekitchen.Nosignofhim.Shehurriedovertothebook.
Shereachedoutandpickeditup.Aredleatherbookmarkwaspokingoutfrominside.
Sheopeneditatthebookmarkedpage.ItwasinsertedintothemiddleofascenefromIphigeniainAulis.ThetextwasinEnglishononesideofthepage,andintheoriginalAncientGreekontheother.
Severallineshadbeenunderlined.Marianarecognizedthemimmediately.TheywerethesamelinesonthepostcardthathadbeensenttoVeronica:
?δεσθετ?ν?λ?ουκα?Φρυγ?ν?λ?πτολινστε?χουσαν,?π?κ?ραστ?φηβαλουμ?νανχερν?βωντεπαγ??,βωμ?νγεδα?μονο?θε???αν?σινα?ματορρ?τοι?χρανο?σανε?φυ?τεσ?ματο?δ?ρηνσφαγε?σαν
“Whatareyoulookingat?”
Marianajumped—hisvoicewasrightbehindher.Sheslammedthebookshut.Sheturnedtofacehimwithaforcedsmile.“Nothing,justlooking.”
Foscahandedherasmallcupofespresso.“Here.”
“Thankyou.”
Heglancedatthebook.“Euripides,asyoumayhavegathered,isafavoriteofmine.Ithinkofhimasanoldfriend.”
“Doyou?”
“Oh,yes.He’stheonlytragedianwhospeaksthetruth.”
“Thetruth?Aboutwhat?”
“Everything.Life.Death.Theunbelievablecrueltyofman.Hetellsitlikeitis.”
Foscasippedsomecoffee,staringather.Andasshelookedintohisblackeyes,Mariananolongerhadanydoubts.Shewasabsolutelycertain:
Shewaslookingintotheeyesofamurderer.
PartFour
Andso,whenamancomesalongandtalkslikeone’sownfatherandactslikehim,evenadults…willsubmittothisman,willacclaimhim,allowthemselvestobemanipulatedbyhim,andputtheirtrustinhim,finallysurrenderingentirelytohimwithoutevenbeingawareoftheirenslavement.Oneisnotnormallyawareofsomethingthatisacontinuationofone’sownchildhood.
—ALICEMILLER,ForYourOwnGood
Thechildhoodshowstheman,Asmorningshowstheday.
—JOHNMILTON,ParadiseRegained
1
Death,andwhathappensnext,hasalwaysbeenabiginterestofmine.
EversinceRex,Isuppose.
Rexwasmyearliestmemory.Abeautifulcreature—ablack-and-whitesheepdog.Thebestkindofanimal.Heputupwithmepullinghisearsandtryingtositonhim,andalltheabusesatoddleriscapableof,butstillhewaggedhistailwhenhesawmecoming,greetingmewithlove.Itwasalessoninforgiveness—notjustonce,butagainandagain.
Hetaughtmemorethanforgiveness.Hetaughtmeaboutdeath.
WhenIwasnearlytwelve,Rexwasgettingold,andfindingithardtokeepupwiththesheep.Mymothersuggestedretiringhim,gettingayoungerdogtotakehisplace.
Iknewmyfatherdidn’tlikeRex—sometimesIsuspectedhehatedhim.Orwasitmymotherhehated?ShelovedRex—evenmorethanIdid.Shelovedhimforhisunconditionalaffection—andhislackofspeech.Hewasherconstantcompanion,workingwithherallday,andshecookedandcaredforhimwithmoredevotionthansheevershowedherhusband,Iremembermyfathersaying,duringafight.
Irememberwhathesaidwhenmymotherproposedgettinganotherdog.Wewereinthekitchen.Iwasonthefloor,strokingRex.Mymotherwascookingatthestove.Myfatherwaspouringhimselfawhiskey.Nothisfirst.
I’mnotpayingtofeedtwodogs,hesaid.I’llshootthisonefirst.
Ittookafewsecondsforhiswordstosinkin,formetounderstandexactlywhathemeant.Mymothershookherhead.
No,shesaid.Foronce,shemeantit.Ifyoutouchthatdog,Iwill—
What?saidmyfather.Areyouthreateningme?
Iknewwhatwascoming.Youneedrealgutstotakeabulletforsomeone.That’swhatshedidwhenshestoodupforRexthatday.
Myfatherwentcrazy,ofcourse.AcrashofglasstoldmeIwastoolate—Ishouldhaverunforcover,likeRex,whohadleapedoutofmyarmsandwashalfwayoutthedoor.Ihadnooptionbuttositthereonthefloor,trapped,asmyfatherthrewoverthetable,missingmebyinches.Mymotherretaliatedbythrowingplatesathim.
Hechargedthroughthebrokendishestowardher.Hisfistswereup.Shewasbackedupagainstthecounter.Shewastrapped.Andthen…
Sheheldupaknife.Alargeknife—usedforcuttingupthelambs.Shehelditup,pointingitatmyfather’schest.Athisheart.
I’llkillyou,dammit,shesaid.Imeanit.
Therewassilenceforamoment.
Irealizeditwasentirelypossibleshemightstabhim.Tomydisappointment,shedidn’t.
Myfatherdidn’tsayanotherword.Hejustturnedandwalkedout.Thekitchendoorslammedafterhim.
Mymotherdidn’tmoveforasecond.Thenshestartedtocry.It’shorriblewatchingyourmothercry.Youfeelsoimpotent,sopowerless.
I’llkillhimforyou,Isaid.
Butthatjustmadehercryharder.
Andthen…weheardagunshot.
Andthenanother.
Idon’trememberleavingthehouse—orstumblingintotheyard.AllIrememberisseeingRex’slimp,bleedingbodyontheground,andmyfathermarchingoff,holdinghisrifle.
IwatchedthelifedrainoutofRex.Hiseyesbecameglassyandunseeing.Histonguewentblue.Hislimbsslowlyturnedstiff.Icouldn’tstopstaringathim.Ihadasense—eventhen,atthatyoungage—thatthesightofthisdeadanimalhadstainedmylifeforever.
Thesoft,wetfur.Thebrokenbody.Theblood.Ishutmyeyes,butIcouldstillseeit.
Theblood.
Andlateron,whenmymotherandIcarriedRextothepitandthrewhimin,downintothedepths,torotwiththeotherunwantedcarcasses,Iknewthatpartofmewentdownwithhim.Thegoodpart.
Itriedtosummonupsometearsforhim,butIcouldn’tcry.Thatpooranimalneverdidmeanyharm—heshowedmeonlylove,onlykindness.
AndyetIcouldn’tcryforhim.
Instead,Iwaslearninghowtohate.
Acold,hardkernelofhatredwasforminginmyheart,likeadiamondinadarkpieceofcoal.
IsworeIwouldneverforgivemyfather.Andoneday,I’dhavemyrevenge.Butuntilthen,untilIgrewup,Iwastrapped.
SoIretreatedintomyimagination.Inmyfantasies,myfathersuffered.
AndsodidI.
Inthebathroom,withthedoorlocked,orinthehayloft,oratthebackofthebarn,unobserved,Iwouldescape—fromthisbody…fromthismind.
Iwouldactoutcruel,horriblyviolentdeathscenes:agonizedpoisonings,brutalstabbings—butcheryanddisembowelment.Iwouldbedrawnandquartered,torturedtodeath.Iwouldbleed.
Iwouldstandonmybedandpreparetobesacrificedbypaganpriests.They’dgrabholdofmeandhurlmefromthecliff,down,downintothesea,intothedepths—wherethesea-monsterswerecircling,waitingtodevourme.
I’dshutmyeyesandjumpoffthebed.
AndIwouldbetorntoshreds.
2
MarianaleftProfessorFosca’sroomsfeelingunsteadyonherfeet.
Thiswasn’tfromthewineandthechampagne—eventhoughshehaddrunkmorethansheshould.Itwastheshockofwhatshehadjustseen—theGreekquotationunderlinedinhisbook.Itwasstrange,shethought,howmomentsofextremeclarityoftenhadthesametextureasdrunkenness.
Shecouldn’tkeepthistoherself.Shehadtotalktosomeone.Butwho?
Shepausedinthecourtyardtothinkthisover.NopointingoingtofindZoe—notnow,notaftertheirlastconversation;Zoesimplywouldn’ttakeherseriously.Sheneededasympatheticear.ShethoughtofClarissa,butshewasn’tsureClarissawouldwanttobelieveher.
Sothatleftonlyoneperson.
ShepulledoutherphoneandrangFred.Hesaidhewasmorethanhappytotalktoher,andsuggestedtheymeetatGardiesinabouttenminutes.
TheGardenia,knownandbelovedbygenerationsofstudentsasGardies,wasaGreekdinerintheheartofCambridge,servinglate-nightfastfood.Marianawalkedthere,alongthecurved,pedestrianizedalley,smellingGardiesbeforeshesawit—greetedbythesmellofchipssizzlinginhotoilandfryingfish.
Gardieswasatinyplace—barelyahandfulofcustomerscouldfitinsideatonce—sopeoplewouldcongregateoutside,eatinginthealley.Fredwaswaitingoutsidetheentrance,underthegreenawningandthesignreading,HaveabreaktheGreekway.
FredgrinnedatMarianaassheapproached.
“Hellothere.Fancysomechips?Mytreat.”
ThesmelloffryinghadremindedMarianashewashungry—shehadbarelytouchedthatbloodydinneratFosca’s.Shenoddedgratefully.
“I’dlovesome.”
“Comingrightup,miss.”
Fredboundedintotheentrance,trippingonthestep—andcollidingwithanothercustomer,whosworeathim.Marianahadtosmile—hereallywasoneoftheclumsiestpeopleshehadevermet.Hesoonemergedagain,holdingtwowhitepaperbags,bulgingwithsteamingchips.
“Thereyougo,”hesaid.“Ketchup?Ormayo?”
Marianashookherhead.“Neither,thanks.”Sheblewonthechipstocoolthemforaminute.Thenshetriedone.Itwassaltyandsharp,alittletoosharp,withvinegar.Shecoughed,andFredgaveherananxiouslook.
“Toomuchvinegar?Sorry.Myhandslipped.”
“It’sokay.”Marianasmiledandshookherhead.“They’regreat.”
“Good.”
Theystoodthereforamoment,silentlyeatingtheirchips.Assheate,Marianaglancedathim.Thesoftlamplightmadehisboyishfeaturesseemevenyounger.Hewasjustakid,shethought.Aneagerboyscout.Shefeltagenuinefondnessforhiminthatmoment.
Fredcaughtherlookingathim.Hegaveheratimidsmile.Hespokebetweenmouthfuls.“I’llregretsayingthis,I’msure.ButI’mveryhappyyoucalledme.Itmeansyoumusthavemissedme,evenifjustatinybit—”Fredsawherexpression,andhissmilefaded.“Ah.IseeI’mwrong.That’snotwhyyoucalled.”
“Icalledbecausesomethinghappened—andIwanttotalktoyouaboutit.”
Fredlookedalittlemorehopeful.“Soyoudidwanttotalktome?”
“Oh,Fred.”Marianarolledhereyes.“Justlisten.”
“Goahead.”
FredatehischipsasMarianatoldhimwhathappened—aboutfindingthepostcards,anddiscoveringthesamequotationunderlinedinFosca’sbook.
Heremainedsilentaftershefinished.Finally,hesaid,“Whatareyougoingtodo?”
Marianashookherhead.“Idon’tknow.”
Fredbrushedthecrumbsfromhismouth,crumpledupthepaperbag,andthrewitinthebin.Shewatchedhim,tryingtoreadhisexpression.
“Youdon’tthinkI’m—imaginingit?”
“No.”Fredshookhishead.“Idon’t.”
“Eventhoughhehasanalibi—forbothmurders?”
Heshrugged.“Oneofthegirlswhogavehimanalibiisdead.”
“Yes.”
“AndSerenacouldbelying.”
“Yes.”
“Andthere’sanotherpossibility,ofcourse—”
“Whichis?”
“He’sworkingwithsomeone.Anaccomplice.”
Marianapeeredathim.“Ihadn’tthoughtofthat.”
“Whynot?Itexplainshowhecanbeintwoplacesatonce.”
“Possibly.”
“Youdon’tlookconvinced.”
Marianashrugged.“Hedoesn’tstrikemeasthekindofpersontohaveapartner.He’sverymuchalonewolf.”
“Perhaps.”Fredthoughtforasecond.“Anyway,weneedsomeproof—youknow,somethingconcrete—ornoonewilleverbelieveus.”
“Andhowdowegetthat?”
“We’llthinkofsomething.Let’smeetfirstthingtomorrowandmakeaplan.”
“Ican’ttomorrow—IhavetogotoLondon.ButI’llcallyouwhenIgetback.”
“Okay.”Heloweredhisvoice.“ButMariana.Listen.Foscamustknowyou’reontohim,so…”
Hedidn’tfinishthesentence,justleftithanging.Mariananodded.
“Don’tworry.I’mbeingcareful.”
“Good.”Fredpaused.“There’sonlyonemorethingtosay.”Hegrinned.“Youlookincredibly,stunninglybeautifultonight…Willyoudomethehonorofbecomingmywife?”
“No.”Marianashookherhead.“Iwon’t.Butthanksverymuchforthechips.”
“You’rewelcome.”
“Goodnight.”
Theysmiledateachother.ThenMarianaturnedandwalkedaway.Attheendofthestreet,stillsmiling,sheglancedback—butFredhadgone.
Funny,that—heseemedtohavevanished.
Asshemadeherwaybacktocollege,Mariana’sphonerang.Shepulleditoutofherpocket.Sheglancedatit—thecaller’snumberwaswithheld.
Shehesitated,thenanswered.“Hello?”
Noreply.
“Hello?”
Therewassilence—andthenawhisperingvoice.
“Hello,Mariana.”
Shefroze.“Whoisthis?”
“Icanseeyou,Mariana.I’mwatchingyou—”
“Henry?”Shewassureitwashim—sherecognizedhisvoice.“Henry,isthatyou—?”
Thelinewentdead.Marianastoodthere,staringatthephoneforasecond.Shefeltdeeplyuneasy.Shelookedaround—butthestreetwasdeserted.
3
Thenextmorning,MarianagotupearlytogotoLondon.
Assheleftherroom,walkingacrossMainCourt,sheglancedthroughthearchwayintoAngelCourt.
Andtherehewas—EdwardFosca—standingoutsidehisstaircase,smoking.
Buthewasn’talone.Hewastalkingtosomeone—acollegeporterwhohadhisbacktoMariana.Itwasobvious,fromthesheersizeandheightoftheman,itwasMorris.
Marianahurriedovertothearchway.Shehidbehindit,andthencautiouslypeeredaroundthewall.
Somethinghadtoldherthiswasworthinvestigating,somethingabouttheexpressiononFosca’sface.Alookofsustainedannoyancethatshehadn’tseenbefore.WhatFredhadsaidpoppedintohermind—aboutFoscaworkingwithsomeone.
CoulditpossiblybeMorris?
ShesawFoscaslipsomethingintoMorris’shand.Itlookedlikeabulkyenvelope.Anenvelopestuffedwithwhat?Money?
Marianacouldfeelherimaginationrunningawaywithher.Sheletitrun.WasMorrisblackmailingFosca—wasthatit?Washebeingpaidtokeepquiet?
Couldthisbeit—whatsheneeded—somekindofconcreteproof?
Morrisabruptlyturnedaround.HestartedwalkingawayfromFosca—andinMariana’sdirection.
Shepulledbackandflattenedherselfagainstthewall.Morrismarchedthroughthearchway,passingbywithoutevennoticingher.MarianawatchedhimcrossMainCourtandgooutthegate.
Shequicklyfollowedhim.
4
Marianahurriedoutthegate,andkeptasafedistancefromMorrisonthestreet.Heseemedtohavenosensehewasbeingfollowed.Hesaunteredalong,whistlingtohimself,enjoyingthewalkandinnoapparenthurry.
HestrolledpastEmmanuelCollegeandtheterracedhousesallthewayalongthestreet,pastthebikeschaineduptotherailings.Thenheturnedleft,intoalane,anddisappeared.
Marianahurriedtothelane.Shepeeredintoit.Itwasanarrowstreet,witharowofhousesoneitherside.
Itcametoadeadend—anabrupthalt.Awallcutacrosstheroad:anoldredbrickwall,withivycrawlingalloverit.
ToMariana’ssurprise,Morriskeptwalking,rightuptothewall.
Hereachedit.Hedughisfingersintoaspaceleftbyoneofthelooserbricks,grabbedhold,andpulledhimselfup.Thenhescaledthewallwithease,climbedoverit—andvanishedovertheotherside.
Damn,shethought.Marianadeliberatedforamoment.
Thenshehurriedovertothewall.Sheconsideredit.Shewasn’tsureshecouldmanageit.Shescannedthebricks—andsawaspacetogrip.
Shereachedupandgrabbedhold—butthebrickcameawayfromthewallinherhand.Shefellback.
Shethrewthebrickaside.Shetriedagain.
Thistime,Marianamanagedtopullherselfup.Withdifficulty,sheclimbedoverthetopofthewall—andthenfelldowntheotherside…
Shelandedinadifferentworld.
5
Ontheothersideofthewall,therewasnoroad.Nohouses.Justwildgrass,conifertrees,andovergrownblackberrybushes.IttookMarianaafewsecondstorealizewhereshewas.
ThiswastheabandonedcemeteryonMillRoad.
Marianahadbeenhereoncebefore,nearlytwentyyearsago,whenshehadexploreditwithSebastianonesultrysummerafternoon.Shehadn’tlikedthecemeterythen;shethoughtitwassinister,desolate.
Shedidn’tlikeitnoweither.
Shepulledherselfup.Shelookedaround.NosignofMorris.Shelistened:itwasquiet,nosoundoffootsteps—orevenbirdsong.Justdeathlysilence.
Shelookedattheinterconnectingpathsupahead,betweenaseaofgravesovergrownwithmossandmassivehollybushes.Manyoftheheadstoneshadtoppledover,orsnappedintwo—throwingdark,jaggedshadowsontothewildgrass.Allthenamesanddatesontheheadstoneshadlongsincebeenerasedbytimeandbadweather.Alltheseunrememberedpeople—theseforgottenlives.Therewassuchasenseofloss,offutility.Marianacouldn’twaittogetoutofthere.
Shemadeherwayalongthepathnearestthewall.Shehadnointentionoflosingherbearings,notnow.
Shestopped,andlistened—butagain,nosoundoffootsteps.
Nothing.Nosound.
Shehadlosthim.
Perhapshehadseenheranddeliberatelygivenhertheslip?Therewasnopointingoingon.
Shewasabouttoturnbackwhenalargestatuecaughthereye:amaleangel,mountedonacross,armsoutstretched,withlarge,chippedwings.Marianastaredattheangelforamoment,mesmerized.Thestatuewastarnishedandbroken,butstillbeautiful—helookedabitlikeSebastian.
AndthenMariananoticedsomething—justbeyondthestatue,throughthefoliage—ayoungwomanwalkingonthepath.Marianarecognizedheratonce.
ItwasSerena.
Serenadidn’tseeMariana,andsheapproachedaflat-roofed,rectangularstonecryptthatoncehadbeenwhitemarblebutnowwasspeckledgrayandmossygreen,withwildflowersgrowingaroundit.
Shesatonit,tookoutherphone,andlookedatit.
Marianahidbehindanearbytree.Shepeeredthroughthebranches.
ShewatchedasSerenalookedup—atamanemergingfromthefoliage.
ItwasMorris.
MorriswentuptoSerena.Neitherofthemspoke.Hetookoffhisbowlerhatandbalanceditonaheadstone.ThenhegrabbedthebackofSerena’shead—andwithasudden,violentmovementdraggedherup,kissingherhard.
MarianawatchedasMorrislaySerenadownonthemarble,stillkissingher.Heclimbedontopofher.Theystartedhavingsex—aggressive,animalisticsex.Marianafeltrepulsed,yetalsotransfixed—unabletolookaway.Andthen—asabruptlyastheyhadbegun—theyclimaxed,andtherewassilence.
Theylaystillforamoment.ThenMorrisgotup.Headjustedhisclothing.Hereachedforhisbowleranddusteditoff.
Marianathoughtshehadbettergetoutofthere.Shetookastepbackward—andatwigsnappedbeneathherfoot.
Therewasaloudcrunch.
Throughthebranches,shesawMorrislookaround.HemotionedtoSerenatokeepquiet.ThenhemovedbehindatreeandMarianalostsightofhim.
Marianaturnedandhurriedbacktothepath.Butwhichwaywastheentrance?Shedecidedtogobackthewayshehadcome,alongthewall.Sheturnedaround—
AndMorriswasstandingrightbehindher.
Hestaredather,breathinghard.Therewassilenceforafewseconds.
Morrisspokeinalowvoice.“Whatthefuckareyoudoing?”
“What?Excuseme.”Shetriedtowalkpasthim—butMorrisblockedherpath.Hesmiled.
“Enjoytheshow,didyou?”
Marianafelthercheeksburning,andlookedaway.
Helaughed.“Iseethroughyou.Youdon’tfoolme,notforasecond.I’vehadmyeyeonyou,rightfromthestart.”
“What’sthatsupposedtomean?”
“Itmeansdon’tstickyournoseinotherpeople’sbusiness—asmyoldgrandpausedtosay—orit’llgetslicedoff.Getit?”
“Areyouthreateningme?”
Marianasoundedbraverthanshefelt.Morrisjustlaughed.Hegaveheronelastlook,thenturnedandsaunteredoff.
Marianastoodthere,shaking,scared,angry,andclosetotears.Shefeltparalyzed,rootedtothespot.Thenshelookedupandcaughtsightofthestatue—theangelwasstaringather,armsoutstretched,offeringanembrace.
ShefeltanoverwhelminglongingforSebastianatthatmoment—forhimtotakeherinhisarms,holdher,andfightforher.Buthewasgone.
AndMarianawouldhavetolearntofightforherself.
6
MarianatookthefasttraintoLondon.
Itdidn’tstopatanystationsontheway,andseemedtoberacingtoitsdestination.Itfeltasifitweregoingtoofast—joltingandbumpingmadlyinthetracks,swingingandswayingoutofcontrol.Therailsweresquealing—ahigh-pitchedwailinMariana’sears—likesomeonescreaming.Andthecarriagedoordidn’tcloseproperly.Itkeptopeningandslammingshut,eachbangstartlingandintrudingonherthoughts.
Therewasalottothinkabout.ShefeltdeeplyunsettledbyherconfrontationwithMorris.Shetriedtomakesenseofit.SohewasthemanSerenawassecretlyseeing?Nowondertheykeptitsecret—Morriswouldlosehisjobifhisaffairwithastudentwasdiscovered.
Marianahopedthat’salltherewastoit.Butshedoubtedit,somehow.
MorrishadsomethingtodowithFosca,butwhat?AndhowwasitrelatedtoSerena?WeretheyblackmailingFoscatogether?Ifso,itwasadangerousgame,antagonizingapsychopath—onewhohadkilledtwicealready.
MarianahadbeenwrongaboutMorris,shesawthatnow;shehadfallenforhisold-fashionedact—buthewasnogentleman.Shethoughtoftheviciouslookinhiseyeswhenhethreatenedher.Hewantedtoscareher—andhe’dsucceeded.
Bang—thecarriagedoorslammed,makingherjump.
Stopit,shethought.You’redrivingyourselfcrazy.Shehadtodistractherself,thinkaboutsomethingelse.
ShepulledoutthecopyoftheBritishJournalofPsychiatrythatwasstillinherbag.Sheflickedthroughit,andtriedtoreaditbutcouldn’tfocus.Somethingelsewasbotheringher:shecouldn’tgetoverthesensationthatshewasbeingwatched.
Shelookedoverhershoulder,aroundthecarriage—therewereafewpeopleinit,butnoonesheknew,oratleastnoonesherecognized.Nooneappearedtobewatchingher.
Shecouldn’tshakeit,though—thefeelingofbeingobserved.AndasthetrainnearedLondon,anunnervingthoughtoccurredtoher.
WhatifshewaswrongaboutFosca?Whatifthekillerwassomestranger—invisibletoher,andsittingrighthere,inthiscarriage,watchinghernow,thisverysecond?Marianashiveredatthethought.
Bang—wentthedoor.
Bang.
Bang.
7
ThetrainsoonpulledintoKing’sCross.AsMarianaleftthestation,shestillhadthatlingeringfeelingofbeingobserved.Theprickling,creepingsensationofeyesonthebackofherneck.
Suddenly,convincedsomeonewasrightbehindher,shespunaround—halfexpectingtoseeMorris—
Buthewasn’tthere.
Andyetthefeelingpersisted.ShearrivedatRuth’shousefeelingunsettledandparanoid.PerhapsI’mcrazy,shethought.Perhapsthat’sit.
Crazyornot,therewasnooneshewouldratherseethantheelderlyladywaitingforheratNo.5RedfernMews.Itfeltareliefjusttopressthedoorbell.
RuthhadbeenMariana’strainingtherapistwhenshewasastudent.AndwhenMarianaqualified,Ruthbeganactingashersupervisorinstead.Asupervisorplaysanimportantroleinatherapist’slife—Marianawouldreportbacktoheraboutherpatients,hergroups,andRuthwouldhelpMarianaunpackherfeelings,distinguishingbetweenherpatients’emotionsandherown,whichwasn’talwayseasy.Withoutsupervision,atherapistmighteasilygetoverwhelmedandemotionallyswampedbyallthedistressshehadtocontain.Andshemightlosethatimpartialitythatwassoimportanttoworkingeffectively.
FollowingSebastian’sdeath,MarianabeganseeingRuthmorefrequently,needinghersupportmorethanever.Itwastherapyineverythingbutname—andRuthsuggestedsheshouldfullycommit:returntotherapy,andhaveRuthtreather.ButMarianarefused.Shecouldn’texplainwhyexactly,otherthanshedidn’tneedtherapy;shejustneededSebastian.Andallthetalkingintheworldcouldn’treplacehim.
“Mariana,mydear,”saidRuth,openingthedoor.Shegaveherawelcomingsmile.“Won’tyoucomein?”
“Hello,Ruth.”
Itfeltsogoodtogoinside,andenterthelivingroomthatalwayssmelledoflavender,andhearthesilverclocktickingreassuringlyonthemantelpiece.
Shesatinherusualseat,ontheedgeofthefadedbluecouch.Ruthsatoppositeher,inthearmchair.
“Yousoundedquitedistressedonthephone,”Ruthsaid.“Whydon’tyoutellmeaboutit,Mariana?”
“It’shardtoknowwheretostart.IsupposeitstartedwhenZoecalledmethatnight,fromCambridge.”
Marianathenbegantellingherstory,asclearlyandcomprehensivelyasshecould.Ruthlistened,noddingoccasionallybutsayingverylittle.Whenshefinished,Ruthremainedsilentforamoment.Shesighed,almostimperceptibly—asad,wearysighthatechoedMariana’sanguishfarmoreeloquentlythananywords.
“Icanfeelthestrainit’scausingyou,”shesaid.“Theneedtobestrong,forZoe,forthecollege,foryourself—”
Marianashookherhead.“Idon’tmatter.ButZoe,andthosegirls…I’msoscared—”Hereyesfilledwithtears.Ruthleanedforwardandedgedtheboxoftissuestowardher.Marianatookatissueandwipedhereyes.“Thanks,I’msorry.Idon’tevenknowwhyI’mcrying.”
“You’recryingbecauseyoufeelpowerless.”
Mariananodded.“Ido.”
“Butthat’snottrue.Youknowthat,don’tyou?”Ruthgaveheranencouragingnod.“You’remuchmorecapablethanyousuppose.Thecollege,afterall,isjustanothergroup—withsicknessatitscore.Ifsomethingofthisnature—toxic,malignant,murderous—wereoperatingwithinoneofyourgroups…”
Ruthleftthesentencehanging.Marianaponderedit.
“WhatwouldIdo?That’sagoodquestion.”Shenodded.“Isuppose…Iwouldtalktothem—asagroup,Imean.”
“JustwhatIwasthinking.”Therewasatwinkleinhereyesasshesaidthis.“Talktothesegirls,theMaidens,notindividually—butasagroup.”
“Atherapygroup,youmean?”
“Whynot?Haveasessionwiththem—seewhatcomesup.”
Marianasmiled,despiteherself.“It’sanintriguingidea.Idon’tquiteknowhowtheywouldrespondtothat.”
“Thinkaboutit,that’sall.Asyouknow,thebestwaytotreatagroup—”
“—isasagroup.”Mariananodded.“Yes,Iseethat.”
Shefellsilentforamoment.Itwasgoodadvice—noteasytoachieve,butittouchedonsomethingsheactuallyknewaboutandbelievedin—andalreadyshefeltalittlelessoutofherdepth.Shesmiledgratefully.“Thankyou.”
Ruthhesitated.“There’ssomethingelse.Somethinglesseasytosay…somethingthatstrikesme—regardingthismanEdwardFosca.Iwantyoutobeverycareful.”
“Iambeingcareful.”
“Ofyourself?”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Well,presumablythisisbringingupallkindsoffeelingsandassociationsforyou…I’msurprisedthatyou’venotmentionedyourfather.”
MarianalookedatRuthinsurprise.“What’smyfathergottodowithFosca?”
“Well,they’rebothcharismaticmen,powerfulwithintheircommunity—and,bythesoundsofit,highlynarcissistic.Iwonderifyoufeelthesameurgetowinoverthisman,EdwardFosca,asyoudidyourfather.”
“No.”MarianafeltannoyedwithRuthforsuggestingit.“No,”sherepeated.“Andanyway,IhaveaverynegativetransferencetowardEdwardFosca.”
Ruthhesitated.“Yourfeelingstowardyourfatherweren’tentirelybenign.”
“That’sdifferent.”
“Isit?It’sstillsohardforyou,evennow,isn’tit?—tocriticizehim,oracknowledgeheletyoudowninreal,fundamentalways.Heneveroncegaveyoutheloveyouneeded.Ittookalongtimeforyoutobeabletoseethat,andtonameit.”
Marianashookherhead.“Honestly,Ruth,Idon’tthinkmyfatherhasanythingtodowiththis.”
Ruthlookedathersadly.“It’smyfeelingthatyourfatherisinsomewaycentraltothis,asfarasyou’reconcerned.Thatmightnotmakemuchsenserightnow.Butoneday,perhaps,itmightmeanagreatdeal.”
Marianadidn’tknowhowtorespond.Sheshrugged.
“AndSebastian?”saidRuthafterapause.“Howareyoufeelingabouthim?”
Marianashookherhead.“Idon’twanttotalkaboutSebastian.Nottoday.”
Shedidn’tstayforlongafterthat.Thementionofherfatherhadcastapalloverthesession,whichdidn’tfullydisperseuntilshewasinRuth’shallway.
AsMarianaleft,shegavetheoldladyahug.Shefeltthewarmthandaffectioninthathug,andtearswelledupinhereyes.“Thankyousomuch,Ruth.Foreverything.”
“Callmeifyouneedme—anytime.Idon’twantyoutothinkyou’realone.”
“Thankyou.”
“Youknow,”Ruthsaid,afteraslighthesitation,“youmightfindithelpfultotalktoTheo.”
“Theo?”
“Whynot?Psychopathyis,afterall,hisspecialsubject.He’squitebrilliant.Anyinsightshehasareboundtobeuseful.”
Marianaconsideredit.TheowasaforensicpsychotherapistwhohadtrainedwithherinLondon.DespitesharingRuthasatherapist,theyhadn’tknowneachotherverywell.
“I’mnotsure,”shesaid.“Imean,I’venotseenTheoinaverylongtime…Doyouthinkhe’dmind?”
“Notatall.YoucouldtryandseehimbeforeyougobacktoCambridge.Letmegivehimaring.”
Ruthcalledhim—andTheosaidyes,ofcourseherememberedMariana,andhe’dbehappytotalktoher.TheyarrangedtomeetinapubinCamden.
Andthatevening,atsixo’clock,MarianawenttomeetTheoFaber.
8
MarianawasfirsttoarriveattheOxfordArms.Shegotaglassofwhitewinewhileshewaited.
ShewascurioustoseeTheo—butalsowary.SharingRuthasatherapistmadethemalittlelikesiblings,eachcovetingtheattentiontheirmothergavetheother.Marianausedtofeelalittlejealous,evenresentful,ofTheo—sheknewRuthhadasoftspotforhim.Ruth’svoicetookonaprotectivetonewhenevershementionedhim,whichhadledMariana,quiteunreasonably,toconcoctafantasyforherselfthatTheowasanorphan.Itcameasashockwhenbothhisparentsappearedattheirgraduation,aliveandwell.
Intruth,TheodidhaveawaiflikequalitythatMarianawaspickingupon—anotherness.Ithadnothingtodowithhisbuild,butwasentirelysuggestedbyhismanner:akindofreticence,aslightdistancefromothers—anawkwardness,somethingMarianaalsorecognizedinherself.
Theoarrivedafewminuteslate.HegreetedMarianawarmly.HegotaDietCokeatthebar,andjoinedheratthetable.
Helookedthesame;hehadn’tchangedatall.Hewasaboutfortyyearsold,andhadaslimbuild.Hewaswearingabatteredcorduroyjacketandacrumpledwhiteshirt,andhesmelledfaintlyofcigarettesmoke.Hehadaniceface,shethought,acaringface,buttherewassomething—whatwastheword?—anxiousinhiseyes,evenhaunted.Andsherealizedthatwhileshelikedhim,shewasn’tentirelycomfortablearoundhim.Shewasn’tquitesurewhy.
“Thankyouformeetingme,”shesaid.“Itwasveryshortnotice.”
“Notatall.I’mintrigued.I’vebeenfollowingthestory,likeeveryoneelse.It’sfascinating—”Theoquicklycorrectedhimself.“Imean,it’sterrible,ofcourse.Butalsofascinating.”Hesmiled.“I’dliketopickyourbrainsaboutit.”
Marianasmiled.“Actually—Iwashopingtopickyours.”
“Ah.”Theoseemedsurprisedtohearthis.“Butyou’rethere,Mariana,inCambridge.I’mnot.YourinsightsaremuchmorevaluablethananythingIcantellyou.”
“Idon’thavemuchexperienceinthiskindofthing—inforensics.”
“Itmakesnodifference,really—sinceeverycaseiscompletelyunique,inmyexperience.”
“That’sfunny.Juliansaidexactlytheopposite.Thateverycaseisalwaysthesame.”
“Julian?YoumeanJulianAshcroft?”
“Yes.He’sworkingwiththepolice.”
Theoraisedaneyebrow.“IrememberJulianfromtheinstitute.Therewassomethingabit…oddabouthim,Ithought.Alittlebloodthirsty.Andanywayhe’swrong—eachcaseisquitedifferent.Afterall,noonehasthesamechildhood.”
“Yes,Iagree.”Mariananodded.“Butstill,youdon’tthinkthere’sanythingwecanlookfor?”
TheosippedhisCokeandshrugged.“Look.SayI’mthemanyou’reafter.SayI’mextremelyunwell,andhighlydangerous.It’sentirelypossiblethatIcanhideallthatfromyou.Notforanextendedtime,perhaps,orinatherapeuticenvironment—butonasuperficiallevel,it’sveryeasytopresentafalseselftotheworld.Eventopeopleweseeeveryday.”Heplayedwithhisweddingringforamoment,turningitaroundonhisfinger.“Doyouwantmyadvice?Forgetwho.Startwithwhy.”
“Whydoeshekill,youmean?”
“Yes.”Theonodded.“Somethingaboutitdoesn’tringtruetome.Thevictims—weretheysexuallyassaulted?”
Marianashookherhead.“No,nothinglikethat.”
“Sowhatdoesthattellus?”
“Thatthekillingitself,thestabbingandmutilation,providesthegratification?Perhaps.Idon’tthinkit’sthatsimple.”
Theonodded.“NeitherdoI.”
“Thepathologistsaidthecauseofdeathwasaseveredthroat—andthestabbingtookplacepostmortem.”
“Isee,”Theosaid,lookingintrigued.“Whichmeansthereisacertainperformativeaspecttoallthis.It’sstaged—forthebenefitoftheaudience.”
“Andwearetheaudience?”
“That’sright.”Theonodded.“Whyisthat,doyouthink?Whydoeshewantustoseethishorrificviolence?”
Marianathoughtforamoment.“Ithink…hewantsustobelievetheywerekilledinafrenzy—byaserialkiller—amadmanwithaknife.Butinfact,hewasentirelycalmandcontrolled—andthesemurdersweredeliberatelyandcarefullyplanned.”
“Exactly.Whichmeanswe’redealingwithsomeonemuchmoreintelligent—andmuchmoredangerous.”
MarianathoughtofEdwardFosca,andnodded.“Yes,Ithinkso.”
“Letmeaskyousomething.”Theopeeredather.“Whenyousawthebodyupclose,what’sthefirstthingthatcameintoyourmind?”
Marianablinked—andforasecond,shesawVeronica’seyes.Shebanishedtheimage.“I—don’tknow…thatitwashorrible.”
Theoshookhishead.“No.That’snotwhatyouthought.Tellmethetruth.Whatwasthefirstthingthatcameintoyourmind?”
Marianashrugged,alittleembarrassed.“Funnilyenough…itwasalinefromaplay.”
“Interesting.Goon.”
“TheDuchessofMalfi.‘Coverherface—mineeyesdazzle—’”
“Yes.”Theo’seyeslitupsuddenly,andheleanedforward,excited.“Yes,that’sit.”
“I—I’mnotsureIunderstand.”
“‘Mineeyesdazzle.’Thebodiesarepresentedlikethat—todazzleus.Toblinduswithhorror.Why?”
“Idon’tknow.”
“Thinkaboutit.Whyishetryingtoblindus?Whatdoesn’thewantustosee?Whatishetryingtodistractusfrom?Answerthat,Mariana—andyou’llcatchhim.”
Mariananoddedasshetookthisin.Theysatincontemplativesilenceforamoment,lookingateachother.
Theosmiled.“Youhaveararegiftforempathy.Icanfeelit.IcanseewhyRuthpraisesyousohighly.”
“Idon’tdeservethat,butthankyou.It’snicetohear.”
“Don’tbesomodest.It’snoteasy,beingsoopenandreceptivetoanotherhumanbeing,you’reabletofeeltheirfeelings…It’sapoisonedchaliceinmanyways.I’vealwaysthoughtso.”Thenhepaused,andsaidinalowvoice,“Forgiveme.Ishouldn’tsaythis…butI’mpickingupsomethingelseinyou…”Hepaused.“Akindof—fear.You’reafraidofsomething.Andyouthinkit’soutthere…”Hegesturedintotheair.“Butit’snot—it’sinhere—”Hetouchedhischest.“Deepwithinyou.”
Marianablinked,feelingexposedandembarrassed.Sheshookherhead.
“Idon’t—Idon’tknowwhatyoumean.”
“Well,myadviceis—payattentiontoit.Getfriendlywithit.Weshouldalwayspayattentionwhenourbodytellsussomething.That’swhatRuthsays.”
Hesuddenlylookedalittleawkward,perhapssensinghehadoversteppedthemark.Heglancedathiswatch.“Ishouldgo.Ihavetomeetmywife.”
“Ofcourse.Thankssomuchforseeingme,Theo.”
“Notatall.It’sbeengoodtoseeyou,Mariana…Ruthsaidyourunaprivatepracticenow?”
“That’sright.Andyou’reatBroadmoor?”
“Formysins.”Theosmiled.“Idon’tknowhowmuchlongerIcantakeit,tobehonest.I’mnotterriblyhappythere.I’dlookforanewjob,but,youknow—notime.”
Ashesaidthis,Marianasuddenlythoughtofsomething.
“Waitasecond,”shesaid.
Shereachedintoherbag.ShepulledouttheBritishJournalofPsychiatrythatshe’dbeencarryingaround.Sheflickedthroughthepagesuntilshefoundwhatshewaslookingfor.SheshowedTheothejournal,pointingattheadvertinthebox.
“Look.”
ItwasanadvertforthepositionofforensicpsychotherapistattheGrove,asecurepsychiatricunitinEdgware.
Marianaglancedathim.“Whatdoyouthink?IknowProfessorDiomedes—herunsit.Hespecializesingroupwork—hetaughtmeforawhile.”
“Yes.”Theonodded.“Yes,Iknowwhoheis.”Hestudiedtheadvertwithobviousinterest.“TheGrove?Isn’tthatwheretheysentAliciaBerenson?Aftershekilledherhusband?”
“AliciaBerenson?”
“Thepainter…whowon’ttalk.”
“Oh—Iremember.”Marianagavehimanencouragingsmile.“Maybeyoushouldapplyforthejob?Gethertalkingagain?”
“Perhaps.”Theosmiled,andthoughtaboutitforamoment.Henoddedtohimself.“PerhapsIwill.”
9
ThejourneybacktoCambridgewentbyinaflash.
Marianawaslostinthoughtthewholetime,goingoverherconversationwithRuthandhermeetingwithTheo.Hisideathatthemurdersweredeliberatelyhorrifying,inordertodistractfromsomething,intriguedMariana—andmadeemotionalsenseinawayshecouldn’tquiteexplain.
AsforRuth’ssuggestionsheorganizeatherapygroupwiththeMaidens—well,itwouldn’tbeeasy,andmaybenotevenpossible,butitwasdefinitelyworthpursuing.
WhatRuthhadsaidaboutMariana’sfatherwasfarmoreproblematic.
Shedidn’tunderstandwhyshe’dbroughthimup.WhatdidRuthsay?
Itmightnotmeanmuchnow—butoneday,itmightmeanagreatdeal.
Thatcouldn’tbemorecryptic.Ruthwasobviouslyhintingatsomething,butwhat?
Marianapuzzledoverit,staringatthefieldswhizzingpastthewindow.ShethoughtofherchildhoodinAthens,andherfather:howasachild,shehadadoredhim—thishandsome,clever,charismaticman—worshippedandidealizedhim.IttookMarianaalongtimetoseethatherfatherwasnotquitethemanshethoughthewas.
Therevelationoccurredwhenshewasinherearlytwenties,aftershegraduatedfromCambridge.ShewaslivinginLondonandtrainingtobeateacher.ShehadbeguntherapywithRuth,withtheintentionofaddressingthelossofhermother,butfoundherselftalkingmainlyaboutherfather.
ShefeltcompelledtoconvinceRuthwhatawonderfulmanhewas:howbrilliant,howhardworking,howmuchhehadsacrificed,raisingtwochildrenonhisown—andhowmuchhelovedher.
AfterseveralmonthsoflisteningtoMariana,andsayingverylittle…onedayRuthfinallyinterrupted.
Whatshesaidwassimple,direct,anddevastating.
Ruthsuggested,asgentlyasshecould,thatMarianawasindenialaboutherfather.Thataftereverythingshehadheard,shehadtoquestionMariana’sassessmentofhimasalovingparent.ThemanRuthhearddescribedsoundedauthoritarian,cold,emotionallyunavailable,oftencriticalandhighlyunkind—evencruel.Noneofthesequalitieshadanythingtodowithlove.
“Loveisn’tconditional,”Ruthsaid.“It’snotdependentonjumpingthroughhoopstopleasesomeone—andalwaysfailing.Youcan’tlovesomeoneifyou’reafraidofthem,Mariana.Iknowit’shardtohear.It’sakindofblindness—butunlessyouwakeupandseeclearly,itwillpersistthroughoutyourwholelife,affectinghowyouseeyourself,andotherstoo.”
Marianashookherhead.“You’rewrongaboutmyfather,”shesaid.“Iknowhe’sdifficult—buthelovesme.AndIlovehim.”
“No,”saidRuthfirmly.“Atbest,let’scallitadesiretobeloved.Atworst,it’sapathologicalattachmenttoanarcissisticman:ameltingpotofgratitude,fear,expectation,anddutifulobediencethathasnothingtodowithloveinthetruesenseoftheword.Youdon’tlovehim.Nordoyouknoworloveyourself.”
Ruthwasright—thiswashardtohear,letaloneaccept.Marianastoodupandwalkedout,angrytearsstreamingdownherface.Shevowednevertoreturn.
Butthen,onthestreetoutsideRuth’shouse,somethingstoppedher.ShesuddenlythoughtofSebastian—ofhowuncomfortableshewouldalwaysfeelwheneverhecomplimentedher.
“You’venoideahowbeautifulyouare,”Sebastianusedtosay.
“Stopit,”Marianawouldreply,herfacecoloringwithembarrassment,asshebattedawaythecomplimentwithawaveofherhand.Sebastianwaswrong;shewasn’tcleverorbeautiful—thatwasn’thowshesawherself.
Whynot?
Whoseeyeswassheseeingherselfwith?Herowneyes?
Orherfather’s?
Sebastiandidn’tseewithherfather’seyes,oranyoneelse’s;hesawwithhisowneyes.WhatifMarianadidtoo?Whatif,liketheLadyofShalott,shestoppedlookingatlifethroughamirror—andturned,andstaredatitdirectly?
Andsoitbegan—acrackinthewallofdelusionanddenial,lettinginsomelight;notmuch,butenoughtoseeby.ThismomentprovedtobeanepiphanyforMariana;itpropelledheronajourneyofself-discoveryshewouldmuchratherhaveforgone.Sheendedupquittingherteacher-training,andbegantrainingasatherapist.Althoughmanyyearshadpassedsincethen,shehadneverfullyresolvedherfeelingsaboutherfather;nowthathewasdead,presumablysheneverwould
10
MarianagotoffthetrainatCambridgestation,lostinmelancholythought,andwalkedbacktoSt.Christopher’s,barelyawareofhersurroundings.Whenshegotback,thefirstpersonshesawwasMorris.Hewasstandingbytheporter’slodgewithsomepoliceofficers.Thesightofhimbroughtbackalltheunpleasantnessoftheirencounter.Shefeltsicktoherstomach.
Sherefusedtolookathim—shewalkedpasthim,ignoringhim.Outofthecornerofhereye,shesawhimtiphishatather,asifnothinghadhappened.Heclearlyfelthehadtheupperhand.
Good,shethought,lethimthinkthat.
Forthemoment,shedecidednottosayanythingaboutwhathadhappened—partlybecauseshecouldimagineInspectorSangha’sreaction:hersuggestionMorriswasinleaguewithFoscawouldonlyprovokedisbeliefandridicule.LikeFredhadsaid,sheneededproof.Itwouldserveherbettertoremainsilent,letMorrisbelievehehadgotawaywithit—andgivehimenoughropetohanghimself.
ShefeltasuddendesiretocallFred,totalktohim—andshestoppedherselfinhertracks.
Whatthehellwasshethinking?Wasitpossibleshewasdevelopingfeelingsforhim?Forthatboy?No—shewouldn’tevenletherselfconsiderit.Itwasdisloyal—andalsofrightening.ItwouldbebetterifshenevercalledFredagain,infact.
AsMarianareachedherroom,shesawthedoorwasajar.
Shefroze.Shelistenedcarefullybutcouldn’thearasound.
Veryslowly,shereachedoutandpushedopenthedoor.Itcreakedasitopened.
Marianalookedinsideandwhatshesawmadehergasp.Itlookedasthoughsomeonehadtorntheroomapart:allthedrawersandcupboardswerethrownopenandrifledthrough,Mariana’spossessionsstrewnaround,herclothestornandrippedtopieces.
ShequicklyrangdowntoMorrisattheporter’slodge—andaskedhimtofindapoliceofficer.
Afewmomentslater,Morrisandacoupleofpolicemenwereinherroom,inspectingthedamage.
“Areyousurenothing’sbeenstolen?”saidoneofficer.
Mariananodded.“Idon’tthinkso.”
“We’venotseenanyonesuspiciousleavethecollege.Morelikelytobeaninsidejob.”
“Looksliketheworkofaspitefulstudent,”saidMorris.HesmiledatMariana.“Beenupsettinganyone,miss?”
Marianaignoredhim.Shethankedthepoliceofficersandagreeditprobablywasn’taburglary.Theyofferedtocheckforfingerprints,andMarianawasabouttoagree—whenshesawsomethingthatmadeherchangehermind.
Aknife,orsomesharpinstrument,hadbeenusedtocarveacrossdeepintothemahoganydesk.
“Thatwon’tbenecessary,”shesaid.“Iwon’ttakethisanyfurther.”
“Well,ifyou’resure.”
Astheylefttheroom,Marianastrokedthegroovesofthecrosswithherfingertips.
Shestoodthere,thinkingaboutHenry.
Andforthefirsttime,shefeltafraidofhim.
11
Iwasjustthinkingabouttime.
Abouthowmaybenothingeverreallygoesaway.It’sbeenherethewholetime—mypast,Imean—andthereasonit’scatchingupwithmeisbecauseitneverwentanywhere.
InsomeweirdwayI’llalwaysbethere,alwaystwelveyearsold—trappedintime,onthatterribleday,thedayaftermybirthday,wheneverythingchanged.
Itfeelslikeit’shappeningtomerightnowasIwritethis.
Mymotherissittingmedowntotellmethenews.Iknowsomethingiswrongbecauseshehasbroughtmeintothefrontsittingroom,theoneweneveruse,andsatmedownontheuncomfortablewoodenchairtobreakittome.
Ithoughtshewasgoingtosayshewasdying,thatshewasterminallyill—that’swhatthelookonherfaceledmetobelieve.
Butitwasmuchworsethanthat.
Shesaidshewasleaving.Thingswithmyfatherhadbeenparticularlybad—shewassportingablackeyeandsplitliptoproveit.Andshefinallyhadfoundthecouragetoleavehim.
Ifeltsucharushofhappiness—“joy”istheonlywordthatapproximatesit.
ButmygrinquicklyfadedasIlistenedtomymotherrattleoffherimmediateplans,involvingstayingonacousin’scouch,thenvisitingherparentsuntilshegotonherfeet—anditbecameobviousbythewayshewasavoidingmyeye,andbywhatwasnotbeingsaid,thatshewasnottakingmewithher.
Istaredatherinastateofshock.
Iwasunabletofeelorthink—Idon’tremembermuchelseofwhatshesaid.Butsheendedwithapromisetosendformewhenshewassettledinhernewhome.Whichmightaswellhavebeenonanotherplanet,foralltherealitythatheldforme.Shewasleavingmebehind.Leavingmehere.Withhim.
Iwasbeingsacrificed.Damnedtohell.
Andthen,withthatstrangecrassineptitudeshesometimeshad,shementionedshehadn’tyettoldmyfathershewasleaving.Shewantedtotellmefirst.
Idon’tbelievesheintendedtotellhim.Thiswasheronlygoodbye—tome,hereandnow.Then,ifshehadanysenseatall,she’dpackabagandfleeinthenight.
That’swhatIwouldhavedone.
Sheaskedmetokeephersecret,andpromisenottotell.Mybeautiful,foolhardy,trustingmother—inmanywaysIwasmucholderandwiserthanshewas.Iwascertainlymoredevious.AllIhadtodowastellhim.Tellthatragingmadmanofherplantoabandonship.Andthenshewouldbepreventedfromgoing.Iwouldn’tloseher.AndIdidn’twanttoloseher.
DidI?
Ilovedher—didn’tI?
Somethingwashappeningtome—tomythinking.Itbeganduringthatconversationwithmymother,andthehoursafterward—akindofslow,creepingawareness—aweirdepiphany.
Ithoughtshelovedme.
Butitturnsout,therewasmorethanoneofher.
AndnowIstartedtoseethisotherperson,suddenly—Istartedtoseeher,there,inthebackground,watchingwhilemyfathertorturedme.Whydidn’tshestophim?Whydidn’tsheprotectme?
Whydidn’tsheteachmeIwasworthprotecting?
ShestoodupforRex—sheheldaknifetomyfather’schestandthreatenedtostabhim.Butsheneverdidthatforme.
Icouldfeelafireburning—arisinganger,aragethatwouldnotgoout.Iknewitwaswrong—IknewIshouldcurbitbeforeitoverwhelmedme.Butinstead,Ifannedtheflames.AndIburned.
AllthehorrorsIendured—Iputupwiththemforhersake,tokeephersafe.Butsheneverputmefirst.Itwaseverymanforhimself,itseemed.Myfatherwasright—shewasselfish,spoiled,thoughtless.Cruel.
Sheneededtobepunished.
Inevercouldhavesaidthistoherthen.Ididn’thavethevocabulary.ButyearslaterImighthaveconfrontedher—inmyearlytwenties,perhaps—whenagehadmadememorearticulate.Andafteronedrinktoomany,afterdinner,I’dturnonher,onthisoldwoman,andtrytohurther,asshehadoncehurtme.Iwouldlistmygrievances—andthen,inmyfantasy,she’dbreakdown,prostrateherselfandbegmyforgiveness.Andbenevolently,Iwouldbestowit.
Whataluxurythatwouldbe—toforgive.ButInevergotthatchance.
ThatnightIwenttobed,burning,hating…Itfeltlikered-hotmagmarisinginavolcano.Ifellasleep…andIdreamedIwentdownstairs,tookalargecarvingknifeoutofthedrawer,andusedittocutoffmymother’shead.Ihackedandsawedthroughherneckwiththeknife,untilitwassevered.ThenIhidtheheadinherred-and-white-stripedknittingbag—andputitundermybed,whereIknewitwouldbesafe.ThebodyIdisposedof—inthepitwiththeothercarcasses—wherenoonewouldeverfindit.
WhenIwokeupfromthisdream,inthehorribleyellowlightofdawn,Ifeltgroggy,disorientated—andafraid,confusedaboutwhathappened.
Ifeltunsureenoughtogodownstairsintothekitchentocheck.Iopenedthedrawerwherethekniveswerekept.
Itookoutthelargestknife.Iexaminedit,lookingforanytracesofblood.Therewerenone.Thebladeglintedcleanlyinthesunlight.
AndthenIheardsomefootsteps.Iquicklyhidtheknifebehindmyback.Mymotherwalkedin,aliveandunhurt.
Weirdly,seeingmymotherwithherheadintactdidnothingtoreassureme.
Infact,Iwasdisappointed.
12
Thenextmorning,MarianametZoeandClarissaforbreakfastinHall.
Thefellows’buffetwasinanalcovetothesideofhightable.Therewasagenerousselectionofbreads,pastries,andpotsofbutter,jams,andmarmalades;andlargesilverterrinescontaininghotdishes,suchasscrambledeggs,bacon,andsausages.
Clarissawasextollingthevirtuesofabigbreakfastastheyqueuedforthebuffet.“Itsetsyouupfortheday,”shesaid.“Nothingmoreimportant,tomymind.Kippers,usually,wheneverpossible.”
Shecontemplatedthevariousoptionslaidoutbeforethem.“Butnottoday.Today,kedgeree,don’tyouthink?Goodold-fashionedcomfortfood.Soreassuring.Haddock,eggs,andrice.Can’tgowrongwiththat.”
Clarissa’spronouncementwassoonprovedwrong,oncetheysatdownandshetookherfirstmouthful.Shewentbrightred,choked—andpulledoutalargefishbonefromhermouth.Shepeeredatitinalarm.
“GoodGod.Itseemsthechefisouttokillus.Dobecareful,mydears.”
Clarissacarefullypickedthroughtherestofherfishwithherfork,whileMarianagavethemareportofhertriptoLondon—relayingRuth’ssuggestionaboutorganizingagroupsessionwiththeMaidens.
MarianasawZoeraiseaneyebrowatthis.“Zoe?Whatdoyouthink?”
Zoeshotherawarylook.“Idon’thavetobethere,doI?”
Marianahidheramusement.“No,youdon’thavetobethere,don’tworry.”
Zoelookedrelieved,andshrugged.“Thengoahead.ButIdon’tthinkthey’llagree,tobehonest.Notunlesshetellsthemto.”
Mariananodded.“Ithinkyou’reprobablyrightaboutthat.”
Clarissanudgedherarm.“Speakofthedevil.”
MarianaandZoelookedup—asEdwardFoscaappearedathightable.
Foscasatattheotherendofthetablefromthethreewomen.SensingMariana’sgaze,helookedup,andhiseyeslingeredonherforafewseconds.Thenheturnedaway.
Abruptly,Marianastoodup.Zoegaveheranalarmedlook.
“Whatareyoudoing?”
“Onlyonewaytofindout.”
“Mariana—”
ButsheignoredZoe,andwalkedtotheotherendofthelongtable,whereProfessorFoscawassitting.Hewasnursingablackcoffee,andreadingaslimvolumeofpoetry.
HebecameconsciousofMarianastandingthere.Helookedup.
“Goodmorning.”
“Professor,”shesaid,“Ihavearequestforyou.”
“Doyou?”Foscagaveheraquizzicallook.“Andwhat’sthat,Mariana?”
Shemethiseyesandheldhisgazeforasecond.“WouldyouobjectifIspoketoyourstudents—yourspecialstudents,Imean?TheMaidens?”
“Ithoughtyoualreadyhad.”
“Imeanasagroup.”
“Agroup?”
“Yes.Atherapygroup.”
“Isn’tituptothem,notme?”
“Idon’tthinkthey’llagreeunlessyouaskthemto.”
Foscasmiled.“So,infact,you’reaskingnotformypermission—butmycooperation?”
“Isupposeyoucouldputitlikethat.”
Foscacontinuedtogazeather,asmallsmileonhislips.“Haveyoudecidedwhereandwhenyouwouldlikethissessiontotakeplace?”
Marianathoughtforasecond.“Howaboutfiveo’clocktoday…intheOCR?”
“YouseemtothinkIhaveagreatdealofinfluenceoverthem,Mariana.Iassureyou,that’snotthecase.”Hepaused.“What,mayIask,istheexactpurposeofthegroup?Whatdoyouhopetoachieve?”
“Idon’thopetoachieveanything.That’snotreallyhowtherapyworks.I’msimplyaimingtoprovideaspacefortheseyoungwomentoprocesssomeoftheterriblethingsthey’vebeenthroughrecently.”
Foscasippedsomecoffeeasheponderedthis.“Anddoestheinvitationextendtome?Asamemberofthegroup?”
“I’dpreferifyoudidn’tcome.Ithinkyourpresencemightinhibitthegirls.”
“WhatifImadeitaconditionofmyagreeingtohelp?”
Marianashrugged.“ThenI’dhavenochoice.”
“InwhichcaseIshallattend.”
Hesmiledather.Shedidn’tsmileback.
“Itmakesmewonder,Professor,”shesaid,withaslightfrown,“whatonearthitisthatyou’resodesperatetohide?”
Foscasmiled.“I’mnottryingtohideanything.Let’sjustsayIwishtobethere,toprotectmystudents.”
“Protectthem?Fromwhat?”
“Fromyou,Mariana,”hesaid.“Fromyou.”
13
Atfiveo’clockthatafternoon,MarianawaitedfortheMaidensintheOCR.
Shehadbookedtheroomfromfiveuntilsixthirty.TheOCR—ortheOldCombinationRoom—wasalargeroomusedbymembersofcollegeasacommonroom:ithadseverallargesofas,lowcoffeetables,andalongdiningtablethattookupthelengthofonewall.OldMasterswerehangingonthewalls;muted,darkpaintingsagainstcrimson-and-goldflockwallpaper.
Alowfirewasburninginthemarblefireplace—anditsflickeringfirelightwasreflectedinthegildedfurnishingsaroundtheroom.Therewasacomfortingandcontainingatmosphere,andMarianathoughtitwasperfectforthesession.
Shearrangednineuprightchairsinacircle.
Thenshesatononeofthechairs,makingsureshehadaviewoftheclockonthemantelpiece.Itwasacoupleofminutesafterfive.
Marianawonderediftheyweregoingtoshowupornot.Shewouldn’tberemotelysurprisediftheydidn’t.
Butthen,amomentlater,thedooropened.
Andonebyone,thefiveyoungwomenfiledin.Judgingbytheirstonyexpressions,theywerethereunderduress.
“Goodafternoon,”Marianasaidwithasmile.“Thankyouforcoming.Won’tyousitdown?”
Thegirlslookedatthearrangementofchairs,andthenglancedatoneanother,beforeapprehensivelysittingdown.Thetallblondeseemedtobetheleader;Marianasensedtheothersdeferringtoher.Shesatdownfirst,andtheothersfollowedsuit.
Theysatadjacenttooneanother,leavingemptychairsoneitherside,andfacedMariana.Shefeltalittleintimidatedsuddenly,bythiswallofunfriendlyyoungfaces.
Howridiculous,shethought,tofeelintimidatedbyahandfuloftwenty-year-olds,nomatterhowbeautifulorintelligenttheywere.Marianafeltlikeshewasbackatschoolagain,anuglyducklingonthefringesoftheschoolyard,confrontedbyagangofpopulargirls.TheveryyoungpartofMarianafeltscared,andshewondered,forasecond,whattheyoungpartsoftheseyoungwomenwerelike—iftheirapparentconfidencemaskedsimilarfeelingsofinferiority.Beneaththeirsuperiormanner,didtheyfeelassmallasshedid?Itwashardtoimaginesomehow.
Serenawastheonlyoneshe’dhadaconversationwith,andsheseemedtohavedifficultylookingMarianaintheeye.Morrismusthavetoldherabouttheirconfrontation.Shekeptherheaddown,eyesonherlap,lookingembarrassed.
Theothersstaredatherblankly.Theyseemedtobewaitingforhertospeak.Shedidn’tsayanything.Theysatinsilence.
Marianaglancedattheclock;itwasnowtenminutespastfive.ProfessorFoscawasn’there—and,withanyluck,hehaddecidednottocome.
“Ithinkweshouldbegin,”shesaideventually.
“Whatabouttheprofessor?”askedtheblondgirl.
“Hemusthavebeenheldup.Weshouldstartwithouthim.Whydon’twebeginwithournames?I’mMariana.”
Therewasaslightpause.Theblondgirlshrugged.“Carla.”
Theothersfollowedsuit.
“Natasha.”
“Diya.”
“Lillian.”
Serenawaslasttospeak.SheglancedatMarianaandshrugged.“Youknowmyname.”
“Yes,Serena,Ido.”
Marianacomposedherthoughts.Thensheaddressedthemasagroup.
“I’mwonderinghowthisfeels,sittingheretogether.”
Thiswasmetwithsilence.Noreactionatall,notevenashrug.Marianacouldfeeltheirstone-coldhostilitytowardher.Shewenton,undiscouraged.
“I’lltellyouhowitfeelsforme.It’sstrange.Myeyeskeepbeingdrawntotheemptychairs.”Shenoddedatthethreeemptychairsinthecircle.“Thepeoplewhoshouldbeherebutaren’t.”
“Liketheprofessor,”saidCarla.
“Ididn’tjustmeantheprofessor.WhoelsedoyouthinkImean?”
Carlaglancedattheemptychairsandrolledhereyeswithderision.“Isthatwhotheotherchairsarefor?TaraandVeronica?That’ssostupid.”
“Whyisthatstupid?”
“Becausethey’renotcoming.Obviously.”
Marianashrugged.“Thatdoesn’tmeanthey’renotstillpartofthegroup.Weoftentalkaboutthatingrouptherapy,youknow—evenwhenpeoplearenolongerwithus,theycanremainapowerfulpresence.”
Asshesaidthis,sheglancedatoneoftheemptychairs—andsawSebastiansittingthere,lookingatherwithamusement.
Shebanishedhim,andwenton.
“Itmakesmewonder,”shesaid,“whatitfeelsliketobeapartofagrouplikethis…Whatitmeanstoyou?”
Noneofthegirlsresponded.Theylookedatherblankly.
“Ingrouptherapy,weoftenmakethegroupintoourfamily.Weassignsiblingsandparentalfigures,unclesandaunts.Isupposethisisabitlikeafamily?Inaway,youhavelosttwoofyoursisters.”
Noresponse.Shewenton,cautiously.
“IsupposeProfessorFoscaisyour‘father’?”Apause.Shetriedagain.“Isheagoodfather?”
Natashaletoutaheavy,irritatedsigh.“Thisissuchbullshit,”shesaidwithastrongRussianaccent.“It’sobviouswhatyouaredoing.”
“What’sthat?”
“You’retryingtomakeussaysomethingbadabouttheprofessor.Totrickus.Totraphim.”
“WhydoyouthinkI’mtryingtotraphim?”
Natashagaveacontemptuoussighanddidn’tbothertorespond.
Carlaspokeforher:“Look,Mariana.Weknowwhatyouthink.Buttheprofessorhadnothingtodowiththemurders.”
“Yes.”Natashanoddedforcefully.“Wewerewithhimthewholetime.”
Therewasasuddenpassioninhervoice,aburningresentment.
“You’reveryangry,Natasha,”shesaid.“Icanfeelit.”
Natashalaughed.“Good—becauseit’sdirectedatyou.”
Mariananodded.“It’seasytobeangryatme.I’mnotthreatening.Itmustbehardertobeangrywithyour‘father,’—forlettingtwoofhischildrenperish?”
“ForChrist’ssake—it’snothisfaultthey’redead,”saidLillian,speakingforthefirsttime.
“Thenwhosefaultisit?”saidMariana.
Lillianshrugged.“Theirs.”
Marianastaredather.“What?Howisittheirfault?”
“Theyshouldhavebeenmorecareful.TaraandVeronicawerestupid,bothofthem.”
“That’sright,”saidDiya.
CarlaandNatashanoddedinagreement.
Marianastaredatthem,momentarilyspeechless.Sheknewangerwaseasiertofeelthansadness—butshe,whowassosensitivelyattunedtopickinguponemotions,couldsensenosadnesshere.Nogrief,noremorseorloss.Justdisdain.Justcontempt.
Itwasstrange—normallywhenfacedwithanattackfromtheoutside,agrouplikethiswouldcloseitsranks,cometogether,unite—butitstruckMarianathattheonlypersonatSt.Christopher’swhohadexpressedanyrealemotionoverTara’sdeath,orVeronica’s,wasZoe.
MarianawassharplyremindedofHenry’stherapygroupinLondon.Therewassomethingreminiscentofithere—thewayHenry’spresencewassplittingthegroupfromwithin,attackingitsoitcouldn’tfunctionnormally.
Wasthathappeninginthisgrouptoo?Ifso,itmeantthegroupwasn’trespondingtoanoutsidethreat.
Itmeantthethreatwasalreadyhere.
Atthatmoment,therewasaknockatthedoor.Itopened—
AndProfessorFoscawasstandingthere.
Hesmiled.“MayIjoinyou?”
14
“Forgivemeforbeinglate,”Foscasaid.“TherewassomethingIhadtoattendto.”
Marianafrownedslightly.“I’mafraidwe’vealreadystarted.”
“Well,mightIstillbeallowedin?”
“That’snotuptome;it’suptothegroup.”Sheglancedattheothers.“WhothinksProfessorFoscashouldbeadmitted?”
Beforeshehadevenfinishedspeaking,fivehandswereraisedaroundthecircle.Allexcepthers.
Foscasmiled.“Youdidn’traiseyourhand,Mariana.”
Sheshookherhead.“No,Ididn’t.ButIamoverruled.”
MarianafelttheenergyintheroomchangeasFoscajoinedtheminthecircle.Shesensedthegirlstenseup,andshenoticedaquicklookwasexchangedbetweenFoscaandCarlaashesatdown.
FoscasmiledatMariana.“Pleasegoon.”
Marianaleftaslightpause,anddecidedtotryadifferentapproach.Shesmiledinnocently.
“YouteachthegirlsGreektragedy,Professor?”
“That’scorrect.”
“HaveyoustudiedIphigeniainAulis?ThestoryofAgamemnonandIphigenia?”
Shestudiedtheprofessorcloselyasshesaidthis—buttherewasnoapparentreactiontotheplaybeingmentioned.Henodded.
“Wehaveindeed.Asyouareaware,Euripidesisafavoriteofmine.”
“That’sright.Well,youknow,IalwaysfoundthecharacterofIphigeniatoberathercurious…Iwaswonderingwhatyourstudentsthink.”
“Curious?Howso?”
Marianathoughtforasecond.“Well,itbothersme,Isuppose,thatshe’ssopassive…sosubmissive.”
“Submissive?”
“Shedoesn’tfightforherlife.Sheisn’tboundorrestrained;shewillinglyletsherfatherputhertodeath.”
Foscasmiled,andglancedattheothers.“That’saninterestingpointMarianamakes.Wouldsomeoneliketorespond…?Carla?”
Carlalookedpleasedtobecalledon.ShesmiledatMariana,asifhumoringachild.“ThewayIphigeniadiesisthewholepoint.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaningthat’showsheachieveshertragicstature—bymeansofaheroicdeath.”
CarlaglancedatFoscaforapproval.Hegaveheraslightsmile.
Marianashookherhead.“I’msorry.ButIdon’tbuythat.”
“No?”Foscalookedintrigued.“Whynot?”
Marianaglancedattheyoungwomenaroundthecircle.“Ithinkthebestwaytoanswerthat…istobringIphigeniahere,intothesession—haveherjoinus,ononeoftheseemptychairs?Whatdoyousay?”
Acoupleofthegirlsexchangedscornfullooks.
“That’ssodumb,”saidNatasha.
“Why?Shewasaboutyourage,wasn’tshe?Abityounger,perhaps.Sixteen,seventeen?Whatabrave,remarkablepersonshewas.Imaginewhatshewouldhavedonewithherlife—ifshehadsurvived—whatshecouldhaveachieved.WhatmightwesaytoIphigenia,now,ifsheweresittinghere?Whatwouldwetellher?”
“Nothing.”Diyalookedunimpressed.“Whatistheretosay?”
“Nothing?Youwouldn’ttrytowarnher—aboutherpsychopathicfather?Helpsaveher?”
“Saveher?”Diyagaveheracontemptuouslook.“Fromwhat?Herfate?Tragedydoesn’tworklikethat.”
“Anyway,itwasn’tAgamemnon’sfault,”saidCarla.“ItwasArtemiswhodemandedIphigenia’sdeath.Itwasthewillofthegods.”
“Whatiftherearenogods?”saidMariana.“Justagirlandherfather.Whatthen?”
Carlashrugged.“Thenit’snotatragedy.”
Diyanodded.“Justafucked-upGreekfamily.”
ThroughoutallthisFoscahadbeensilent,watchingthedebatewithquietamusement.Butnowhiscuriosityappearedtogetthebetterofhim.
“Whatwouldyousaytoher,Mariana?TothisgirlwhodiedtosaveGreece?Shewasyounger,incidentally,thanyouthink—closertofourteen,orfifteen.Ifshewereherenow—whatwouldyoutellher?”
Marianathoughtforamoment.“IsupposeI’dwanttoknowaboutherrelationshipwithherfather…Andwhyshefeltcompelledtosacrificeherselfforhim.”
“Andwhydoyouthinkthatwas?”
Marianashrugged.“Ibelievethatchildrenwilldoanythingtobeloved.Whenthey’reveryyoung,it’samatterofphysical,thenpsychologicalsurvival.They’lldowhateverittakestobecaredfor.”Sheloweredhervoice,speakingnottoFoscabuttotheyoungwomenseatedaroundhim.“Andsomepeopletakeadvantageofthat.”
“Meaningwhat,exactly?”hesaid.
“Meaning,ifIwerehertherapist,IwouldtrytohelpIphigeniaseesomething—somethingthatwasinvisibletoher.”
“Andwhatwasthat?”saidCarla.
Marianachoseherwordscarefully.“Itwasthat,ataveryyoungage,Iphigeniamistookabuseforlove.Andthatmistakecoloredhowshesawherself…andtheworldaroundher.Agamemnonwasnotahero—hewasamadman,aninfanticidalpsychopath.Iphigeniadidnotneedtoloveandhonorthisman.Shedidnotneedtodietopleasehim.”
Marianalookedintothegirls’eyes.Shewasdesperatetoreachthem.Shehopeditwouldpenetrate…butdidit?Shecouldn’ttell.ShecouldfeelFosca’seyesonher—andsensedhewasabouttointerrupt.Shewentonquickly.
“AndifIphigeniastoppedlyingtoherselfaboutherfather…ifshewokeuptotheterrible,devastatingtruth—thatthiswasnotlove,thathedidn’tloveher,becausehedidn’tknowhow—inthatverymoment,shewouldceasetobeadefenselessmaidenwithherheadontheblock.She’dseizetheaxefromtheexecutioner’shands.Shewouldbecomethegoddess.”
MarianaturnedandstaredatFosca.Shetriedtokeeptheangeroutofhervoice.Butshecouldn’tquitedisguiseit.
“Butthatdidn’thappenforIphigenia,didit?NotTara,norVeronica.Theyneverhadthechancetobecomegoddesses.Theyneverhadthechancetogrowup.”
Asshestaredathim,acrossthecircle,shecouldseeasparkofangerinhiseyes.Butlikeher,Foscadidn’texpressit.
“Itakeityou’reinsomewaycastingmeasthefatherinthiscurrentsituation?AsAgamemnon?Isthatwhatyou’resuggesting?”
“It’sfunnyyousaythat.Beforeyouarrived,weweredebatingyourmeritsasa‘father’ofthegroup.”
“Oh,indeed?Andwhatwasthegeneralconsensus?”
“Wedidn’treachone.ButIaskedtheMaidensiftheyfeltlesssafeinyourcare—nowthattwooftheirnumberweredead.”
Asshesaidthis,hereyesdriftedtotwoemptychairs.Fosca’seyesfollowedhergaze.
“Ah.NowIsee,”hesaid.“Theemptychairsrepresentthemissingmembersofthegroup…AchairforTara,andachairforVeronica?”
“That’scorrect.”
“Inwhichcase,”hesaid,afteraslightpause,“isn’tthereachairmissing?”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Youdon’tknow?”
“Knowwhat?”
“Oh.Shehasn’ttoldyou.Howveryinteresting.”Foscakeptsmiling.Helookedamused.“Perhapsyoushouldpointthatpowerfulanalyticallensbackatyourself,Mariana?Whatkindof‘mother’areyou?”
“Physician,healthyself,”saidCarla,withalaugh.
Foscachuckled.“Yes,yes,exactly.”
Heturnedandappealedtotheothers,withamock-therapeuticair.“Whatdowemakeofthisdeception—asagroup?Whatdowethinkitmeans?”
“Well,”saidCarla,“Ithinkitsaysalotabouttheirrelationship.”
Natashanodded.“Oh,yes.They’renotnearlyascloseasMarianathinks.”
“Sheobviouslydoesn’ttrusther,”Lilliansaid.
“Whynot,Iwonder?”murmuredFosca,stillsmiling.
Marianacouldfeelherfacegoingred,burningwithannoyanceatthislittlegametheywereplaying—itwasstraightoutoftheschoolyard;likeanybully,Foscahadmanipulatedthegroup,makingthemgangupagainsther.Theywereallinonthejoke,grinning,mockingher.Shehatedthem,suddenly.
“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”shesaid.
Foscalookedaroundthecircle.“Well,who’sgoingtodothehonors?Serena?Howaboutyou?”
Serenanoddedandstoodup.Sheleftthecircleandwalkedovertothediningtable.Shepickedupanotheruprightchair,broughtitback,andwedgeditintothespacenexttoMariana’schair.Thenshesatdownagain.
“Thankyou,”Foscasaid.HeglancedatMariana.“Therewasachairmissing,yousee.FortheMaidens’finalmember.”
“Andwhoisthat?”
ButMarianahadalreadyguessedwhatFoscawasgoingtosay.Hesmiled.
“Yourniece,”hesaid.“Zoe.”
15
Afterthemeeting,MarianastumbledoutintoMainCourt,feelingstunned.
SheneededtotalktoZoe—andhearhersideofthestory.Initscruelway,thegrouphadmadeagoodpoint:Mariananeededtolookatherself,andZoe,closely—andunderstandwhyZoehadnotconfidedinheraboutbeingamemberoftheMaidens.Mariananeededtoknowwhy.
ShefoundherselfwalkingtowardZoe’sroom,tofindZoeandconfronther.ButthemomentshereachedthearchwayleadingtoErosCourt,Marianapaused.
Shehadtohandlethiscarefully.NotonlywasZoefragileandvulnerable,butalso,forwhateverreason—andMarianacouldn’thelpthinkingithadtodowithEdwardFoscahimself—shefeltunabletoconfidethetruthtoMariana.
AndFoscahadjustdeliberatelybetrayedZoe’sconfidence—inanattempttoprovokeMariana.SoitwasimperativeMariananotrisetothebait.Shemustn’tbargeintoZoe’sroom,andaccuseheroflying.
SheneededtosupportZoe,andthinkhardabouthowtoproceed.
Shedecidedtosleeponit—andtalktoZoeinthemorningaftershehadcalmeddownabit.Marianaturnedaround;and,lostinthought,shedidn’tnoticeFreduntilhesteppedoutoftheshadows.
Hestoodonthepathinfrontofher.
“Hello,Mariana.”
Shecaughtherbreath.“Fred.Whatareyoudoinghere?”
“Lookingforyou.Iwantedtocheckyou’reokay.”
“Yes,Iam,justabout.”
“Youknow,yousaidyou’dgetintouchwhenyougotbackfromLondon.”
“Iknow,I’msorry.I—I’vebeenbusy.”
“Yousureyou’reallright?Youlook—likeyoucoulduseadrink.”
Marianasmiled.“Icould,actually.”
Fredsmiledback.“Well,inthatcase—howaboutit?”
Marianahesitated,unsure.“Oh,well,I—”
Fredwentonquickly:“IhappentohaveaveryimpressiveBurgundy,stolenfromaformalhall.I’vebeensavingitforaspecialoccasion…Whatdoyousay?It’sinmyroom.”
Whatthehell,Marianathought.Shenodded.“Okay.Whynot?”
“Really?”Fred’sfacelitup.“Okay,great.Comeon—”
Heheldouthisarm,butMarianadidn’ttakeit.Shestartedwalking—andFredhurriedtocatchupwithher.
16
Fred’sroominTrinitywaslargerthanZoe’s,althoughitsfurnishingswereslightlymorethreadbare.ThefirstthingMariananoticedwashowtidyitwas:noclutter,nomess,apartfrompapereverywhere—pagesandpagesofscribbledwritingandmathematicalformulae.Itratherlookedliketheworkofamadman—oragenius—connectedbyarrowsandillegiblenotesgoingupanddownthesidesofthepages.
TheonlypersonalitemsMarianacouldseewereacoupleofframedphotographsontheshelf.Oneofthephotoshadaslightlyfadedlook,asifithadbeentakenintheeighties:anattractiveyoungmanandwoman,presumablyFred’sparents,standinginfrontofapicketfenceandameadow.Theotherphotowasofasmallboywithadog;alittleboywithapudding-bowlhaircut,andaseriouslookonhisface.
MarianaglancedatFred.Hestillhadthesameexpressionnowasheconcentratedonlightingsomecandles.Hethenputonsomemusic—arecordingofBach’sGoldbergVariations.Hegatheredupallthepapersfromthesofa,stackingtheminanunsteadypileonhisdesk.“Sorryit’ssuchamess.”
“Isthatyourthesis?”shesaid,noddingatthepilesofpaper.
“No.”Fredshookhishead.“It’s—justsomethingI’mwriting.Akindof…book,Isuppose.”Heseemedatalossastohowtodescribeit.“Won’tyousit?”
Hegesturedatthesofa.Marianasatdown.Shefeltabrokenspringunderneathher,andshiftedslightly.
FredpulledoutthebottleofvintageBurgundy.Hedisplayeditproudly.“Notbad,eh?They’dhavekilledmeiftheycaughtmenickingit.”
Hereachedforacorkscrew,andwrestledwithopeningit.Forasecond,Marianathoughthe’ddropthebottle.Buthesuccessfullyuncorkeditwithaloudpop—andpouredthedarkredwineintotwochipped,mismatchedwineglasses.HegaveMarianathelessdamagedofthetwo.
“Thankyou.”
Heraisedhisglass.“Cheers.”
Marianasippedsomewine—itwasexcellent,ofcourse.Fredevidentlythoughtso.Hesighedhappily,atingeofredwinearoundhislips.
“Lovely,”hesaid.
Theyfellintosilenceforamoment.Marianalistenedtothemusic,losingherselfinBach’srisingandfallingscales,soelegant,somathematicalinconstruction;presumablywhytheyappealedtoFred’smathematicalbrain.
Sheglancedatthestackofpagesonthedesk.“Thisbookyou’rewriting…What’sitabout?”
“Honestly?”Fredshrugged.“Noidea.”
Marianalaughed.“Youmusthavesomeidea.”
“Well…”Fredavertedhiseyes.“Inaway,Isuppose…it’saboutmymother.”
Heglancedathershyly,asifafraidshemightlaugh.
ButMarianadidn’tfinditfunny.Shegavehimacuriouslook.“Yourmother?”
Frednodded.“Yeah.Sheleftme…whenIwasaboy…She—died.”
“I’msorry,”Marianasaid.“Mymotherdiedtoo.”
“Didshe?”Fred’seyeswidened.“Ididn’tknowthat.Thenwe’rebothorphans.”
“Iwasn’tanorphan.Ihadmyfather.”
“Yeah.”Frednoddedandspokeinalowvoice.“Ididtoo.”
HereachedoutforthebottleandstartedrefillingMariana’sglass.“That’senough,”shesaid.Butheignoredherandfilledittothebrim.Shedidn’tmind,really—shewasrelaxingforthefirsttimeindays,andfeltgratefultohim.
“Yousee,”Fredsaid,pouringhimselfmorewine,“mymother’sdeathiswhatdrewmetotheoreticalmathematics—andtoparalleluniverses.That’swhatmythesisisabout.”
“I’mnotsureIunderstand.”
“NotsureIdoeither,really.Butifthereareotheruniverses,identicaltoours,itmeansthatsomewhere,anotheruniverseexists—wheremymotherdidn’tdie.”Heshrugged.“So…Iwentlookingforher.”
Hehadasad,farawayexpressioninhiseyes,likealostlittleboy.Marianafeltsorryforhim.
“Didyoufindher?”sheasked.
Heshrugged.“Inaway…Idiscoveredthattimedoesn’texist—notreally—soshehasn’tgoneanywhere.She’srighthere.”
AsMarianawrestledwiththis,Fredputdownhiswineglass,tookoffhisglasses,andfacedher.
“Mariana,listen—”
“Please,don’t.”
“What?Youdon’tknowwhatI’mgoingtosay.”
“You’regoingtomakesomekindofromanticdeclaration—andIdon’twanttohearit.”
“Adeclaration?No.Justaquestion.AmIallowedaquestion?”
“Itdepends.”
“Iloveyou.”
Marianafrowned.“That’snotaquestion.”
“Willyoumarryme?That’sthequestion.”
“Fred,pleaseshutup—”
“Iloveyou,Mariana—IfellinlovewithyouthefirstsecondIsawyou,sittingonthetrain.Iwanttobewithyou.Iwanttotakecareofyou.Iwanttolookafteryou—”
Thatwasthewrongthingtosay.Marianafelthertemperaturerise;hercheeksburnedwithirritation.“Well,Idon’twanttobelookedafter!Ican’tthinkofanythingworse.I’mnotadamselindistress,a…maidenwaitingtoberescued.Idon’tneedaknightinshiningarmor—Iwant—Iwant—”
“What?Whatdoyouwant?”
“Iwanttobeleftalone.”
“No.”Fredshookhishead.“Idon’tbelievethat.”Andthen,quickly,hesaid,“Remembermypremonition:oneday,I’llaskyoutomarryme—andyou’llsayyes.”
Marianacouldn’thelplaughing.“Sorry,Fred.Notinthisuniverse.”
“Well,youknow,insomeotheruniverse,we’remarriedalready.”
Beforeshecouldprotest,Fredleanedforwardandgentlypressedhislipsagainsthers;shefeltthesoftnessofhiskiss,itswarmthandtenderness.Shefeltbothalarmedanddisarmedbyit.
Itwasoverasquicklyasitbegan.Hepulledback,hiseyessearchinghers.“I’msorry.I—Icouldn’thelpit.”
Marianashookherhead;shedidn’tspeak.Shefeltaffectedinsomewayshecouldn’tquiteexplain.
“Idon’twanttohurtyou,Fred.”
“Idon’tmind.It’sokayifyouhurtme,youknow.Afterall—‘it’sbettertohavelovedandlost,thannevertohavelovedatall.’”
Fredlaughed.ThenhesawMariana’sfacefall,andlookedworried.“What?WhatdidIsay?”
“It’snothing.”Shelookedatherwatch.“It’slate,Ishouldgo.”
Fredlookedpained.“Already?Fine.I’llwalkyoudownstairs.”
“Youdon’tneedto—”
“Iwantto.”
Fred’smannerseemedtohavechangedslightly;heseemedsharper.Someofhiswarmthhadevaporated.Hestoodup,notlookingather.
“Let’sgo,”hesaid.
17
FredandMarianawalkeddownthestepsinsilence.Theydidn’tspeakagainuntiltheywereonthestreet.Marianaglancedathim.“Goodnightthen.”
Freddidn’tmove.“I’mgoingforawalk.”
“Now?”
“Ioftenwalkatnight.Isthataproblem?”
Therewasaprickliness,ahostilitytohistone.Hefeltrejected—shecouldtell.Perhapsunfairly,shefeltannoyedwithhim.Buthishurtfeelingswerenotherconcern.Shehadmoreimportantthingstoworryabout.
“Okay,”shesaid.“Goodbye.”
Freddidn’tmove.Hekeptlookingather.Andthen,suddenly,hesaid,“Wait.”Hereachedintohisbackpocketandpulledoutafewpagesoffoldedpaper.“Iwasgoingtogiveyouthislater,but—takeitnow.”
Hehelditouttoher.Shedidn’ttakeit.
“Whatisit?”
“Aletter.It’sforyou—itexplainsmyfeelingsbetterthanIcaninperson.Readit.Thenyou’llunderstand.”
“Idon’twantit.”
Hethrustitatheragain.“Mariana.Takeit.”
“No.Stop.Iwillnotbebullied.”
“Mariana—”
Butsheturnedandleft.Asshemadeherwaydownthestreet,shefeltangeratfirst,thenasurprisingtwingeofsadness—thenregret.Notathavinghurthim,butathavingrejectedhim,havingclosedthedoortothisothernarrativethatmighthavebeen.
Wasitpossible?CouldMarianaeverhavegrowntolovehim,thisseriousyoungman?Couldsheholdhimatnight,andtellhimherstories?Evenasshethoughtthis,sheknewitwasimpossible.
Howcouldshe?
Shehadtoomuchtotell.AnditwasforSebastian’searsalone.
WhenMarianareturnedtoSt.Christopher’s,shedidn’timmediatelygotoherroom.Instead,shedriftedthroughMainCourt…andintothebuildingthathousedthebuttery.
Shewanderedalongthedarkenedpassageuntilshewasface-to-facewiththepainting.
TheportraitofTennyson.
Thepicturehadbeenonhermind—andshekeptthinkingaboutit,withoutquiteknowingwhy.Sad,handsomeTennyson.
No—notsad—thatwasn’ttherightwordtodescribethelookinhiseyes.Whatwasit?
Shesearchedhisface,tryingtoreadtheexpression.Again,shehadthestrangefeelinghewaslookingpasther,justoverhershoulder—staringatsomething…somethingjustoutofsight.
Butwhat?
Andthen,suddenly,Marianaunderstood.Sheunderstoodwhathewaslookingat;or,rather,who
ItwasHallam.
TennysonwasstaringatHallam—atHallam,standingjustbeyondthelight…behindtheveil.Thatwasthelookinhiseyes.Theeyesofamancommuningwiththedead.
Tennysonwaslost…Hewasinlovewithaghost.Hehadturnedhisbackonlife.HadMariana?
Once,shethoughtshehad.
Andnow—?
Now,perhaps…shewasn’tsosure.
Marianastoodthereforamomentlonger,thinking.Then,assheturnedtowalkaway…sheheardsomefootsteps.Shestopped.
Aman’shard-soledshoeswereslowlywalkingalongthestonefloorofthelonggloomypassage…
Andhewasgettingcloser.
Atfirst,Marianacouldn’tseeanyone.Butthen…ashedrewnearer,shesawsomethingmovingintheshadows…andtheglintofaknife.
Shestoodthere,frozen,scarcelydaringtobreathe,tryingtoseewhoitwas.Andthen,slowly…Henryemergedfromthedarkness.
Hestaredather.
Hehadahorriblelookinhiseyes;notentirelyrational,slightlymanic.He’dbeeninafight,andhisnosewasbleeding.Therewasbloodsmearedonhisfaceandspatteredonhisshirt.Hewasholdingaknife,aboutsevenoreightincheslong.
Marianatriedtosoundcalmandunafraid.Butshecouldn’tkeepaslighttremoroutofhervoice.
“Henry?Pleaseputdowntheknife.”
Hedidn’tanswer.Hejuststaredather.Hiseyeswerehuge,likelamps,andhewasclearlyhighonsomething.
“Whatareyoudoinghere?”shesaid.
Henrydidn’treplyforamoment.“Neededtoseeyou,didn’tI?Youwon’tseemeinLondon,soIhadtocomeallthewayhere.”
“Howdidyoufindme?”
“Sawyouonthetelly.Youwerestandingwiththepolice.”
Marianaspokecautiously.“Idon’trecallthat.I’vedonemybesttoavoidbeingcaughtoncamera.”
“YouthinkI’mlying?YouthinkIfollowedyouhere?”
“Henry,itwasyouwhobrokeintomyroom,wasn’tit?”
Ahystericaltonecreptintohisvoice.“Youabandonedme,Mariana.You—yousacrificedme—”
“What?”Marianastaredathim,unnerved.“Why—didyouusethatword?”
“It’strue,isn’tit?”
Heraisedtheknife,andtookasteptowardher.ButMarianaheldherground.
“Putdowntheknife,Henry.”
Hekeptwalking.“Ican’tgoonlikethis.Ineedtofreemyself.Ineedtocutmyselffree.”
“Henry,pleasestop—”
Hehelduptheknife,asifpreparingtostrike.Marianafeltherheartracing.
“I’mgoingtokillmyselfrightnow,infrontofyou,”hesaid.“Andyou’regoingtowatch.”
“Henry—”
Henryraisedtheknifehigher,andthen—
“Oi!”
Henryheardthevoicebehindhimandturnedaround—asMorrischargedoutoftheshadows—andlungedatHenry.Theywrestledfortheknife—andMorriseasilyoverpoweredhim,throwinghimasideasifheweremadeofstraw.Henrylandedinacrumpledheaponthefloor.
“Leavehimalone,”MarianasaidtoMorris.“Don’thurthim.”
ShewentovertoHenry,tohelphimup—butheshovedawayherhand.
“Ihateyou,”hesaid,soundinglikealittleboy.Hisredeyesfilledwithtears.“Ihateyou.”
Morriscalledforthepolice,andHenrywasthenarrested,butMarianainsistedheneededpsychiatriccare—andhewastakentothehospital,wherehewassectioned.HewasprescribedantipsychoticmedicationandMarianaarrangedtospeaktotheconsultantpsychiatristinthemorning.
Sheblamedherselfforwhathadhappened,ofcourse.
Henrywasright:shehadsacrificedhim,andtheothervulnerablepeopleinhercare.Ifshehadbeenavailable,asHenryneededhertobe,itmightnothavecometothis.Thatwasthetruth.
AndnowMarianahadtomakesurethisenormoussacrificewasnotinvain…whateverthecost.
18
ItwasnearlyoneinthemorningbythetimeMarianagotbacktoherroom.Shewasexhausted,buttoowideawaketosleep,tooanxiousandwoundup.
Theroomwascold,sosheturnedontheoldelectricheaterattachedtothewall.Itcouldn’thavebeenusedsincethepreviouswinter—asitheatedup,therewastheheavysmellofburningdust.Marianasatthere,onthehard,uprightwoodenchair,staringattheelectricbarglowingredinthedark,feelingitsheat,listeningtoithum.Shesatthere,thinking—thinkingaboutEdwardFosca.
Hewassosmug,sosureofhimself.Hethinkshe’sgotawaywithit,shethought.Hethoughthehadwon.
Buthehadn’t.Notyet.AndMarianawasdeterminedtooutsmarthim.Shehadto.Shewouldsitupallnightandthink,andworkitout.
Shesatthereforhours,inavigil,akindoftrance—thinking,thinking—goingovereverythingthathadhappenedsinceZoefirstcalledheronMondaynight.Shewentovereveryeventofthestory,allthevariousstrands—examiningitallfromeveryangle,tryingtomakesenseofit—tryingtoseeclearly.
Itmustbeobvious—theanswermustberightthereinfrontofher.Butstill,shecouldn’tgraspit—itwasliketryingtoassembleajigsawpuzzleinthedark.
Fredwouldsaythatinsomeotheruniverse,Marianahadalreadyfigureditout.Insomeotheruniverse,shewassmarter.
Butnotthisone,unfortunately.
Shesatthereuntilherheadhurt.Then,atdawn,exhaustedanddepressed,shegaveup.Shecrawledintobed,andimmediatelyfellfastasleep.
AsMarianaslept,shehadanightmare.ShedreamedthatshewassearchingforSebastianthroughdesolatelandscapes,trudgingthroughwindandsnow.Shefinallyfoundhim—inashabbyhotelbar,inaremoteAlpinemountainhotel,duringasnowstorm.Shegreetedhim,overjoyed—but,toherhorror,Sebastiandidn’trecognizeher.Hesaidshehadchanged—thatshewasadifferentperson.Marianasworeoverandoverthatshewasthesame:It’sme,it’sme,shecried.Butwhenshetriedtokisshim,hepulledaway.Sebastianlefther,andwentoutintothesnowstorm.Marianabrokedown,weeping,inconsolable—andZoeappeared,wrappingherinablueblanket.MarianatoldZoehowmuchshelovedSebastian—morethanbreathing,morethanlife.Zoeshookherhead,andsaidthatloveonlybringssorrow,andthatMarianashouldwakeup.“Wakeup,Mariana.”
“What?”
“Wakeup…Wakeup!”
Then,suddenly,Marianawokeupwithastart—inacoldsweat,withherheartracing.
Someonewasbangingonthedoor.
19
Marianasatupinbed,herheartpounding.Thebangingcontinued.
“Wait,”shecalledout,“I’mcoming.”
Whattimeisit?Brightsunlightwascreepingaroundtheedgesofthecurtains.Eight?Nine?
“Who’sthere?”
Therewasnoreply.Thebanginggotlouder—asdidthebanginginherhead.Shehadathrobbingheadache;shemusthavedrunkalotmorethanshethought.
“Okay.Justasecond.”
Marianapulledherselfoutofbed.Shewasdisorientatedandgroggy.Shedraggedherselftothedoor.Sheunlockedandopenedit.
Elsiewasstandingthere,poisedtoknockagain.Shesmiledbrightly.
“Goodmorning,dear.”
Shehadafeatherdusterunderherarm,andwasclutchingabucketofcleaningmaterials.Hereyebrowswerepaintedoninasternanglethatmadeherlookratherfrightening—andshehadanexcitedglintinhereye,aglintthatstruckMarianaassinisterandpredatory.
“Whattimeisit,Elsie?”
“Justgoneeleven,dear.Didn’twakeyou,didI?”
Sheleanedin,pastMariana,peeringattheunmadebed.Marianacouldsmellcigarettesmokeonher,andwasthatalcoholonherbreath?Orwasitherownbreathshewassmelling?
“Ididn’tsleepwell,”Marianasaid.“Ihadanightmare.”
“Oh,dear.”Elsietuttedsympathetically.“I’mnotsurprised,withallthat’sgoingon.I’mafraidIhavemorebadnews,dear.ButIthoughtyoushouldknow.”
“What?”Marianastaredather,hereyeswide.Shewassuddenlyfullyawake,andfeltscared.“What’shappened?”
“I’lltellyouifyougivemeachance.Aren’tyougoingtoaskElsiein?”
Marianasteppedback,andElsieenteredtheroom.ShesmiledatMarianaandputdownherbucket.“That’sbetter.Bestprepareyourself,dear.”
“Whatisit?”
“Theyfoundanotherbody.”
“What?When?”
“Thismorning—bytheriver.Anothergirl.”
IttookMarianaasecondtofindhervoice.
“Zoe—where’sZoe?”
Elsieshookherhead.“Don’tworryyourprettyheadaboutZoe.She’ssafeenough.Probablystilllazinginbed,ifIknowher.”Shesmiled.“Icanseeitrunsinthefamily.”
“ForChrist’ssake,Elsie—whoisit?Tellme.”
Elsiesmiled.Therewassomethingtrulyghoulishinherexpression.“ItwaslittleSerena.”
“OhGod—”Mariana’seyessuddenlyfilledwithtears.Shechokedbackasob.
Elsietuttedsympathetically.“PoorlittleSerena.Ah,well,theLordmovesinmysteriousways…I’dbestgeton—norestforthewicked.”
Sheturnedtogo—thenshestopped.“Goodnessme.Nearlyforgot…Thiswasunderyourdoor,dear.”
Elsiereachedintothebucketandpulledsomethingout.ShehandedittoMariana
“Here—”
Itwasapostcard.
TheimageonthepostcardwasoneMarianarecognized—ablack-and-whiteAncientGreekvase,thousandsofyearsold,depictingthesacrificeofIphigeniabyAgamemnon.
AsMarianaturneditover,herhandwastrembling.Andontheback,assheknewtherewouldbe,wasahandwrittenquotationinAncientGreek:
τοιγ?ρσ?ποτ?ο?ραν?δαιπ?μψουσινθαν?τοι?:?σ?ν?τ??τιφ?νιον?π?δ?ραν?ψομαια?μαχυθ?νσιδ?ρ?
Marianahadastrangefeelingofvertigo,ofdizziness,asshestaredatthepostcardinherhand;asifshewerelookingdownonitfromagreatheight—andindangeroflosingherbalance,andfallingdown…intoadeep,darkabyss.
20
Marianadidn’tmoveforamoment.Shefeltparalyzed,rootedtothespot.ShebarelynoticedElsieleavetheroom.
Shekeptstaringatthepostcardinherhands,unabletolookaway,transfixed;asiftheAncientGreeklettershadcaughtfireinhermind,andwereblazingandburningthemselvesintoherbrain.
Withsomeeffort,sheturnedthepostcardfacedown,breakingitsspell.Sheneededtothinkclearly—sheneededtoworkoutwhattodo.
Shehadtotellthepolice,ofcourse.Eveniftheythoughtshewascrazy,whichtheyprobablyalreadydid,shecouldn’tkeepthesepostcardstoherselfanylonger—shehadtotellInspectorSangha.
Shehadtofindhim.
Sheslippedthepostcardintoherbackpocket,andleftherroom.
Itwasanovercastmorning;themorningsunhadyettopenetratetheclouds,andawispycarpetofmistwasstillhoveringinpoolsabovethegroundlikesmoke.Andthroughthegloom,acrossthecourtyard,Marianamadeoutthefigureofaman.
EdwardFoscawasstandingthere.
Whatwashedoing?WaitingtoseeMariana’sreactiontothepostcard?Gettingoffonit,relishinghertorment?Shecouldn’tseehisexpression,butshefeltsurehewassmiling.
AndMarianawassuddenlyveryangry.
Itwasunlikehertolosecontrol—butnow,becauseshehadbarelyslept,andbecauseshewassoupsetandscaredandangry…sheletgo.Itwasn’tbraveryasmuchasdesperation:aviolentexpulsionofheranguish—directedatEdwardFosca.
Beforesheknewit,shewaschargingacrossthecourtyardtowardhim.Didheflinchalittle?Possibly.Itwasunexpected,thissuddenapproach,buthestoodhisground—evenwhenshereachedhimandstopped,inchesawayfromhisface,hercheeksflushed,hereyeswild,breathinghard.
Shedidn’tsayanything.Shejuststaredathim,withmountinganger.
Hegaveheranuncertainsmile.“Goodmorning,Mariana.”
Marianaheldupthepostcard.“Whatdoesitmean?”
“Hmm?”
Foscatookthepostcard.Heglancedattheinscriptionontheback.HemurmuredinGreekashereadit.Therewasaflickerofasmileonhislips.
“Whatdoesitmean?”sherepeated.
“It’sfromElectrabyEuripides.”
“Tellmewhatitsays.”
Foscasmiled,andstaredintoMariana’seyes.“Itmeans:‘Thegodshavewilledyourdeath—andsoon,fromyourthroat,streamsofbloodshallgushforthatthesword.’”
AsMarianaheardthis,herangererupted—thebubbleofburningfuryburstforth,andherhandsclenchedintofists.Withallofherstrength,shestruckhimintheface.
Foscareeledbackward.“Jesus—”
Butbeforehecouldcatchhisbreath,Marianapunchedhimagain.Andagain.
Heraisedhishandstoprotecthimself—butshekepthittinghim,pummelinghimwithherfists,shouting.
“Youbastard—yousickbastard—”
“Mariana—stop!Stop—”
ButMarianacouldn’tstop,wouldn’tstop—untilshefeltapairofhandsgrabherfrombehind,pullingherback.
Apoliceofficerheldontoher,forciblyrestrainingher.
Acrowdofonlookerswasgathering.Julianwasthere,staringatherindisbelief.
AnotherofficerwentovertoassistFosca—buttheprofessorwavedhimawayangrily.Fosca’snosewasbleeding—bloodwasspatteredalloverhiscrispwhiteshirt.Helookedupsetandembarrassed.ItwasthefirsttimeMarianahadseenhimlosehiscool,andshedrewsomesmallsatisfactionfromthat.
ChiefInspectorSanghaappeared.HestaredatMariana,stunned—asifhewerelookingatacrazyperson.
“Whatthehellisgoingon?”
21
Soonafterward,Marianafoundherselfinthedean’soffice,andwasaskedtoexplainheractions.ShesatacrossthedeskfromChiefInspectorSangha,Julian,thedean—andEdwardFosca.
Itwashardtofindtherightwords.Themoreshesaid,themoreshesensedshewasbeingdisbelieved.Tellingherstory,sayingitallaloud,shewasawarehowimplausibleitsounded.
EdwardFoscahadregainedhiscomposure;hekeptsmilingatherthewholetime—asifsheweretellingalongjokeandhewereanticipatingthepunchline.
Marianahadalsocalmeddown,andwasmakinganefforttoremaincalm.Shepresentedthenarrativeassimplyandclearlyasshecould,withaslittleemotionaspossible.Sheexplainedhow,stepbystep,shehadarrivedatthisincrediblededuction—thattheprofessorhadmurderedthreeofhisstudents.
TheMaidensfirstmadehersuspicious,shesaid.Agroupoffavorites,allyoungwomen.Nooneknewwhatwentonatthesemeetings.Andasagrouptherapist,andawoman,Marianacouldscarcelyfailtobeconcerned.ProfessorFoscahadakindofstrange,guru-likecontroloverhispupils,Marianasaid.Shehadwitnessedthisfirsthand—evenherownniecehadexpressedareticencetobetrayFoscaandthegroup.
“Thisistypicalofunhealthygroupbehavior—anurgetoconformandsubmit.Voicingopinionscontrarytothegroup,orthegroupleader,evokesagreatdealofanxiety—iftheycanbevoicedatall.IfeltitwhenZoespokeabouttheprofessor—somethingwasn’tquiteright.Icouldfeelshewasafraidofhim.”
Smallgroupslikethis,Marianaexplained,liketheMaidens,wereparticularlyvulnerabletounconsciousmanipulation,orabuse.Unconsciouslythegirlsmighttreattheleaderofthegroupthewaytheytreatedtheirfatherwhentheywereveryyoung—withdependenceandacquiescence.“Andifyou’readamagedyoungwoman,”shewenton,“indenialaboutyourchildhoodandthesufferingyouendured—inordertomaintainthatdenial,youmightwellcolludewithanotherabuser—andpretendtoyourselfthathisbehaviorisperfectlynormal.Ifyouweretoopenyoureyesandcondemnhim,youwouldhavetocondemnothersinyourlifealso.Idon’tknowwhatthechildhoodsofthosegirlswaslike.It’seasytodismissTaraasaprivilegedyoungwomanwithnoproblems.Buttome,herabuseofalcoholanddrugssuggestsshewastroubled—andvulnerable.Beautiful,fucked-upTara—shewashisfavorite.”
ShemaintainedeyecontactwithFoscaasshesaidthis,awareoftherisingangerinhervoiceanddoingherbesttocontrolit.Foscastaredbackathercoolly,asmileonhisface.Shewenton,tryingtostaycalm.
“IrealizedIwaslookingatthemurdersthewrongwayaround.Thiswasn’ttheworkofamadman,apsychopathickillerdrivenbyuncontrollablerage—itwasjustmeanttolookthatway.Thesegirlsweremurderedmethodicallyandrationally.TheonlyintendedvictimwasTara.”
“Andwhydoyouthinkthat?”saidEdwardFosca,speakingforthefirsttime.
Marianalookedhimintheeyes.“BecauseTarawasyourlover.Andthensomethinghappened—shediscoveredyouweresleepingwiththeothers?—andthreatenedtoexposeyou—andthenwhat?You’dloseyourjob,andthiselitistacademicworldthatyoucherish;you’dloseyourreputation—youcouldn’tletthathappen.YouthreatenedtokillTara.Andyouthencarriedoutthatthreat.Unfortunatelyforyou,shetoldZoefirst…AndZoetoldme.”
Foscastaredather.Hisdarkeyesglintedinthelightlikeblackice.“That’syourtheory,isit?”
“Yes.”Marianaheldhisgaze.“That’smytheory.Alongwiththeothers,VeronicaandSerenagaveyouanalibi—theywereallsufficientlyunderyourspelltodoso—butthenwhat?Didtheychangetheirminds—orthreatento?Ordidyoujustwanttomakesuretheyneverwould?”
Nooneansweredthisquestion.Therewasjustsilence.
Thechiefinspectordidn’tsayanything;hepouredhimselfsometea.ThedeanwasstaringatMarianawithastonishment,clearlyunabletobelievehisears.Julianwouldn’tmeethereye,andmadeapretenseoflookingthroughhisnotes.
EdwardFoscaspokefirst.HeaddressedChiefInspectorSangha.
“Obviously,Idenythis.Allofit.AndI’mhappytoansweranyquestionsyoumayhave.Butfirst,Inspector—doIneedalawyer?”
Theinspectorhelduphishand.“Idon’tthinkwe’requitethereyet,Professor.Ifyou’lljustwaitasecond.”SanghafixedhiseyesonMariana.“Doyouhaveanyevidenceatalltobackuptheseaccusations?”
Mariananoddedherhead.“Yes—thesepostcards.”
“Ah.Thefamouspostcards.”Sanghalookeddownatthepostcardsinfrontofhim.Hepickedthemupandshuffledthemslowly,dealingthemlikecards.
“IfIunderstandcorrectly,”hesaid,“youbelievetheyweresenttoeachvictimbeforethemurder,asakindofcallingcard?Announcinghisintentiontokill?”
“Yes,Ido.”
“Andnowthatyouhavereceivedone—presumablyyouareinimminentdanger?Whydoyouthinkhehaschosenyouasavictim?”
Marianashrugged.“Ithink—I’vebecomeathreattohim.Igottooclose.Igotinsidehishead.”
Shedidn’tlookatFosca;shedidn’ttrustherselftoretainhercomposure.
“Youknow,Mariana,”sheheardFoscasay,“anyonecancopyoutaGreekquotationfromabook.Youdon’tneedaHarvarddegree.”
“I’mawareofthat,Professor.ButwhenIwasinyourroom,IfoundthesamequotationunderlinedinyourowncopyofEuripides.Isthatjustacoincidence?”
Foscalaughed.“Ifweweretogotomyroomrightnow—andtakeanybookofftheshelf—you’llseeIunderlinepracticallyeverything.”Hewentonbeforeshecouldspeak.“Anddoyouhonestlybelieve,ifIkilledthosegirls,IwouldsendthempostcardsquotingtextsthatIteachthem?DoyouthinkIwouldbethatstupid?”
Marianashookherhead.“It’snotstupid—youdidn’tthinkthesemessageswouldbeunderstood,orevennoticedbythepolice,oranyoneelse.Itwasyourprivatejoke—atthegirls’expense.That’swhatmademesureitwasyou.Psychologically,it’sjustthekindofthingyouwoulddo.”
InspectorSangharespondedbeforeFoscacouldspeak.“FortunatelyforProfessorFosca,hewasseenincollege,attheexacttimeofSerena’smurder—atmidnight.”
“Whosawhim?”
Theinspectorwenttopourmoretea,butrealizedtheflaskwasempty.Hefrowned.“Morris.Theheadporter.Heencounteredtheprofessorsmokingoutsidehisroom,andtheyspokeforseveralminutes.”
“He’slying.”
“Mariana—”
“Listentome—”
BeforeSanghacouldstopher,MarianatoldhimshesuspectedMorriswasblackmailingFosca—thatshehadfollowedhim,andseenhimandSerenatogether.
Thechiefinspectorseemedmildlystunned.Heleanedforwardandstaredather.
“Yousawthem—inthegraveyard?Ithinkyou’dbettertellmeexactlywhatyou’vebeenupto.”
Soshedid,goingintomoredetail,andtoherdismay,themoretheconversationmovedawayfromEdwardFosca,themoretheinspectorseemedexcitedaboutMorrisasasuspect.
Julianagreed.“Thatexplainshowthekillercouldmovearoundinvisibly.Whogoesunnoticedaroundcollege?Whodon’twesee?Amaninauniform—amanwithaperfectrighttobethere.Aporter.”
“Exactly.”Thechiefinspectorthoughtforamoment.ThenhebeckonedoveroneofthejuniorofficersandtoldhimtobringinMorrisforquestioning.
Marianawasabouttointervene,eventhoughsheknewtherewouldbelittlepoint.Butthen,Juliansmiledather.Hespoke.
“Listen,Mariana.I’monyourside—sodon’tgetupsetaboutwhatI’mgoingtosay.”
“What?”
“Tobehonest,InoticeditassoonasIsawyouhereinCambridge.Itstruckmestraightaway,thatyouseemedalittlestrange—alittleparanoid.”
Marianacouldn’thelpbutlaugh.“What?”
“Iknowit’shardtohear—butit’sobviousyou’resufferingfrompersecutoryfeelings.You’reunwell,Mariana.Youneedhelp.AndI’dliketohelpyou…ifyou’llletme—”
“Fuckyou,Julian.”
Theinspectorbangedhisflaskonthedesk.“That’senough!”
Therewassilence.ChiefInspectorSanghaspokefirmly.“Mariana.You’verepeatedlytestedmypatience.You’vemadetotallyunsubstantiatedaccusationsagainstProfessorFosca—nottomentionphysicallyassaultinghim.He’sperfectlywithinhisrightstopresscharges.”
Shetriedtointerrupt,butSanghakepttalking.“No,enough—youneedtolistentomenow.Iwantyougonebytomorrowmorning.AwayfromthiscollegeandProfessorFosca—awayfromthisinvestigation—awayfromme.OrIwillhaveyouarrestedandchargedwithobstructingjustice.Isthatclear?ListentoJulian,okay?Seeyourdoctor.Getsomehelp.”
Marianaopenedhermouth—andchokedbackascream,ahowloffrustration.Sheswallowedheranger,andsatinsilence.Therewasnopointinarguingfurther.Sheloweredherhead,indignantbutdefeated.
Shehadlost.
PartFive
Thespringiswounduptight.Itwilluncoilofitself.Thatiswhatissoconvenientintragedy.Theleastlittleturnofthewristwilldothejob.
—JEANANOUILH,Antigone
1
Anhourlater,inordertoavoidthepress,apolicecarwasdrivenaroundthebackofthecollege,bythegate,whichopenedontoanarrowstreet.MarianastoodamongvariousstudentsandmembersofstaffwhogatheredtowatchasMorriswasarrested,handcuffed,andledtothecar.Someoftheportersbooedandjeeredathimashewentby.Morris’sfacecoloredslightly,buthedidn’treact.Hisjawwasclenched,andhekepthiseyeslow.
Atthelastminute,Morrislookedup—andMarianafollowedhiseyes…tothewindow—whereEdwardFoscawasstanding.
Foscawaswatchingtheproceedingswithasmallsmileonhisface.He’slaughingatus,Marianathought.
AndashemadeeyecontactwithMorris,abriefspasmofrageflashedacrossMorris’sface.
Thenthepoliceofficerpulledoffhisbowlerhat—andMorriswasbundledintothepolicecar.Marianawatcheditdriveoff,takinghimaway—andthegatewasclosed.
MarianalookedupagainatFosca’swindow.
Buthehadgone.
“ThankGod,”sheheardthedeansay.“Atlast,it’sover.”
Hewaswrong,ofcourse.Itwasfarfromover.
Almostimmediately,theweatherchanged.Asifrespondingtoeventsincollege,summer,havingheldonforsolong,finallywithdrew.Achillywindhissedthroughthecourtyards.Itstartedspittingrain,andinthedistance,athunderstormcouldbeheardrumbling.
MarianaandZoewerehavingadrinkwithClarissaintheFellows’Parlor—acommonroomforthefellows.Thisafternoon,itwasdesertedapartfromthethreewomen.
Itwasalarge,shadowyroom,furnishedwithancientleatherarmchairsandcouches,mahoganywritingdesks,andtablesladenwithnewspapersandjournals.Itsmelledsmoky,ofwoodandashfromthefireplaces.Outside,thewindwasrattlingthewindowpanes,andtherainwastappingontheglass.ItwaschillyenoughforClarissatorequestasmallfirebelit.
Thethreewomensatinlowarmchairs,aroundthefire,drinkingwhiskey.Marianaswirledthewhiskeyaroundinherglass,watchingtheamberliquidglowinthefirelight.Shefeltcomfortedbeinghere,cocoonedbythefirewithClarissaandZoe.Thissmallgroupgaveherstrength—andcourage.Sheneededcouragenow;theyalldid.
ZoehadcomefromaclassattheEnglishFaculty.Possiblyherlastclass,saidClarissa;therewastalkofanimminentclosureofthecollege,pendingapoliceinvestigation.
Zoehadbeencaughtintherain;asshedriedherselfbythefire,Marianatoldthemwhathadhappened—andaboutherconfrontationwithEdwardFosca.Whenshefinished,Zoespokeinalowvoice.
“Thatwasamistake.Confrontinghimlikethat…Nowheknowsyouknow.”
MarianaglancedatZoe.“Ithoughtyousaidhewasinnocent?”
Zoemethergazeandshookherhead.“Ichangedmymind.”
Clarissalookedfromonetotheother.“You’requitesure,bothofyou,then,thatheisguilty?Onedoesn’twanttobelieveit.”
“Iknow,”saidMariana.“ButIbelieveit.”
“SodoI,”saidZoe.
Clarissadidn’treply.Shereachedforthedecanterandrefilledherglass.Mariananoticedherhandwastrembling.
“Whatdowedonow?”saidZoe.“You’renotgoingtoleave,areyou?”
“Ofcoursenot.”Marianashookherhead.“Lethimarrestme,Idon’tcare.I’mnotgoingbacktoLondon.”
Clarissalookedastonished.“What?Whyonearthnot?”
“Ican’trunaway.Notanymore.I’vebeenrunningsinceSebastiandied.Ineedtostay—Ineedtofacethis,whateveritis.I’mnotafraid.”Thephrasesoundedunfamiliaronhertongue.Marianatrieditagain.“I’mnotafraid.”
Clarissatutted.“That’sthewhiskeytalking.”
“Perhaps.”Marianasmiled.“Dutchcourageisbetterthannone.”SheturnedtoZoe.“Wekeepgoing.That’swhatwedo.Wekeepgoing—andwecatchhim.”
“How?Weneedsomeproof.”
“Yes.”
Zoehesitated.“Whataboutthemurderweapon?”
SomethingaboutthewayshesaidthismadeMarianalookather.“Youmeantheknife?”
Zoenodded.“They’venotfoundityet,havethey?Ithink—Iknowwhereitis.”
Marianastaredather.“Howdoyouknowthat?”
Zoeavoidedhereyeforasecond.Shekeptlookingawayatthefire—afurtive,guiltygesturethatMarianarecognizedfromchildhood.
“Zoe?”
“It’salongstory,Mariana.”
“Now’sagoodtimeforit.Don’tyouthink?”Sheloweredhervoice.“Youknow,whenIsawtheMaidens,theytoldmesomething,Zoe…Theytoldmethatyouwerepartofthegroup.”
Zoe’seyeswidened.Sheshookherhead.“That’snottrue.”
“Zoe,don’tlie—”
“I’mnot!Ionlywentonce.”
“Well,whydidn’tyoutellme?”saidMariana.
“Idon’tknow.”Zoeshookherhead.“Iwasafraid.Ifeltsoashamed…Iwantedtotellyouforsolong,butI…”
Shefellsilent.Marianareachedoutandtouchedherhand.“Tellmenow.Tellusboth.”
Zoe’sliptrembledalittle,andshenodded.Shebegantospeak,andMarianasteeledherself—
AndtheveryfirstthingZoesaidmadeMariana’sbloodruncold.
“Isuppose,”Zoesaid,“itbeginswithDemeter—andPersephone.”SheglancedatMariana.“Youknowthem,right?”
IttookMarianaasecondtofindhervoice.
“Yes.”Shenodded.“Iknowthem.”
2
Zoedrainedherdrink.Sheplaceditonthemantelpiece.Thefirewassmokingslightly,andgray-whitesmokeswirledaroundher.
MarianawatchedZoe,withthered-and-goldflamesdancingbeneathher,andMarianahadafunnycampfire-likefeeling,asifshewereabouttobetoldaghoststory…Whichinaway,shewas.
Zoebegantellingthestory,tentativelyatfirst,bitbybit,thatProfessorFoscawassofondof—thesecretritesatEleusistohonorPersephone:ritesthattookyouonajourneyfromlifetodeathandbackagain.
Theprofessorknewthesecret,hesaid—andheshareditwithafewspecialstudents.
“Hemademeswearanoathofsecrecy.Icouldn’ttalkaboutwhathappenedwithanyone.Iknowitwasweird,but—IwasflatteredthathethoughtIwasspecialenough—cleverenough.AndIwascurioustoo.Andthen…itwasmyturntobeinitiatedintotheMaidens…Hetoldmetomeethimatthefolly,atmidnight,fortheceremony.”
“Thefolly?”
“Youknow—it’sbytheriver,nearParadise.”
Mariananodded.“Goon.”
“Justbeforetwelve,CarlaandDiyametmeattheboathouse,andescortedme—ontheriver,inapunt.”
“Apunt,why?”
“It’stheeasiestwaytogettherefromhere—thepathisovergrownwithbrambles.”Shepausedforamoment.“TheothersweretherewhenIarrived.VeronicaandSerenawerestandingbytheentrancetothefolly.Theywerewearingmasks—meanttobePersephoneandDemeter.”
“GoodGod,”saidClarissa,lettingoutaninvoluntarygroanofdisbelief.ShequicklygesturedatZoetocontinue.
“Lillianledmeintothefolly—theprofessorwaswaitingthere.Heputablindfoldonme,andthen—Idrankthekykeon—whichhesaidwasjustbarleywater.Buthewaslying.TaratoldmelateritwasspikedwithGHB—heusedtobuyitfromConrad.”
Marianawasfeelingunbearablytense—shedidn’twanttohearanymore.Butsheknewshehadnochoice.“Goon.”
“Andthen,”Zoesaid,“hewhisperedinmyear…thatIwoulddietonight—andberebornatdawn.Andhetookoutaknife,andhetouchedmythroatwithit.”
“Hedidthat?”saidMariana.
“Hedidn’tcutmeoranything—hesaiditwasjustaritualsacrifice.Thenhetookoffmyblindfold…Andthat’swhenIsawwhereheputtheknife…Hesliditintoagapinthewall—betweentwostoneslabs.”
Zoeshuthereyesforasecond.“Afterthat,it’shardtoremember.Mylegswerelikejelly,likeIwasmelting…Andweleftthefolly.Wewereinthetrees…inthewoodland.Someofthegirlsweredancingnaked…theotherswereintheriver,swimming—butI—Ididn’twanttotakemyclothesoff…”Sheshookherhead.“Idon’trememberexactly.ButIlostthem,somehow—andIwasalone,andhigh—andscared—and…hewasthere.”
“EdwardFosca?”
“That’sright.”Zoeseemedunwillingtosayhisname.“Itriedtospeakbutcouldn’t.Hekept—kissingme…touchingme—sayinghelovedme.Hiseyeswerewild…Irememberhiseyes—theywerecrazy.Itriedtogetaway…ButIcouldn’t.Andthen—Taraappeared,andtheystartedkissing—andsomehow,Imanagedtogetaway—Iranthroughthetrees—Ikeptrunning…”Sheloweredherhead,andfellsilentforamoment.“Ikeptrunning…Igotaway.”
Marianapromptedher.“Whathappenedthen,Zoe?”
Zoeshrugged.“Nothing.Ineverspoketothegirlsaboutitagain—apartfromTara.”
“AndProfessorFosca?”
“Heactedasifitneverhappened.SoI—triedtopretendithadn’t.”Sheshrugged.“ButthenTarafoundmethatnightinmyroom…Shetoldmehehadthreatenedtokillher.I’dneverseenTarasoscared—shewasterrified.”
Clarissaspokeinalowvoice.“Deargirl,youshouldhavealertedthecollege.Youshouldhavetoldsomeone.Youshouldhavecometome.”
“Wouldyouhavebelievedme,Clarissa?It’ssuchacrazystory—it’smywordagainsthis.”
Mariananodded,feelingclosetotears.ShewantedtoreachoutandpullZoeintoahugandholdher.
Butfirst,therewassomethingshehadtoknow.
“Zoe—whynow?Whyareyoutellingusthisnow?”
Zoedidn’tspeakforamoment.Shewentovertothearmchairwhereherjacketwashanging,dryingbythefire.Shereachedintothepocket.
Shepulledoutaslightlydamp,rain-speckledpostcard.
ZoedroppeditinMariana’slap.
“BecauseIgotonetoo.”
3
Marianastaredatthepostcardinherlap.
Theimagewasfromamurkyrococopainting—Iphigenianakedonabed,withAgamemnoncreepingupbehindher,brandishingaknife.Ontheback,therewasaninscriptioninAncientGreek.Marianadidn’tbothertogetClarissatotranslate.Therewasnopoint.
SheneededtobestrongforZoe.Sheneededtothinkclearlyandthinkfast.Shekeptallemotionoutofhervoice.
“Whendidyoureceivethis,Zoe?”
“Thisafternoon.Itwasundermydoor.”
“Isee.”Mariananoddedtoherself.“Thischangesthings.”
“No,itdoesn’t.”
“Yes,itdoes.Weneedtogetyououtofhere.Now.WeneedtogotoLondon.”
“Thankgoodnessforthat,”saidClarissa.
“No.”Zoeshookherhead.Shehadafiercelystubbornlookonherface.“I’mnotachild.I’mnotgoinganywhere.I’mstayinghere,likeyousaid—we’regoingtofight.We’regoingtocatchhim.”
Asshesaidthis,MarianathoughthowvulnerableZoelooked,howtiredandwretched.Recenteventshadvisiblyaffectedandalteredher—shelookedmentallyaswellasphysicallybeatenup.Sofragile,yetsodeterminedtokeepgoing.That’swhatbraverylookslike,thoughtMariana.Thisiscourage.
Clarissaalsoseemedtosensethis.Shespokeinaquietvoice.
“Zoe,dearchild,”shesaid,“yourbraveryiscommendable.ButMarianaisright.Wemustgotothepolice,tellthemeverythingyou’vejustsaid…Andthen,youmustleaveCambridge—bothofyou.Tonight.”
Zoepulledafaceandshookherhead.“Nopointintellingthepolice,Clarissa.They’llthinkMarianaputmeuptoit.That’sawasteoftime.Wedon’thavetime.Weneedevidence.”
“Zoe—”
“No,listen.”SheappealedtoMariana.“Let’scheckthefolly—justincase.WhereIsawhimhidetheknife.Andifwedon’tfindit,then…wegotoLondon,okay?”
BeforeMarianacouldreply,theprofessorforestalledher.
“GoodGod,”saidClarissa.“Areyoutryingtogetyourselveskilled?”
“No.”Zoeshookherhead.“Themurdersalwayshappenatnight—westillhaveafewhours.”Sheglancedoutthewindow,andgaveMarianaahopefullook.“Andit’sstoppedraining.It’sbrighteningup.”
“Notyet,”Marianasaid,lookingoutside.“Butitwill.”Shethoughtforasecond.“Goandhaveashower,getoutofthosewetclothes.AndI’llmeetyouinyourroomintwentyminutes.”
“Okay.”Zoenodded,lookingpleased.
Marianawatchedhergatherherthings.“Zoe—pleasebecareful.”
Zoenodded,andlefttheroom.Themomentthedoorclosed,ClarissaturnedonMariana.Shelookedworried.“Mariana,Imustprotest.It’smostunsafeforeitherofyoutobeventuringtotheriverlikethis—”
Marianashookherhead.“I’venointentionoflettingZoegoanywhereneartheriver.I’llmakeherpackafewthings,andwe’llleaverightaway.We’llgotoLondon,likeyousaid.”
“Thankheavens.”Clarissalookedrelieved.“That’stherightdecision.”
“Butlistencarefully.Ifanythinghappenstome—Iwantyoutogotothepolice,okay?Youmusttellthemallofthis—everythingthatZoesaid.Understand?”
Clarissanodded.Shelookeddeeplyunhappy.“Iwishyoutwowouldgotothepolicerightnow.”
“Zoe’sright—there’snopoint.InspectorSanghawon’tevenlistentome.Buthe’lllistentoyou.”
Clarissadidn’tsayanything.Shejustsighedandstaredintothefire.
“I’llcallyoufromLondon,”Marianasaid.
Noresponse.Clarissadidn’tevenseemtohearher.
Marianafeltdisappointed.Shehadexpectedmore.SheexpectedClarissatobeatowerofstrength—butclearlythishadallbeentoomuchforher.Clarissaseemedtohaveagedsomehow;sheseemedshrunken,small,andfrail.
Shewouldn’tbeanyuse,Marianarealized.WhateverterrorssheandZoehadahead,they’dhavetofacethemalone.
Marianagentlykissedtheprofessorgoodbyeonthecheek.Thensheleftherbythefire.
4
AsMarianamadeherwaytoZoe’sroomacrossthecourtyard,shekepthermindonpracticalities.Theywouldpackquickly,andthen,withoutbeingseen,theywouldslipoutofthecollege,throughthebackgate.Acabtothestation;thetraintoKing’sCross.Andthen—andherheartswelledatthethoughtofit—theywouldbehome,safeandsoundinthelittleyellowhouse.
SheclimbedthestonestepstoZoe’sroom.Theroomwasempty;shemuststillbeintheshowerblockdownstairs.
AndthenMariana’sphonerang.ItwasFred.
Shehesitated,butanswered.“Hello?”
“Mariana,it’sme.”Fredsoundedanxious.“Ineedtotalktoyou.It’simportant.”
“Nowisn’tagoodtime.Ithinkwesaideverythinglastnight.”
“Thisisn’taboutlastnight.Listentome,carefully.Imeanit.Ihadapremonition—aboutyou.”
“Fred,Idon’thavetime—”
“Iknowyoudon’tbelieveit—butit’strue.You’reinseriousdanger.Rightnow,thissecond.Whereveryouare—getthehelloutofthere.Go.Run—”
Marianahungup,feelingexasperatedandveryangry.ShehadenoughtoworryaboutwithoutFred’snonsense.Shehadalreadybeenfeelinganxious—nowshefeltmuchworse.
WhatwaskeepingZoe?
AsMarianawaited,shepacedtheroomrestlessly.Hereyesdriftedaround,touchinguponZoe’sbelongings:ababypictureinasilverframe;aphotoofZoeasabridesmaidatMariana’swedding;variousluckycharmsandtrinkets,stonesandcrystalscollectedonholidaysabroad;otherchildhoodmementosZoehadbeencarryingaroundsinceshewasalittlegirl—suchasold,batteredZebra,perchedprecariouslyonherpillow.
Marianafeltincrediblymovedbythisjumbleofjunk.ShehadasuddenmemoryofZoeasasmallchild,kneelingagainstthebed,handsclaspedinprayer.GodblessMariana,GodblessSebastian,GodblessGrandfather,GodblessZebra—andsoon,includingpeoplewhosenamesshedidn’tevenknow,liketheunhappywomanatthebusstop,orthemaninthebookshopwiththecold.Marianawouldwatchthischildishritualfondly,butnotforonemomentdidsheeverbelieveinwhatZoewasdoing.Marianadidn’tbelieveinaGodwhocouldbereachedsoeasily—orwhosemercilessheartwouldbeswayedbytheprayersofalittlegirl
Butnow,suddenly,shefeltherkneesgivingway—buckling,asifpushedfrombehindbysomeunseenforce.Shesanktothefloor,claspingherhandstogether—andbowedherheadinprayer.
ButMarianadidn’tpraytoGod,orJesus,oreventoSebastian.
Sheprayedtoahandfulofdirty,weather-beatenstonecolumnsonahill,againstabrilliant,birdlesssky.
Sheprayedtothegoddess.
“Forgiveme,”shewhispered.“WhateveritisIdid—whateveritisIhavedone—tooffendyou.YoutookSebastian.That’senough.Ibegyou—don’ttakeZoe.Please—Iwon’tletyou.I—”
Shestopped,suddenlyself-conscious,embarrassedatthewordscomingoutofhermouth.Shefeltmorethanalittlecrazy—likeadementedchildbargainingwiththeuniverse.
Andyet,onsomeverydeeplevel,Marianawasawarethat,atlonglast,shehadreachedthemomentwhereallofthishadbeenleading:hermuchdelayedbutinevitableconfrontation—herreckoning—withtheMaiden.
Marianaslowlypulledherselftoherfeet.
AndZebratoppledoffthepillow,felloffthebed,andlandedonthefloor.
Marianapickedupthetoyandrepositioneditonthepillow.Asshedidso,shenoticedthattheseamacrossZebra’sbellyhadcomeloose;threestitchesweremissing.Andsomethingwaspokingoutfrominsidethestuffing.
Marianahesitated—then,withoutquiteknowingwhatshewasdoing,shepulleditout.Shelookedatit.Itwassomepaper,foldedandrefolded,concealedinthebodyofthestuffedtoy.
Marianastaredatit.Shefeltdisloyal,butalsocompelledtoknowwhatitwas.Shehadtoknow.
Shecarefullyunfoldedit—anditopenedoutintoseveralpagesofnotepaper.Itlookedlikeatypedletterofsomekind.
Marianasatdownonthebed.
Andshebegantoread.
5
Andthen,oneday,mymotherleft.
Idon’tremembertheexactmomentshewent,orthefinalgoodbye,buttheremusthavebeenone.Idon’tremembermyfatherthereeither—hemusthavebeeninthefieldswhenshemadeherescape.
Sheneverdidsendforme,youknow,intheend.Ineversawheragain,infact.
Thatnightsheleft,Iwentupstairstomyroom,andsatatmylittledesk—Iwroteforhoursinmyjournal.WhenIfinished,Ididn’treadwhatIhadwritten.
AndIneverwroteinthatjournalagain.IputitinaboxandhiditawaywithotherthingsIwantedtoforget.
Buttoday,Itookitoutforthefirsttime,andreadit—allofit.
Well,almostall…
Yousee,therearetwopagesmissing.
Twopagestornout.
Theyweredestroyedbecausetheyweredangerous.Why?Becausetheytoldadifferentstory.
That’sokay,Iguess.Everystorycanstandalittlerevision.
IwishIcouldrevisethenextfewyearsatthefarm—revisethem,orforgetthem.
Thepain,thefear,thehumiliation—everyday,Iwasmoredeterminedtoescape.Oneday,I’llgetaway.I’llbefree.I’llbesafe.I’llbehappy.I’llbeloved.
I’drepeatthistomyself,againandagain,underthecoversatnight.Itbecamemymantraintimesoftrouble.Morethanthat,itbecamemyvocation.
Itledmetoyou.
IneverthoughtIwascapable—oflove,Imean.Ionlyknewhate.I’msoafraidI’llhateyoutoo,oneday.ButbeforeIeverhurtyou,Iwillturntheknifeonmyself,andplungeitdeepintomyheart.
Iloveyou,Zoe.
That’swhyI’mwritingthis.
IwantyoutoseemeasIam.Andthen?You’llforgiveme,won’tyou?Kissallmywoundsandmakethembetter.Youaremydestiny,youknowthat,don’tyou?Maybeyoudon’tbelieveityet.ButI’veknownfromthestart.Ihadapremonition—fromtheveryfirstsecondIsawyou,Iknew.
Youweresoshyatfirst,somistrustful.Ihadtoslowlyteaseyourloveoutofyou.ButI’mnothingifnotpatient.
Wewillbetogether,Ipromise,oneday,oncemyplaniscomplete.Mybrilliant,beautifulidea.
Imustwarnyou,itinvolvesblood—andsacrifice.
I’llexplain,whenwearealone.Untilthen,havefaith.
Yours,
forever—
X
6
Marianaloweredthelettertoherlap.
Shestaredatit.
Shewasfindingithardtothink—hardtobreathe;asifshehadbeenwinded,punchedrepeatedlyinthestomach.Shedidn’tunderstandwhatshehadread.Whatdiditmean,thismonstrousdocument?
Itdidn’tmakesense.Shedidn’tbelieveitwasreal—shewouldn’tbelieveit.Itcouldn’tmeanwhatshethought.Itcouldn’tbethat.Andyet—thatwastheonlyconclusiontodraw,nomatterhowunacceptableornonsensical—orterrifying.
EdwardFoscahadwrittenit—thishellishloveletter—andhehadwrittenittoZoe.
Marianashookherhead.No—notZoe,herZoe.Shedidn’tbelieveit—shedidn’tbelieveZoecouldpossiblybeinvolvedwiththatmonster…
ThenshesuddenlyrememberedthatstrangelookonZoe’sface—staringatFoscaacrossthecourtyard.AlookMarianahadtakenforfear.Whatifitwassomethingmorecomplicated?
Whatif,fromtheverystart,Marianahadbeenseeingeverythingfromthewrongangle,lookingatitfromverywayup?Whatif—
Footsteps—comingupthestairs.
Marianafroze.Shedidn’tknowwhattodo—shemustsaysomething,dosomething.Butnotnow,notlikethis;shehadtothinkfirst.
Shegrabbedtheletterandstuffeditinherpocket,justasZoeappearedatthedoor.
“Sorry,Mariana.IwasasquickasIcould.”
Zoegaveherasmileassheenteredtheroom.Hercheekswereflushed,andherhairwaswet.Shewasinadressinggownandclutchingacoupleoftowels.“Letmejustgetdressed.Onesec.”
Marianadidn’tsayanything.Zoeputonsomeclothes,andthatquickflashofnakedness—thatyoung,smoothskin—remindedMarianaforasecondofthebeautifulbabygirlshehadloved,thatbeautiful,innocentchild.Wherehadshegone?Whathappened?
Tearscameintohereyes,butnotsentimentaltears;tearsofanguish,ofphysicalpain—asifsomeonehadslappedherface.SheturnedawaysoZoewouldn’tsee,andhastilywipedhereyes.
“I’mready,”saidZoe.“Shallwego?”
“Go?”Marianalookedatherblankly.“Where?”
“Tothefolly,ofcourse.Tolookfortheknife.”
“What?Oh…”
Zoelookedatherwithsurprise.“Areyouallright?”
Marianaslowlynodded.Allhopesofescape,allthoughtsoffleeingtoLondonwithZoe,hadfadedfromhermind.Therewasnowheretogo,nowheretorun.Notanymore.
“Okay,”shesaid.
Andlikeasleepwalker,MarianafollowedZoedownthestairsandacrossthecourtyard.Ithadstoppedraining;theskywasleaden,andoppressivecharcoalcloudsswarmedabovetheirheads,twistingandturninginthebreeze.
Zoeglancedather.“Weshouldgobytheriver.It’stheeasiestway.”
Marianadidn’tsayanything,justgaveabriefnod.
“Icanpunt,”Zoesaid.“I’mnotasgoodasSebastianwas,butI’mnotbad.”
Mariananodded,andfollowedhertotheriver.
Outsidetheboathouse,sevenpuntswerecreakinginthewater,chainedtothebank.Zoetookoneofthepolesrestingagainsttheboathousewall.ShewaitedforMarianatoclimbintoapunt,thenloosenedtheheavychainsecuringittothebank.
Marianasatonthelowwoodenseat;itwasdampfromtherain,butshebarelynoticedthat.
“Thiswon’ttakelong,”Zoesaidasshepushedthemawayfromthebankwiththepole.Thensheraisedthepolehighintheair,plungeditintothewater,andbegantheirjourney.
Theyweren’talone;Marianaknewthatrightfromthestart.Shecouldsensetheywerebeingfollowed.Sheresistedthetemptationtolookoverhershoulder.Butwhenshefinallydidturnherhead,justassheexpected,shebrieflyglimpsedthefigureofamaninthedistance,vanishingbehindatree.
ButMarianadecidedshemustbeimaginingthings.Becauseitwasn’twhoshewasexpectingtosee—itwasn’tEdwardFosca.
ItwasFred.
7
AsZoehadpredicted,theymadefastprogress.Theysoonleftthecollegesbehind,andweresurroundedbyopenfieldsoneithersideoftheriver—anaturallandscapethathadsurvivedunchangedforcenturies.
Onthegrassland,thereweresomeblackcowsgrazing.Therewasasmellofdampnessandmolderingoak,wetmud.AndMarianacouldsmellsmokefromabonfiresomewhere,amustysmellofdampleavesburning.
Athinlayerofmistwasrisingupfromtheriver,anditswirledaroundZoeasshepunted.Shewassobeautifulstandingthere,herhairblowinginthebreeze,thatfarawaylookinhereyes.SheresembledtheLadyofShalottonherdoomed,finaljourneyalongtheriver.
Marianawastryingtothink,butshewasfindingitdifficult.Andwitheachmuffledthudofthepoleontheriverbed,andeachsuddenrushforwardofthepuntonthesurfaceofthewater,sheknewtimewasrunningout.Soontheywouldbeatthefolly.
Andthenwhat?
Shecouldfeeltheletterburninginherpocket—sheknewsheneededtomakesenseofit.
Butshemustbewrong.Shehadtobe.
“You’rebeingveryquiet,”Zoesaid.“What’sonyourmind?”
Marianalookedup.Shetriedtospeak,butcouldn’tfindhervoice.Sheshookherheadandshrugged.“Nothing.”
“We’llbetheresoon.”Zoepointedtowardthebendintheriver.
Marianaturnedandlooked.“Oh—”
Tohersurprise,aswanhadappearedinthewater.Itglidedeffortlesslytowardher,itsdirtywhitefeathersripplinggentlyinthebreeze.Asitnearedthepunt,theswanturneditslongheadandlookeddirectlyather.Itsblackeyesstaredintohers.
AndashiverrandownMariana’sspine.Shelookedaway.
Whenshelookedback,theswanhadvanished.
“We’rehere,”Zoesaid.“Look.”
Marianasawthefolly,onthebankoftheriver.Itwasn’talargestructure—fourstonecolumnssupportingaslopingroof.Originallywhite,ithadbeendiscoloredbytwocenturiesofrelentlessrainandwind,stainingitgoldandgreenwithrustandalgae.
Itwasaneerielocationforthefolly—alone,bythewater’sedge,surroundedbyawoodlandandmarsh.ZoeandMarianasailedpastit,pastthewildirisesgrowinginthewater,andtheramblingrosescoveredinthorns,blockingthepath.
Zoeguidedthepunttothebank.Shewedgedthepoledeepintothemudoftheriverbed,mooringthepunt,pinningitagainsttheriver’sedge.
Zoeclimbedontothebank—andheldoutherhandtohelpMariana.ButMarianadidn’ttakeherhand.Shecouldn’tbeartotouchher.
“Areyousureyou’reokay?”saidZoe.“You’rebeingsoweird.”
Marianadidn’treply.Sheclamberedoutofthepunt,ontothegrassybank,andfollowedZoeovertothefolly.
Shepausedoutsideandlookedupatit.
Ithadacoatofarmsabovetheentrance,carvedinstone—theemblemofaswaninastorm.
Marianafrozewhenshesawthat.Shestaredatitforasecond.
Butthenshekeptgoing.
ShefollowedZoeinside.
8
Insidethefolly,thereweretwowindowsinthestonewall,lookingoutontotheriver,andastonewindowseat.Zoepointedthroughthewindow,atthegreenwoodlandintheneardistance.
“TheyfoundTara’sbodyoverthere—throughthetrees,bythemarsh.I’llshowyou.”Thenshekneltdown,andlookedundertheseat.“Andthisiswhereheputtheknife.Inhere—”
Zoeslidherarmintoaspacebetweentwostoneslabs.Andshesmiled.
“Aha.”
Zoewithdrewherhand—andshewasclutchingaknife.Itwasabouteightincheslong.Itwasstainedslightlywithredrust—ordriedblood.
MarianawatchedZoegripitbythehandle;shehelditwithasenseoffamiliarity—andthenshestoodup,turnedtheknifetowardMariana.
Shepointedthebladedirectlyather.ShestaredatMarianawithoutblinking,herblueeyesradiatingdarkness.
“Comeon,”shesaid.“We’regoingforawalk.”
“What?”
“Thatway—throughthetrees.Let’sgo.”
“Wait.Stop.”Marianashookherhead.“Thisisn’tyou.”
“What?”
“Thisisn’tyou,Zoe.Thisishim.”
“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”
“Listen.Iknow.Ifoundtheletter.”
“Whatletter?”
Inresponse,Marianatookouttheletterfromherpocket.SheunfoldeditandshowedittoZoe.
“Thisletter.”
Zoedidn’tspeakforasecond.ShejuststaredatMariana.Noemotionalreaction.Justablanklook.
“Youreadit?”
“Ididn’tmeantofindit.Itwasanaccident—”
“Didyoureadit?”
Mariananoddedandwhispered,“Yes.”
TherewasaflashoffuryinZoe’seyes.“Youhadnoright!”
Marianastaredather.“Zoe.Idon’tunderstand.It—itdoesn’tmean—itcan’tpossiblymean—”
“What?Whatcan’titmean?”
Marianastruggledtofindthewords.“Thatyouhadsomethingtodowiththesemurders…Thatyouandhe…aresomehowinvolved—”
“Helovedme.Welovedeachother—”
“No,Zoe.Thisisimportant.I’msayingthisbecauseIloveyou.Youareavictimhere.Despitewhateveryoumaythink,itwasn’tlove—”
Zoetriedtointerrupt,butMarianawouldn’tlether.Shewenton.
“Iknowyoudon’twanttohearit.Iknowyouthinkitwasdeeplyromantic,butwhateverhegaveyou,itwasnotlove.EdwardFoscaisnotcapableoflove.He’stoodamaged,toodangerous—”
“EdwardFosca?”Zoestaredatherwithalookofastonishment.“YouthinkEdwardFoscawrotetheletter?—andthat’swhyIkeptitsafe,hiddeninmyroom?”Sheshookherheadscornfully.“Hedidn’twriteit.”
“Thenwhodid?”
Thesunsuddenlywentbehindacloud,andtimeseemedtoslowtoacrawl.Marianacouldhearthefirstdropsofrain,tappingatthestonewindowsillinthefolly,andanowlscreechingsomewhereinthedistance.Andinthistimelessspace,Marianarealizedsomething:shealreadyknewwhatZoewasgoingtosay,andperhaps,onsomelevel,shehadalwaysknown.
Thenthesuncameoutagain—timecaughtupwithitselfwithanabruptjolt.AndMarianarepeatedthequestion.
“Whowrotetheletter,Zoe?”
Zoestaredather,hereyesfulloftears.Shespokeinawhisper.
“Sebastian,ofcourse.”
PartSix
OfthaveIheardthatgriefsoftensthemind,Andmakesitfearfulanddegenerate;Thinkthereforeonrevenge,andceasetoweep.
—WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE,HenryVI,Part2
1
MarianaandZoestaredateachotherinsilence.
Itwasrainingnow,andMarianacouldhearandsmelltherainhittingthemudoutside.Shecouldseeraindropsbreakingupthereflectionsofshivering,shakingtreesintheriver.Finally,shebrokethesilence.
“You’relying,”shesaid.
“No.”Zoeshookherhead.“I’mnot.Sebastianwrotetheletter.Hewroteittome.”
“That’snottrue.He—”Marianastruggledtofindthewords.“Sebastian—didn’twritethis.”
“Ofcoursehedid.Wakeup.You’resoblind,Mariana.”
Marianaglancedattheletterinherhand.Shestaredatithelplessly.“You…andSebastian…”Shecouldn’tfinishthesentence.ShelookedupatZoe,desperately,hopingshewouldtakepityonher.
ButZoeonlyhadpityforherself,andhereyesglitteredastheybrimmedwithtears.“Ilovedhim,Mariana.Ilovedhim—”
“No.No—”
“It’strue.I’vebeeninlovewithSebastianeversinceIcanremember—eversinceIwasalittlegirl.Andhelovedme.”
“Zoe,stop.Please—”
“Youhavetofaceit,now.Openyoureyes.Wewerelovers.WewereloverseversincethattriptoGreece.Onmyfifteenthbirthday,inAthens,remember?Sebastiantookmeintotheolivegrove,bythehouse—hemadelovetome,there,inthedirt.”
“No.”Marianawantedtolaugh,butitwastoosicktolaughat.Itwashorrible.“You’relying—”
“No,you’relying—toyourself—that’swhyyou’resofuckedup—becausedeepdown,youknowthetruth.Itwasallbullshit.Sebastianneverlovedyou.Itwasmeheloved—alwaysme.Heonlymarriedyoutobenearme…Andforthemoney,ofcourse…youknowthat,don’tyou?”
Marianashookherhead.“I’m—I’mnotlisteningtothis.”
Sheturnedandwalkedoutofthefolly.Shekeptwalking.
Thenshestartedtorun.
2
“Mariana,”Zoecalledafterher.“Whereareyougoing?Youcan’trunaway.Notanymore.”
Marianaignoredherandkeptgoing.Zoefollowedher.
Thedarkcloudsthunderedabove,andsuddenly,therewasamassivestreakoflightning.Theskywasalmostgreen.Then,theheavensopened.Rainstartedfallingheavily,pummelingtheearth,churningupthesurfaceoftheriver.
Marianaranintothewood.Itwasdarkandgloomyinthetrees.Thegroundwasmoist,sticky,anditsmelleddank.Theinterlockingbranchesofthetreeswerecoveredwithintricatecobwebs,mummifiedbluebottles,andotherinsects,suspendedinsilkenstrandsaboveherhead.
Zoefollowed,tauntingher;hervoiceechoingthroughthetrees.
“Oneday,Grandfathercaughtusintheolivegrove.Hethreatenedtotellyou—soSebastianhadtokillhim.Hesuffocatedhimrightthenwiththosegianthandsofhis.ThenGrandfatherleftyouallthatmoney…Somuchmoney—itdazzledSebastian—hehadtohaveit.Hewanteditforme,forhim—forus.Butyouwereintheway…”
ThebranchesfromthetreesgrabbedatMarianaasshefoughtherwaypast,tearingandscratchingherhandsandherarms.
ShecouldhearZoeclosebehindher,crashingthroughthetrees,likeanavengingFury.Allthetime,shekepttalking.
“Sebastiansaidifanythinghappenedtoyou,he’dbethefirstsuspect.‘Weneedadistraction,’hesaid,‘likeinamagictrick’RememberthetricksheusedtodoformewhenIwaslittle?‘Weneedtomakeeveryonelookatthewrongthing—andinthewrongplace.’ItoldhimaboutProfessorFoscaandtheMaidens—andthat’swhenhegottheidea.Itgrewinhismindlikeabeautifulflower,hesaid—hehadsuchapoeticwayoftalking—remember?Heworkedouteverydetail.Anditwasbeautiful.Itwasperfect.Butthen…youtookhimaway—andhenevercameback.Sebastiandidn’twanttogotoNaxos.Youmadehim.It’syourfaulthe’sdead.”
“No,”Marianawhispered.“That’snotfair—”
“Yes,itis,”Zoehissed.“Youkilledhim.Andyoukilledmetoo.”
Suddenly,thetreesthinnedoutinfrontofthem—andtheyfoundthemselvesinaclearing.Themarshspreadoutbeforethem.Itwasalargepooloflimpidgreenwater,overgrownwithweedsandbrambles.Therewasafallentree,splitopenandslowlyrotting,coveredinyellow-greenmossandsurroundedbyspottedtoadstools.
Andtherewasastrangesmellofdecay,astenchofsomethingfoulandrotten—wasitthestagnantwater?
Orwasit—death?
ZoestaredatMariana,breathless,holdingtheknife.Hereyeswereredandfulloftears.
“Whenhedied,itwaslikeI’dbeenstabbedintheguts.Ididn’tknowwhattodowithallmyanger—allmypain…Then,oneday—Iunderstood—Isaw.IhadtocarryoutSebastian’splanforhim,justlikehewanted.ItwasthelastthingI’dbeabletodoforhim.Tohonorhim,andhismemory—andhavemyrevenge.”
Marianastaredather,incredulous.Shewasbarelyabletofindhervoice.Shespokeinawhisper.
“Whathaveyoudone,Zoe?”
“NotmeHim.ItwasallSebastian…Ijustdidwhathetoldmeto.Itwasalaboroflove—Icopiedoutthequotesheselected,plantedthepostcardslikehesaid,underlinedthepassagesinFosca’sbooks.WhenIhadasupervision,Ipretendedtogotothebathroom,andplantedsomehairsfromTara’sheadinthebackofFosca’swardrobe—Ispatteredsomeofherbloodtheretoo.Thepolicehaven’tfoundityet.Buttheywill.”
“EdwardFoscaisinnocent?Youframedhim?”
“No.”Zoeshookherhead.“Youframedhim,Mariana.SebastiansaidallIhadtodowasmakeyouthinkIwasafraidofFosca.Youdidtherest.Thatwasthefunniestpartofthiswholeperformance:watchingyouplaydetective.”Shesmiled.“You’renotthedetective…You’rethevictim.”
MarianastaredintoZoe’seyes,asallthepiecescametogetherinhermind,andshefinallyfacedtheterribletruthshehadwantedtoavoidseeing.TherewasawordforthismomentinGreektragedy:anagnorisis—recognition—themomenttheherofinallyseesthetruthandunderstandshisfate—andhowit’salwaysbeenthere,thewholetime,infrontofhim.Marianausedtowonderwhatthatmomentfeltlike.Nowsheknew.
“Youkilledthem—thosegirls—howcouldyou?”
“TheMaidenswereneverimportant,Mariana—theywerejustadistraction.Aredherring,that’swhatSebastiansaid.”Sheshrugged.“Tarawas…difficult.ButSebastiansaiditwasasacrificeIhadtomake.Hewasright.Itwasarelief,inaway.”
“Arelief?”
“Tofinallyseemyselfclearly.IknowwhoIamnow—I’mlikeClytemnestra,youknow?—orMedea.That’swhatI’mmadeof.”
“No.No,you’rewrong.”Marianaturnedaway.Shecouldn’tbeartolookatheranymore.Thetearsstreameddownhercheeks.“You’renotagoddess,Zoe.You’reamonster.”
“IfIam,”sheheardZoesay,“Sebastianmademeone.Andsodidyou.”
Andthen,Marianafeltasuddenforcetoherback.
Shewasknockedtotheground,withZoeonherback.Marianastruggled,butZoeusedallofherweight,pinningMarianadowninthemud.TheearthwascoldandwetagainstMariana’sface.AndsheheardZoewhisperinginherear.
“Tomorrow,whentheyfindyourbody,I’llsaytotheinspectorItriedtostopyou,thatIbeggedyounottoinvestigatethefollyalone—butyouinsisted.ClarissawilltellhimmystoryaboutProfessorFosca—they’llsearchhisrooms—findtheevidenceIputthere…”
ZoeclimbedoffMarianaandflippedherontoherback.Sheloomedoverher,raisingtheknife.Hereyeswerewild,monstrous.
“Andyou’llberememberedasjustanotherofEdwardFosca’svictims.Victimnumberfour.Noonewilleverguessthetruth…thatwekilledyou—SebastianandI.”
Sheraisedtheknifehigher…abouttostrike—
AndMarianasuddenlyfoundherstrength.ShereachedupandgrabbedZoe’sarm.TheytussledforamomentbeforeMarianaswungZoe’shandashardasshecould—makingZoelosecontroloftheknife—
Theknifeflewoutofherhand,andwhizzedthroughtheair—disappearingintothenearbygrasswithathud.
Zoeleapedupwithacry,andrantolookforit.
WhileZoesearched,Marianapulledherselfup—andnoticedsomeoneappearingbehindthetrees.
ItwasFred.
Hewashurryingover,lookingconcerned.Hedidn’tseeZoekneelinginthegrass,andMarianatriedtowarnhim.“Fred—stop.Stop—”
ButFreddidn’tstopandquicklyreachedher.“Areyouokay?Ifollowedyou—Iwasworried,and—”
Overhisshoulder,MarianasawZoerisingup—clutchingtheknife.Marianascreamed.
“Fred—”
Buttoolate…ZoeplungedtheknifedeepintoFred’sback.Hiseyeswidened—andhestaredatMarianainshock.
Hecollapsedandsanktotheground—andlaythere,still,unmoving.Apoolofbloodseepedoutfromunderhim.ZoepulledouttheknifeandproddedFredwithit,checkingifhewasdead.Shedidn’tlookconvinced.
Withoutthinking,Marianaclosedherhandaroundahard,coldrockthatwasembeddedinthemud.Shepulleditout.
ShestaggeredovertoZoe,bendingoverFred’sbody.
JustasZoewasabouttothrusttheknifeintohischest…MarianaslammeddowntherockonthebackofZoe’shead.
TheblowknockedZoesideways—asshefell,slippinginthemud,shelandedfacedown—ontheknife.
Zoelaystillforasecond.Marianathoughtshewasdead.
Butthen,withananimal-likegroan,Zoethrewherselfontoherback.Shelaythere,awoundedcreature,withwide,scaredeyes.Shesawtheimpaledknifestickingoutofherchest—
AndZoestartedtoscream.
Shedidn’tstopscreaming:shewashysterical,screaminginagonyandfearandhorror—thescreamsofaterrifiedchild.
Forthefirsttimeinherlife,Marianadidn’tgotoZoe’said.Instead,shepulledoutherphone.Shecalledforthepolice.
Allthetime,Zoekeptscreaming,screaming—until,eventually…herscreamsmergedwiththewailofanapproachingsiren.
3
Zoewastakenawayinanambulance,accompaniedbytwoarmedpoliceofficers.
Theescortwashardlynecessary,asshehadregressedtobeingachild:afrightened,defenselesslittlegirl.Nonetheless,Zoewaschargedwithattemptedmurder;furtherchargesweretofollow.Onlyattemptedmurder—becauseFredhadsurvivedtheattack,justabout.Hewascriticallywounded,anddriventohospitalinaseparateambulance.
Marianawasinastateofshock.Shewassittingonabenchbytheriver’sedge.Shewasclutchingacupofstrong,sweetteathatInspectorSanghahadpouredforherfromhisflask—fortheshock,andasapeaceoffering.
Ithadstoppedraining.Theskywasclearnow;thecloudshadrainedthemselvesout,leavingonlyafewwispsofgrayinthepalelight.Thesunwasslowlysettingbehindthetrees,andstreakingtheskywithpinkandgold.
AsMarianasatthere,shebroughtthewarmcuptoherlipsandsippedthetea.Afemaleofficerattemptedtocomforther,puttinganarmaroundher—butMarianabarelynoticedthis.Ablanketwastuckedoverherknees.Shewasscarcelyawareofit.Hermindwasblankashereyesdriftedalongtheriver—andshesawtheswan.Itwasracingalongthewater,gatheringspeed.
Asshewatchedit,theswanspreaditswings,andtookflight.Itflewupintothesky,andhereyesfolloweditintotheheavens.
InspectorSanghajoinedherandsatdownonthebench.“You’llbegladtoknow,”hesaid,“Foscahasbeenfired.Turnsouthewassleepingwithallofthem.Morrisconfessedtoblackmailinghim—soyouwereright.Withanyluck,they’llbothgetwhat’scomingtothem.”
LookingatMariana,hesawshewasn’ttakinganyofitin.Henoddedatthetea.Hespokegently.
“Howareyou?Feelinganybetter?”
Marianaglancedathim.Shegaveaslightshakeofthehead.Shedidn’tfeelbetter;ifanything,shefeltworse…
Andyetsomethingwasdifferent.Whatwasit?
Shefeltalert,somehow—perhapsawakewasabetterword:everythingseemedclearer,asifafoghadlifted;colorsweresharper,theedgesofthingsmoredefined.Theworldnolongerfeltmutedandgrayandfaraway—behindaveil.
Itfeltaliveagain,andvivid,andfullofcolor,wetwithautumnrain;andvibratingwiththeeternalhumofendlessbirthanddeath.
Epilogue
Foralongtimeafterthat,Marianaremainedinshock.
Backathome,shesleptonthesofadownstairsatnight.She’dneverbeabletosleepinthatbedagain;thebedshe’dsharedwithhim—thatman.Shedidn’tknowwhohewasanymore.Shesawhimasakindofstranger,animpostorshehadbeenlivingwithalltheseyears—anactorwhohadsharedherbedandplottedtokillher.
Whowashe,thispretendperson?Whatlaybeneathhisbeautifulmask?Wasitallaperformance—allofit?
Nowthattheshowwasover,Marianahadtoexamineherownroleinit.Whichwasn’teasy.
Assheshuthereyesandtriedtovisualizehisface,shestruggledtoseehisfeaturesright.Hewasfading,likethememoryofadream—andshekeptseeingherfather’sfaceinstead—herfather’seyes,insteadofSebastian’s;asiftheyweresomehowessentiallythesameperson.
WhatwasitRuthhadsaid—aboutherfatherbeingcentraltoherstory?Marianahadn’tunderstooditatthetime.
Butnow,perhaps,shewasbeginningto.
Shehadn’tbeenbacktoseeRuth.Notyet.Shewasn’treadytocry,ortalk,orfeel.Itwasstilltooraw.
NorhadMarianareturnedtorunninghertherapygroups.Howcouldshepresumetohelpanotherperson,orofferanyadvice,everagain?
Shewaslost.
AndasforZoe—well,sheneverrecoveredfromthathystericalscreamingfit.Shesurvivedthestabbing,butitprecipitatedaseverepsychologicalcollapse.Followingherarrest,Zoeattemptedsuicideseveraltimes,thensufferedamassivepsychoticbreakdown.
Zoeendedupbeingdeclaredunfittostandtrial.Shewaseventuallycommittedtoasecureunit,theGrove,inNorthLondon—thesameunitwhereMarianahadrecommendedTheoapplyforajob.
AnditturnedoutthatTheohadfollowedheradvice.HewasnowworkingattheGrove—andZoewashispatient.
TheoattemptedtocontactMarianaseveraltimes,onZoe’sbehalf.ButMarianarefusedtospeaktohim,anddidn’treturnhiscalls.
SheknewwhatTheowanted.HewantedtogetMarianatospeaktoZoe.Shedidn’tblamehim.IfMarianahadbeeninhisshoes,shewouldhavedonethesamething.AnykindofpositivecommunicationbetweenthetwowomenwouldbepivotalinZoe’srecovery.
ButMarianahadherownrecoverytoworryabout.
Shecouldn’tstomachthethoughtofspeakingtoZoeagain.Itmadeherfeelsick.Shesimplycouldn’tbearit.
Itwasn’taquestionofforgiveness.Thatwasn’tsomethingMarianacoulddecideon,anyway.Ruthalwayssaidthatforgivenesscouldnotbecoerced—itwasexperiencedspontaneously,asanactofgrace,appearingonlywhenapersonwasready.
AndMarianawasnotready.Shewasn’tsuresheeverwouldbe.
Shefeltsuchanger,suchhurt.IfsheeversawZoeagain,shedidn’tknowwhatshemightsayordo;shecertainlywouldn’tberesponsibleforheractions.Betterkeepaway,andleaveZoetoherfate.
MarianavisitedFredafewtimes,though,whilehewasinthehospital.ShefeltaresponsibilitytoFred,andagratitude.Hehadsavedherlife,afterall;she’dneverforgetthat.Hewasweakatfirst,unabletotalk—buthadasmileonhisfacethewholetimeMarianawasthere.Theysattogetherinfriendlysilence,andMarianathoughthowodditwas,howcomfortableandfamiliarshefeltwithhim—thismanshebarelyknew.Itwastoosoontosayifanythingmighteverhappenbetweenthem.Butshenolongerdismisseditquitesooutofhand.
Shewasfeelingverydifferentlyabouteverything,thesedays.
ItwereasifeverysinglethingMarianahadeverknown,orbelievedin,ortrusted,hadfallenaway—leavingjustanempty,vacantspace.Sheexistedinthislimboofemptiness,whichlastedforweeks,thenmonths…
Until,oneday,shereceivedaletterfromTheo.
Inhisletter,TheoaskedMarianaonceagaintoreconsiderherrefusaltovisitZoe.HewroteinsightfullyaboutZoe,withgreatempathy,beforeturninghisattentiontoMariana.
Ican’thelpbutfeelitmightbenefityouasmuchasher—andprovideyouwithsomekindofclosure.Iknowitwon’tbepleasant,butIthinkitmighthelp.Ican’tbegintoimaginewhatyou’vebeenthrough.Zoeisbeginningtoopenupmore—andI’mdeeplydisturbedbythesecretworldshesharedwithyourlatehusband.I’mhearingthingsthataretrulyfrightening.AndImustsay,Mariana,Ithinkyou’reextremelyluckytobealive.
Theofinishedbysayingthis:
Iknowit’snoteasy.ButallIaskisthatyouconsider,onsomelevel,thatsheisavictimtoo.
ThatphrasemadeMarianaveryangry.Shetoreuptheletter,andthrewitinthebin.
Butthatnight,asshelayinbedandshuthereyes—afaceappearedinhermind.NotthefaceofSebastian,orherfather’sface—butthefaceofalittlegirl.
Asmall,frightenedgirlofsix.
Zoe’sface.
Whathappenedtoher?Whathadbeendonetothatchild?Whatdidsheendure—rightunderMariana’snose—intheshadows,inthewings,justbehindthescenes?
MarianahadfailedZoe.Shehadfailedtoprotecther—shehadfailedeventosee—andshemusttakeresponsibilityforthat.
Howhadshebeensoblind?Sheneededtoknow.Shehadtounderstand.Shehadtoconfrontit.Shehadtofaceit—
Orshewouldgomad.
Whichiswhy,onesnowyFebruarymorning,MarianaendedupmakingherwaytoNorthLondon,toEdgwarehospital—andtotheGrove.Theowaswaitingforherinthereception.Hegreetedherwarmly.
“IneverthoughtI’dseeyouhere,”hesaid.“Funny,thewaythingsturnout.”
“Yes,Isupposeitis.”
Theoledherthroughsecurityandalongthedilapidatedcorridorsoftheunit.Astheywalked,hewarnedMarianathatZoewouldbedistinctlydifferentfromwhenshelastsawher.
“Zoe’sextremelyunwell,Mariana.You’llfindherquitechanged.Ithinkyoushouldprepareyourself.”
“Isee.”
“I’msogladyoucame.Itwillreallyhelp.Shespeaksofyouoften,youknow.Shefrequentlyrequeststoseeyou.”
Marianadidn’treply.Theogaveherasidelonglook.
“Look,Iknowthiscan’tbeeasy,”hesaid.“Idon’texpectyoutofeelinanywaybenigntowardher.”
Idon’t,Marianathought.
Theoseemedtoreadhermind.Henodded.“Iunderstand.Iknowshetriedtohurtyou.”
“Shetriedtokillme,Theo.”
“Idon’tthinkit’squitethatsimple,Mariana.”Theohesitated.“Hetriedtokillyou.Shewasmerelyhisproxy.Hispuppet.Shewasentirelycontrolledbyhim.Butthatwasonlypartofher,youknow—inanotherpartofhermind,shestilllovesyou—andneedsyou.”
Marianawasfeelingincreasinglyapprehensive.Comingherehadbeenamistake.Shewasn’treadytoseeZoe;wasn’treadyforhowitwouldmakeherfeel—andwhatshemightsay,ordo.
Astheyreachedhisoffice,Theonoddedatanotherdoorattheendofthecorridor.
“Zoe’sintherecreationroom,throughthere.Shedoesn’ttendtosocializewiththeothers,butwealwaysmakeherjointhemduringfreeperiods.”Heglancedathiswatchandfrowned.“I’msosorry—wouldyoumindwaitingacoupleofminutes?There’sanotherpatientImustseeinmyofficeforamoment.ThenI’llfacilitateameetingbetweenyouandZoe.”
BeforeMarianacouldreply,Theogesturedatthelongwoodenbenchagainstthewalloutsidehisoffice.“Won’tyousitdown?”
Mariananodded.“Thanks.”
Theoopenedhisofficedoor.Andthroughtheopendoorway,Marianaglimpsedabeautiful,red-hairedwomansitting,waiting,staringoutthebarredwindow,atthegrayskyoutside.ThewomanturnedandlookedwarilyatTheoasheenteredtheroomandshutthedoorbehindhim.
Marianaglancedatthebench.Butshedidn’tsitdown.Instead,shekeptgoing.Shewalkeduptothedoorattheendofthecorridor.
Shestoppedoutsideit.Shehesitated.
Thenshereachedout,turnedthehandle—
Andwentinside.
Acknowledgments
IwrotemostofthisbookduringtheCOVID-19pandemic.Iwassogratefultohavesomethingtofocusonduringthoselongmonths,livingonmyowninlockdowninLondon.AndIwasgratefultobeabletoescapefrommyflattothisworldinmyhead—partlyreal,partlyimagined,anexerciseinnostalgia—anattempttorevisitmyyouthandaplacethatIlove.
Itwasalsonostalgiaforacertainkindofnovel,forthebooksthatentrancedmeasateenager:thedetectivestory,themystery,whodunnit,orwhatyouwill.SomyfirstacknowledgmentistheimmensedebtofgratitudeIowetotheseclassiccrimewriters,allwomen,whohavegivenmesuchinspirationandjoyovertheyears.Thisnovelismyfondhomagetothem:toAgathaChristie,DorothyL.Sayers,NgaioMarsh,MargaretMillar,MargeryAllingham,JosephineTey,P.D.James,andRuthRendell.
It’snosecretthatwritingasecondnovelisaverydifferentbeastcomparedtoadebut.TheSilentPatientwaswritteninastateofcompleteisolation,withnoaudienceinmindandnothingtolose.Thatbookchangedmylifeandexpandeditexponentially.WithTheMaidens,ontheotherhand,Ifeltagooddealmorepressure;however,Iwasnotalonethistime—therewasasmallvillageofincrediblytalentedandbrilliantpeoplearoundme,givingmesupportandadvice.Therearetoomanypeopletothank,soIhopeIdon’tleaveanyoneout.
Imustbeginbythankingmyagent,anddearfriend,SamCopeland,forbeingsucharock,andasourceofwisdomandhumorandkindness.Likewise,I’msogratefulforthebrilliantanddedicatedteamatRogers,Coleridge&White—PeterStraus,StephenEdwards,TristanKendrick,SamCoates,KatharinaVolckmer,andHonorSpreckley,tonamebutafew.
Creatively,workingontheeditofthisbookwasthemostenjoyableprofessionalexperienceI’veeverhad.Ilearnedsomuch.AndmyheartfeltthanksgoestomyfantasticU.S.editor,RyanDoherty,atCeladon;andinLondon,theequallytalentedEmadAkhtarandKatieEspineratOrion.Ihadsomuchfunworkingwithyouall,andI’mthankfulforyourbrillianthelp.Ihopewecanworktogetherforever.
Thank-youtoHalJensen,fortheincrediblydetailedandhelpfulnotes,aswellasforyourfriendship,puttingupwithmeendlesslyobsessingaboutthisbloodybook.Thank-youtoNedieAntoniades,forallthesupportandfortalkingmeofftheledgenumeroustimes;Irelyonyousomuch,andI’mtrulygrateful.Likewise,IvanFernandezSoto—thankyouforSt.Lucyandalltheotherideas,andforlettingmebouncethesecrazyplottwistsoffyouforthepastthreeyears.AndabigthankstoUmaThurman,forallthegreatnotesandsuggestionsandthehome-cookedmealsinNewYork.I’llalwaysbegrateful.AndDianeMedak,thanksforyourfriendshipandsupportandforlettingmestayforever.Ican’twaittocomeback.
ToProfessorAdrianPoole,thebestteacherIeverhad—thanksforsuchusefulcomments,andforyourhelpwiththeAncientGreek;andforinspiringmyloveofthetragediesinthefirstplace.Alsothank-youtoTrinityCollege,Cambridge,forwelcomingmebacksowarmlyandprovidingtheinspirationforSt.Christopher’sCollege.
Thank-youtoallmywonderfulfriendsatCeladon—Ican’timaginemylifewithoutyou.JamieRaabandDebFutter,I’meternallygratefultoyou—andthankyouforallyourhelp.RachelChouandChristineMykityshyn—you’rebothsobrilliant,andsomuchofthesuccessofthelastbookwasdowntoyou.Thankyou.AlsotoCecilyvanBuren-Freedman—yourcommentsreallyimprovedthebookandI’mverygrateful.AlsoatCeladon,thank-youtoAnneTwomey,JenniferJackson,JaimeNoven,AnnaBelleHindenlang,ClaySmith,RandiKramer,HeatherOrlando-Jerabek,RebeccaRitchey,andLaurenDooley.AndthankstoWillStaehleforsuchafantasticcover,andJeremyPinkforgettingeverythingdoneinsuchrecordtime.Alsoabigthank-youtotheMacmillansalesteam—youguysareabsolutelythebest!
AtOrionandHachette,IwouldliketothankDavidShelleyforallthesupport.I’vefeltsoencouragedandchampionedbyyou;Iamsograteful.Alsothank-youtoSarahBenton,MauraWilding,LynseySutherland,JenWilson,EstherWaters,VictoriaLaws—thanksforyourfantasticwork!Andthankyou,EmmaMitchellandFMCM,forthepublicity.
Aspecialthank-youalsotoMaríaFasceinMadrid,foryourinsightfulandusefulnotes—andalsoyourencouragement.
Thanks,ChristineMichaelides—forthehelpwiththedescriptions.Ninetypercentofitdidn’tmakeitintothebook,butIlearnedsomethingatleast!ThankstoEmilyHoltforyourhelpfulnotesandforbeingsoencouraging.Also,VickyHoltandmyfather,GeorgeMichaelides,foryoursupport.
Andabigthank-youtothefabulousKatieHaines.Onceagain,workingwithyouissuchadelight.Ican’twaituntilwecangotothetheateragain.
Thank-youtoTiffanyGassouk,formakingmesowelcomeinPariswhileIwaswritingthere,andforgivingmesuchgreatencouragement.Alsothank-youtoTonyParsons,forthepeptalksandthesupport.I’mreallygrateful.Thank-youalsotoAnitaBaumann,EmilyKoch,andHannahBeckermanfortheencouragementandhelpfuladvice.AndKatieMarsh,kindfriend,foryourconstantencouragement.AlsothankstotheNationalPortraitGallery,forshowingmethepictureofyoungTennyson.AndtoKamSangha,foryoursurname.Lastbutnotleast,thank-youtoDavidFraser.
Foundedin2017,CeladonBooks,adivisionof
MacmillanPublishers,publishesahighlycuratedlist
oftwentytotwenty-fivenewtitlesayear.Thelistof
bothfictionandnonfictioniseclecticandfocuses
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discoveringandnurturingtalent.
ALSOBYALEXMICHAELIDES
TheSilentPatient
AbouttheAuthor
AlexMichaelideswasbornandraisedinCyprus.HehasanM.A.inEnglishliteraturefromTrinityCollege,CambridgeUniversity,andanM.A.inscreenwritingfromtheAmericanFilmInstituteinLosAngeles.Hisfirstnovel,TheSilentPatient,spentmorethanayearontheNewYorkTimesbestsellerlistandsoldinarecord-breakingfiftycountries.HelivesinLondon.Youcansignupforemailupdateshere
Thisisaworkoffiction.Allofthecharacters,organizations,andeventsportrayedinthisnovelareeitherproductsoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.
THEMAIDENS.Copyright?2021byAstramareLimited.Allrightsreserved.Forinformation,addressCeladonBooks,aDivisionofMacmillanPublishers,120Broadway,NewYork,NY10271.
www.celadonbooks.com
CoverdesignbyWillStaehle
CoverphotographsfromShutterstock:bustbydedpixto;cracksbymbond77;landscapebyLysogorRoman
TheLibraryofCongresshascatalogedtheprinteditionasfollows:
Names:Michaelides,Alex,1977–author.
Title:Themaidens/AlexMichaelides.
Description:FirstEdition.|NewYork,NY:CeladonBooks,2021.
Identifiers:LCCN2020057506|ISBN9781250304452(hardcover)|ISBN9781250792969(international,soldoutsidetheU.S.,subjecttorightsavailability)|ISBN9781250304476(ebook)
Classification:LCCPR6113.I2645M352021|DDC823/.92—dc23
LCrecordavailableathttps://lccn.loc.gov/2020057506
eISBN9781250304476
Ourebooksmaybepurchasedinbulkforpromotional,educational,orbusinessuse.PleasecontacttheMacmillanCorporateandPremiumSalesDepartmentat1-800-221-7945,extension5442,orbyemailatMacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com
FirstU.S.Edition:2021
FirstInternationalEdition:2021
Contents
TitlePage
CopyrightNotice
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
PartOne
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3
Chapter4
Chapter5
Chapter6
Chapter7
Chapter8
Chapter9
Chapter10
Chapter11
Chapter12
Chapter13
Chapter14
Chapter15
Chapter16
Chapter17
Chapter18
Chapter19
Chapter20
PartTwo
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3
Chapter4
Chapter5
Chapter6
Chapter7
Chapter8
Chapter9
Chapter10
Chapter11
Chapter12
Chapter13
Chapter14
Chapter15
Chapter16
Chapter17
Chapter18
PartThree
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3
Chapter4
Chapter5
Chapter6
Chapter7
Chapter8
Chapter9
Chapter10
Chapter11
Chapter12
Chapter13
PartFour
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3
Chapter4
Chapter5
Chapter6
Chapter7
Chapter8
Chapter9
Chapter10
Chapter11
Chapter12
Chapter13
Chapter14
Chapter15
Chapter16
Chapter17
Chapter18
Chapter19
Chapter20
Chapter21
PartFive
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3
Chapter4
Chapter5
Chapter6
Chapter7
Chapter8
PartSix
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
AlsobyAlexMichaelides
AbouttheAuthor
Copyright
© Copyright Notice
The copyright of the article belongs to the author. Please do not reprint without permission.
THE END
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