As I make my way back to the house, the temperature has dropped sharply, so that in the hedge, desiccated stems of old man’s beard are painted in relief by a hint of frost. Inside, logs are piled by the wood burning stove waiting to be lit, the bleached wooden worktops empty. Hunting around for my silver jacket, when I don’t find it, I settle for an old one of Jess’s, before finding my car keys and heading back outside.
Already, a thin layer of frost covers my car. Climbing in, I start the engine and turn the heater on, before entering the delivery address into my satnav. As I set off, a fine layer of mist is visible in the beam from my headlights. The roads are quiet and it doesn’t take long to reach the outskirts of Brighton. I’ve always loved how the seafront looks at night, where what traffic there is flows steadily, the promenade sparkling with street lights. As I turn into Brunswick Square, I find a parking space almost immediately. Picking up the order, I get out, already scrutinising the house numbers on the elegant façades. As I walk, I pass only a few people, reaching the top of the Square and following it around, as No 13 comes into view. Walking up the steps, I pause, looking at the doorbell, searching for Flat 5, a frown crossing my face as I check the house number again. Reaching for my phone, I check Namita’s email. It’s definitely the right address, but instead of residential, this building is a heritage centre and museum. Flat number 5 doesn’t exist.
As I walk back to my car, I imagine that under the pressure of caring for her sick daughter, Namita must have given me the wrong address. Getting into my car, I email her, asking her to confirm where she lives, waiting for her to reply. But she doesn’t. By the time I arrive back at home, she still hasn’t. As I walk inside, apart from the slow tick of the clock on the wall, the house is silent. For a moment, I ache for Jess’s presence and the inevitable chaos it brings, nostalgic for the days it was just the two of us. Now in her second year at Falmouth uni, her absence bestows the house with an emptiness that’s unfamiliar.
Ten years have passed since we moved here. The house was more remote than I’d been looking for, but still reeling from the breakup of my marriage, as well as the potential the house offered, I’d felt an unmistakable sense of sanctuary. With over an acre of garden and the outbuilding that’s become my workshop, there’s sheltered chalk soil and clean air; beyond a thick hedge of hawthorn and wild rose, unobstructed views of the Downs.
I’d started learning about herbalism before we came here, before studying it at college, wanting to heal the eczema that for years had plagued Jess, leaving her arms and legs scarred. But it’s here I’ve learned about alchemy, subtlety, the effect of scent.
The garden is beautiful, bordering on mystical. There is a potency in plants – when you know – and it’s here where the elements of my tinctures are nurtured. When Matt first came here and saw me at work, he laughingly called me a witch. I let him laugh, mildly irritated that he found it amusing. Witchcraft and herbal folklore are not so far apart.
Like any garden, mine is constantly evolving, my plans sketched out in the large notebook I keep – a kind of scrapbook of inspiring images, words, quotes, scribbled notes. Glancing at the book, lying where it’s always left next to the sofa, I lock the doors and pull the curtains closed. As my unease comes back, I remember the woman in Brighton this morning. It occurs to me to report her – but for what, exactly? She didn’t harm me, but it was the way she spoke. Not just her warning, but the conviction in her voice, that she knew something about my life that I didn’t.
Telling myself it isn’t possible, I try to push the thought from my head, but then I think of Namita and of the address that doesn’t exist. Checking my emails, I find a reply from her. I’m so sorry, Amy, but I have to cancel my order. My husband got really mad. He doesn’t like alternative remedies. There’s no reference to her address.
I write her off as erratic, but as I go upstairs, I can’t shake the uneasiness that hangs over me. Then halfway up, my skin prickles. No floorboard creaks – the house is silent, yet it’s as if there’s an echo of something. Later, I wonder if I detected the faintest trace of scent – the olfactory sense is closely linked to memory. But if I did, it wasn’t Matt’s. If it was, I would have known.
At the top of the stairs, still unsettled, I go to each bedroom in turn, checking that they’re empty. Aware my behaviour is ridiculous, verging on paranoid, I’m unable to shake the sense that I’m not alone. Changing into a loose-fitting sweatshirt and yoga pants, I scrunch my hair into a topknot, pausing to study my reflection. Fair hair, pale skin; clear eyes that give nothing away. Not even the smallest hint of fear.
After what’s been the strangest day, all I want is for Matt to come home, so that we can add the final touches to our wedding plans, then go to bed. But I’m still in the dark at this point. As I turn to go downstairs, I have no way of knowing what lies ahead.
Chapter Two
The kitchen is lit by the dim glow from a corner lamp, the sense of unease still with me as I pile dry kindling into the wood burner before lighting it, then add seasoned wood. In no time it’s throwing
