emotional state.
And why had Faith seemed suddenly to shut her out, back in the cafe, refusing even to meet her gaze? Was it something she’d said?
As Winnie went back over their conversation, something odd struck her. Faith had said she’d done archaeology at Somerfield, which meant she must have been one of Andrew’s students. But in that case, why had he never mentioned her? Surely the disappearance of a bright student, a girl in her final year and destined to go on to greater things, would have concerned him? But then lately he had seemed to scorn all his pupils—what had happened to his love of teaching?
Reaching the entrance to Lypatt Lane, Winnie pushed the bike into the narrow opening. The lane would take her into Bulwarks Lane, which overlooked the steep fall of Bushy Coombe, and at its end lay Fiona Allen’s house. The sky made a paler channel between the hedges rising high on either side of the lane. A bit of azure lingered in the west, but above her the first brittle stars had appeared. She switched on her bicycle lamp, but it flickered wanly, then went out.
As she picked up her pace, Winnie continued to puzzle over Andrew’s odd behavior. It occurred to her for the first time that perhaps she didn’t know her brother at all. The thought alarmed her, and she suddenly longed for Jack’s company, for his calm and commonsense response. Surely he would be home by the time she reached Fiona’s; she’d ring him from there and ask him to come and collect her.
She reached the little jog where the footpath that ran round the back side of Chalice Hill met Lypatt Lane. Beyond the jog the track became Bulwarks Lane, and she felt an unexpected stirring of relief that she had almost reached her destination.
Pausing, she checked automatically for oncoming traffic, even though she could not have failed to hear a car on such a still night. The lane was dark as a tunnel now, visible only by the layer of mist that had settled near the ground.
She stepped out, pushing the bike, and a light came out of nowhere, dazzling her, blinding her. Throwing up her arms as she heard the roar of an engine, she sensed a rush of movement towards her.
Just before impact, some tiny fragment of her consciousness noted that there had been no squeal of brakes.
PART II
CHAPTER EIGHT
—FREDERICK BLIGH BOND,
FROM THE GATE OF REMEMBRANCE
THE MUSIC CHANGED, slowly; the joyous melody faded, softening, until it became a lament. Fiona sensed an immense sorrow for a passing, an ending, of something precious beyond human understanding, but more than that she could not tell.
At last there was only a hollowness in her head, and beyond the glass there was nothing but darkness and the faint lights of the town across the Coombe. She put down her brush, exhausted. She had no idea of the time—she never kept a clock in the studio—but she could tell by the cramp in her hand and the ache in her back that she’d been painting several hours.
Stepping back, Fiona surveyed the canvas. She, herself, never named the creatures that came to her, but the critics referred to them as sprites, spirits, or sometimes, angels. Tonight, to her surprise, she had painted them within a framework of greensward and ruined stone walls—the gates of the Abbey itself—and for the first time, the spirits seemed to hold the now-familiar little girl within their protection.
It was only blocked in, of course. She would finish it tomorrow, if there were no more visions. Now she needed rest; but first, a walk, to clear her head.
The house was quiet, breathing in its midnight rhythm, and when she peeked into the bedroom she saw the humped shape of Bram’s body under the duvet.
Grabbing an old Barbour off a peg, she let herself out the front door and stood for a moment, breathing the frosty air. To her left lay Wick Hollow; to the right Bulwarks Lane gave an open view of the Coombe to the west. Threading her way through the garden, she turned to the right, and when she had passed the house a break in the canopy of leaves above her gave a view of the stars.
As she walked, she became aware of movement in the woods, an agitation more intense than the usual nocturnal shufflings of badgers and rabbits. Fiona stopped, listening, wondering what could be disturbing the woodland creatures on such a calm and beautiful night. “What is it?” she whispered, but there was no response. Feeling uneasy, she continued onwards, but more cautiously.
When a tendril of wind moved down the lane, disturbing a bit of rubbish, she started, then chided herself. It was only a supermarket carrier bag, and as she watched it blew a few more feet, lodging against something larger in the road, a dark shape, perhaps a fallen branch, and beside it a longer, more solid object. Drawing closer, she saw that the more solid shape was oddly human. Another trick of perception, she decided. Her steps slowed until she came to a halt beside the thing.
Not until she knelt and touched the form was she convinced that what she saw was real. It was a woman, her upturned face a pale smudge, and beside her not a branch, but a fallen bicycle. Fiona pulled her small torch from the pocket of her jacket, then gasped as it lit the woman’s face.
Jack Montfort came to a halt a yard inside the intensive-care unit, overwhelmed by the sight of the machines and tubes surrounding Winnie’s slight, still form. Why hadn’t they told him she would look like this—alien, and frail beyond hope? A tube ran into her nose, another into her mouth, and on a shaved strip of her scalp the angry edges of a wound were held closed with clips.
“You’re here to see Winifred, aren’t you, dear?” a soft Irish voice said beside him.
Jack turned, barely registering scrubs, a friendly smile, and a name badge that read “Maggie.” He nodded, not trusting his voice.
“You’re her ‘friend,’ I take it? Her brother came in a bit ago. Took one look, turned green, and bolted, poor man.”
“Did he?” Jack’s resolve not to do the same strengthened, as he suspected she had intended.
“It’s all these high-tech doodads give folks the willies. But don’t let them frighten you. They’re just keeping her comfortable, and letting us know how she’s doing.”
