‘Elísabet. How lovely of you to come undisguised.’ Her delivery is chilling.
Elísabet looks into her sister’s eyes with an equal coldness.
‘There is one missing,’ Clovis says. ‘Where is the magical boy?’
‘You will never see my son again,’ Elísabet says evenly.
‘What a display of self-control.’
Clovis inches closer as if to threaten Elísabet, and both Stefán and Finn move to restrain her.
‘It’s all right,’ Elísabet assures them. ‘She’s not that kind of fighter.’
‘I have married your lover and I have raised your son. Those are facts that will never change,’ Clovis hisses. ‘You’re a coward. You have always been a coward. Content on a stinking sheep farm; a small patch of shitty frozen land. And so pleased to be praised for your knitting. Knitting for God’s sake.’ Clovis, aware of her audience, pauses for effect. ‘But there was eventually a crack, an imperfection at last. You were quick to open your legs for a lusty foreigner.’ She laughs at her memory. ‘The result of that went wrong, didn’t it? So elegantly discarded on your hands and knees.’
Elísabet conceals her reaction, but Clovis is quick to see the change in her sister’s face and rolls her eyes.
‘Oh how tedious of you Elísabet! Of course it was me,’ Clovis says.
Puzzled, Finn glares at Clovis. ‘What are you talking about?’
Clovis ignores him, inching closer to Elísabet. Her voice is even and chilling, ‘I could not let you free yourself from that life and leave me there. You did not deserve rescuing. So I left you, and I took him. And it was easy, so easy. Even pregnant with his child, he forgot you. Didn’t you Finn?’
The taste for violence rises in the acid in Finn’s gut. He is willing to go through another hellish redemption if he could have one good go at her with a knife and cut her fucking tongue out. Mockett is tugging at him, whispering for him to gain his composure.
Clovis moves on to the crux of the matter.
‘It was … interesting … to watch your son cry himself to sleep.’ She laughs unnervingly again. ‘You must have known – you must have seen. To think of your daily pain while you were ridiculously disguised will be … quite comforting. You will not hinder me now, Elísabet. None of you will stand in my way.’
Clovis swaggers towards the door.
Stefán pushes her down into the chair.
‘Take your hands off me.’
‘Silence!’ Stefán roars. Then he nods to Elísabet.
‘Clovis Fowler, formerly known as Koldís Ingólfsdóttir,’ Elísabet begins. ‘For the murder of Nora Mockett, for the murder of Jonesy Ling, for the attempted murder of Willa Robinson and for the abuse of Rafe Jónsson, there is a strong consensus amongst several of our people that you should be put to death. However, it is decided that you will be taken from your home and this country with no more than the clothes on your back and you will be escorted to Iceland …’
‘You are quite mad …’
Elísabet talks over her. ‘… where you will remain under our auspices, a prisoner of our people. We are spread far and wide across the country. Stripped of all your rights, you will be moved from one remote place to another, never knowing when or how the transport will occur. You will work at menial tasks in the most isolated areas of our country. If anyone should ever show you any kindness, or the slightest sympathy, or should you be successful at manipulating your keeper, you will be removed to a new location. You will have no access to any form of outside communication. Any clothing, or personal items that you need to remain clean and healthy you must earn or make yourself. The only relief you will have from your punishment is the four weeks a year that you fall into your sleep.
When you reach your first location you will be given a phial. The choice you removed from others for so long will always be offered to you. If you wish to take your own life, you may do so at any time. For someone like you, Iceland will be an unbearably lonely place. One way or the other, you will die in a remote valley in the country that sits at the top of the world.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
‘She’s here!’ Verity whispers to Constance. ‘I’ll go out and open the gate.’
‘Who is it, Auntie Very?’ Rafe asks.
‘Someone who has been waiting a very long time to meet you,’ Constance tells him.
Rafe stands at the windows where the garden of his childhood extends, redolent of a lush valley. Two enormous, marble sea-dragons guard three tiered terraces, connected by stone and wooden steps. His old swing still hangs from the massive London plane at the heart of the garden. A turkey oak, a soaring beech, tree ferns, and palms deaden traffic noise. Agaves cast a blue glow. Water splashes down stepped ponds. Beyond the legacy of the canal wall at the bottom half of the garden, the sisters have sown a wild flower meadow. A square pool by the kitchen window reflects light from the cream-coloured walls of the house. A variety of seating options hide in their own secluded nooks including the old stone bench from where his aunties read aloud to him on warm summer evenings when the light was kind. The garden speaks to him. They have been here all this time, it says. They have waited for you.
‘Rafe,’ Constance says gently behind him.
He turns to see his aunts’ arms entwined around the waist of a beautiful woman. Her face is familiar. Her hand goes to her heart. She searches his face and then nods her head. Yes, I am
