Verity taps in the passcode beside the black gate and they slip in and wait to hear the click that secures them. Constance is particular about her keys and the one she needs now is already in her hand. Shaking with exhaustion, she heaves a great sigh of relief when the door swings open and they are safely inside.
The strong scent of their earlier fire has lingered, and greets them now as they unwrap their scarves and throw their capes on the hooks in the entry hall. They have no need or desire to speak. Weighted as they are by their disappointment, they trudge up the stairs. Three flights they climb, winding up the anomaly that is a tower – such was the folly of its architect. On the top floor they enter the room that is completely round and that was christened the Tower Room on the first day they moved in.
The night jumps out at the sisters from the windows. The clouds have lifted to reveal a view of the brick railway bridge, sparkling clearly against the naked trees and the light from a sliver of moon.
Verity sits on the edge of the bed from where their boy once dreamed. She pats the duvet, then strokes it, then pats it again with nervous fingers.
‘Will you stop that!’ Constance stands at the window with her arms crossed.
Shocked at the impatience in her sister’s voice, Verity jumps and clasps her hands in her lap like a scolded child.
‘I’m sorry.’ Constance goes to her at once and sits beside her.
There’s not enough space in the Tower Room for the grief. For most of the year they keep it at bay, but rather than observe the day he was taken from them as a memorial or anniversary, it is this day of the year, this date on the calendar, the hope of an anticipated reunion, that is the hardest. It begins full of hope and ends with the trembling shadows of the sisters against the pale, grey wall of the turret.
The metallic sound of the letterbox attached to their front gate shatters their mourning. It’s too late for the post. Verity darts to the window just as a man in a black hat rushes away.
‘It’s him. There must be a message, or another delivery.’ She hastens down the stairs with Constance close behind her. The sisters look right and left as they make an effort to catch a glimpse of their messenger. He is called Benedikt and that is all they know of him.
Verity retrieves the post from the letterbox with a shaky countenance and a glance at Constance, whose form is outlined in a dark night sky.
‘Here,’ she says. ‘You open it.’
Since the boy’s absence, along with a package they receive once a year, the man in the black hat sometimes delivers parchment-coloured envelopes. These are little crumbs of hope in letter form. The sisters are keen that the letters may contain an inkling of information about their boy, and surely, they surmise, the messenger must know something of value to them. Yet no such information had been forthcoming.
‘Come, Constance. Let’s go back inside and read it by the fire.’
They shiver as the wind scatters winter’s remaining leaves around their feet and they close their door to the thick sound of a quiet December night. The temperature has dropped. Constance is glad to engage her mind and body to the task of starting another fire. Verity watches her, knowing that it isn’t just that the temperature has dipped, but because tonight, sleep seems far away, and the fire’s light offers comfort and protection from the hours before sunrise when their thoughts turn darkest.
The black-inked handwriting stares out at them from the page. The words this time are different from any other message from their unknown benefactor. Constance always considered these missives as a surrender of logic, but tonight’s message has the potential to change everything. She reads aloud to Verity:
Greetings,
Please read this only as a word of caution and not as a cause for panic.
‘Well that’s a fine way to begin,’ Verity interrupts.
Very soon you will receive your regular supply of phials. I must make you aware that the source of the contents of the phials shows signs of decreasing its output. We have never encountered this previously and are not sure if, or when, it will revert to its former production level. You are in no immediate danger; however, we are not completely without a heightened sense of awareness of the situation and …
CHAPTER FOUR
… therefore, I urge you to take great care handling and administering the liquid. To spill even a drop would be wasteful, not to say dangerous. Be assured we are constantly monitoring the situation. You will be informed of any and all new developments regarding this issue.
A reminder that to hinder, delay or subvert Benedikt – in any way – is not permissible. Any such behaviour will instigate a review of your circumstances. This again is for your safety as well as necessary for Benedikt to perform his tasks to the best of his ability.
‘And then the usual reminder to keep the letterbox empty so that there’s no problem receiving the next delivery.’ Clovis Fowler carefully folds the letter, holding her small audience rapt.
The three people seated around her fall into their own private musings. Booming silence thickens the room. A wave of fear passes over Willa’s face and tears well up, despite her efforts to control them. The young man sitting opposite her, his leg draped over one of the cushioned arms of his chair, instinctively moves to comfort Willa, but Clovis, who leans against the mantelpiece, adjusts her position slightly, implying her disapproval. He settles back in the chair and turns away from Clovis.
‘Rafe,’ Clovis says to the young
