Reave looked amused now. “That’s right. But in the original story, they were wise women, or witches, and there were thirteen of them in the kingdom. The king only had twelve gold plates for them to eat off—witches being fussy, I suppose—so he decided not to invite one of them. When the thirteenth wise woman arrived at the christening, furious at being snubbed, she cursed the princess to prick her finger on a spindle in her fifteenth year, and die.”
“I remember,” said Heather.
“But the twelfth witch, she hadn’t had a chance to give her gift yet. Although she couldn’t undo the sentence of death …” Reave paused, his eyes abruptly far away. “She couldn’t stop the killing, the twelfth witch, but she could soften it.”
“To a hundred years of sleep instead.”
Reave nodded. “Your mother was like that good witch, lass. She softened things. She took some of the pain out of this world. Like a tiny piece of light in a forest of shadows.”
“And how long was she at Fiddler’s Mill?”
“I’m not sure I could say.” Reave turned away slightly, no longer meeting her eyes. “I didn’t keep an eye on her every movement.”
“But you were close?”
“We were friends.” Something in his tone made Heather’s stomach turn over. “She is—was—my oldest friend, I suppose. The only one who still thought of me, twenty years after Fiddler’s Mill. Her soul was too kind to just let me rot in prison without another thought. Every letter she wrote to me was out of the kindness of her heart—I never asked her to do that.”
“Did you know a woman called Anna Hobson while you were at Fiddler’s Mill, Michael?”
“Anna Hobson? Should I have?”
“She was a young woman who got involved in drugs when she was at the commune. She claims that she got pregnant there, and that the baby was taken from her shortly after it was born. Taken against her will.”
Michael Reave chuckled warmly. “Never heard of her. Doesn’t surprise me that people are making up strange stories about the place, though. What do you think, lass? Do you think that sounds at all likely?”
“I don’t know,” Heather said, unable to keep the sarcasm from her tone. “A lot of stuff I thought was pretty bloody unlikely now seems to be true.”
He nodded at that, conceding the point. Heather decided to try a different approach.
“Did she—did my mum believe you were innocent? Did she think you were a victim of a great injustice or something? Is that why she kept on writing to you?”
“She thought I was good. Knew I was good, I mean. The only person who valued me … In my whole life. Do you know what that’s like?”
Somewhere far above them, a seagull called. Heather pursed her lips, biting down her immediate reply, which had a lot of swear words in it and largely concerned the injustice of her mother’s loyalties. Colleen Evans had believed Michael Reave was good, apparently; had given him unwavering support through his years in prison. Colleen Evans had also watched her sixteen-year-old daughter walk out the front door and not come back; had let her relationship with her only child atrophy into something cold and weak. But it had never been too much effort to pick up a pen and write to her old friend, the Red Wolf.
“Michael,” she said quietly. “Do you have any idea who is killing these women? Do you know who is such a fan of your work? Any thoughts at all?”
Reave shrugged and shook his head, smiling slightly, as though Heather had made a particularly poor joke. Heather took a step forward, ignoring the tension in her own gut.
“How did you choose them? At least tell me that, Michael. Was it random? Or were you looking for something in particular? The person who’s taking them now—does he know what you were looking for?”
“I told your mother once that I was sentenced and found guilty years ago,” said Reave. His voice was soft, dangerous. “Long before any women died, long before I even left the place where I grew up. I was destined to be found guilty, because of who my family was, and what they did to me. Even he …” Reave stopped then, an unreadable expression passing over his face like a summer storm. Heather opened her mouth to ask who “he” referred to, but Reave continued. “I’ve been judged because of what they did to me, what they made me, and they’ll never see any blame for it.”
“Who? Who are they?”
He shrugged as if this didn’t matter. He gestured around at the dirty walls. “I’ve been trapped all my life. I told Colleen that once, and she tried to give me a way out, I think. It was her who showed me the sky, but here I am, stuck here, forever, even so. What I am isn’t my fault. And listen,” he turned back to her, his face stern. “I understand you wanting to know about your mother, but I’m no fool. You ask too much about other things, you’ll get yourself in trouble. I don’t want that for you.”
“What—?” Heather thought of the heart scratched into the terracotta pot, the sense she was being watched. What did Reave know about that, exactly? “Michael, what do you know? Am I in danger?”
He shook his head, not looking at her.
“Don’t go up there. There’s nothing for you, there. Don’t poke around in stuff that doesn’t concern you, lass.”
But DI Parker had stepped forward, lightly touching the back of Heather’s arm, signaling that today’s session was over. Later, as they walked back to the prison entrance, Heather found herself thinking about Michael Reave’s final words. They had only left her with more questions.
“What about his family? Are any of them still around?”
Parker shook his head. With another session over no closer
