by Anna Romer
Readers love Anna Romer
Praise for Lyrebird Hill
‘Brooding and mesmerising, this is an absorbingly written and richly atmospheric novel combining suspense, intrigue and mystery’ – Book Muster Down Under
‘Beautifully written, richly characterised and intricately plotted, Lyrebird Hill is one of those books that draws you in and doesn’t let go . . . I read it in one sitting. It captivated me, held me in its thrall’ – Write Note Reviews
‘An absorbing and atmospheric tale, beautifully told’ – Book’d Out
‘A real page-turner by one of our favourite authors’ – New Idea
Praise for Thornwood House
‘Packed with tension, intrigue, suspense, romance, Aboriginal folklore, the quaintness (and peculiarities) of a small town and hidden truths. I can’t recommend this book enough! – The Australian Bookshelf
‘An impressive debut from Anna Romer . . . I will definitely be picking up her next book.’ – Book’d Out
‘A truly captivating and haunting read, Thornwood House made me dig out one of my favourites, Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier, another gothic tale of obsession and secrets . . . It made me want to read another book by Anna Romer. Soon.’ – Write Note Reviews
To my mum Jeanette, for your wisdom and kindness, and for always believing in me
The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.
Joseph Campbell
Such a clever, golden-haired girl. Sandy freckles danced on her cheeks, and her watchful eyes were as dark as the wild kelp that grew beyond the shore.
‘Found in a seashell,’ the fisherman claimed.
The Queen clasped her hands to stop them trembling. A child washed up on the beach, all alone in the world, in need of a mother; and she, the Queen, with empty arms and a heart that ached to be filled.
—The Shell Queen
1
Bitterwood, 1931
With infinite care, he lifted her into his arms and staggered through the dark house, out into the garden. She weighed almost nothing, as though her living soul had been the only thing giving her substance.
Treading heavily across the grass, he went downhill towards the orchard, through the weeping mulberry trees she had loved. The stars were brilliant, the garden black with shadows. When he reached the leafy hollow where the icehouse lurked unseen, he paused, breathless.
Drinking in the night air, he blinked to clear his eyes, clutching her to him, wishing he could turn back time, wishing . . . But no, he would not let his mind revisit what he had done. Later, in the dusty quiet of his room, among his books and familiar things, he would crumble. But not here, not now.
The trees around him blurred, the sea breeze blew icy on his cheeks. He pressed his lips to her forehead, a familiar, comforting gesture – but the chill in her skin, the clammy stickiness of sweat and blood, and the vague dark odour of death brought the realisation crashing down.
He had lost her.
The linchpin that held the fragments of his world together, the singular ray of hope in his grey life; she was gone. He could only blame himself. He had tried to contain her in the prison of his love, but instead he had smothered her. He had wanted to keep her safe, protect her, give her the life he had envisaged for her, a good life. Instead, he had clipped her wings, stolen from her everything she held dear.
No one could know. If anyone asked, he would say she had moved on, gone back to her family. Returned to her old life, the life she had lived before him. The life he had always resented so bitterly—
A murmur drifted from the darkness. His breath came quick as he searched the pale smudge of her face in the moonlight. Shadows danced over her features, playing tricks with his mind. He prayed for a sign – another murmur, a whisper of forgiveness, the faint utterance of his name. Not that he would have heard it; the booming pulse in his ears was deafening. Minutes ticked away. His ears and eyes began to ache, so keenly alert were they, but still he could not move. The sound came again, clearer this time. Hope ebbed away. It was not her breath he had heard, not her whisper, merely the scratch of dry leaves along the brick path in the orchard.
Regathering her against him, he forced his numb legs to take one measured step after another. Slowly, he made his way through the darkness to the icehouse.
‘You’ll be safe now, my darling. I’ll be here to watch over you always.’
The keys were in his pocket. He fumbled them out and then somehow forced them into the lock. The door creaked, opening into deeper dark. A gust of damp billowed out, and with it came the smell of earth and stone, of air undisturbed for many years. Air that would, as of this night forth, remain undisturbed for many more years to come.
2
Melbourne, June 1993
Winter had arrived early. It was only five o’clock, and already the night sky had settled black over the city. Trams rattled across the junction, churning up a slipstream of chip wrappers and dust. The air smelled of diesel exhaust, and faintly of the ocean.
As the streetlights blinked on along Dandenong Road, I hurried up the footpath towards the Astor Theatre. On the bill tonight was a Hitchcock double feature. Rear Window I had seen a thousand times, but Rope was new to me. Critics deemed it Hitchcock’s masterpiece and I was abuzz to see it.
A short balding man in his sixties with a shaggy beard stood near the entryway stairs at the tail end of a queue. He wore jeans and a cardigan, and clutched a beaten old briefcase. The cold evening air had flushed his ears pink. I wanted to run to him, fling myself into his arms the way I’d done as a little girl, smother his round cheeks in kisses. Instead, I trod silently up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.
He whirled around and beamed, but then his face fell. ‘Lucy, you look terrible.’
I gave him a quick hug. ‘Thanks, Dad. It’s great to see you, too.’
He peered into my face. ‘Been getting enough sleep?’
‘It’s only jetlag. I’ll be fine.’
‘How’s Adam?’
I tried to sound cheery. ‘He called last night, he’s good.’
‘Has he changed his mind about joining you?’
I gazed along the street and forced a smile. ‘He’s flat out at work, otherwise he’d be here. Don’t worry, he’s still keen to meet you.’
Dad shook his head and sighed. ‘Why do I get the feeling there’s more to the story than you’re telling?’
I dug my hands into my pockets, thinking of the letter. It had been on my mind since I received it back in London a month ago. It was more a cryptic note really, hastily scrawled in my grandfather’s shaky hand. I have something for you, he’d written. It will explain everything, but I can’t post it . . . Any chance of a visit?
Now was not the time to tell Dad about it. There would be a row, and he’d try to stop me seeing the old man. I would tell him after, I decided. After I had visited my grandfather and learned what this mysterious ‘something’ was.
‘Missing him already, are we?’ Dad said.
Backtracking, I realised he was still talking about Adam. ‘Hmm,’ I said noncommittally, and then nudged his arm as we shuffled forward in the queue. ‘The place is packed. I hope we get good seats.’
Dad narrowed his eyes. ‘You sure you’re okay?’
‘Stop fussing.’ Regretting my sharpness, I tried to make amends. ‘How’s the new book?’
Dad brightened. Sliding a bundle of papers from his briefcase, he gave it to me. ‘Finally finished. I managed to turn a deaf ear to Wilma’s nagging today and get the ending written. I hope you like it.’
‘Wow, Dad.’ The letter and Adam both forgotten, I turned the manuscript over in my hands. Suddenly I wanted to be at home, curled in a comfy chair, a pot of scalding tea by my side
as I lost myself in the warped and wonderful world of my father’s latest creation. ‘Let me guess, Rumpelstiltskin?’
Dad nodded, latching his briefcase. ‘I couldn’t resist turning him into the love interest. He got a rum deal in the original. He helps a damsel in distress and then they weasel out of paying him.’
‘He wanted their firstborn,’ I pointed out.
Dad shook his head. ‘A deal’s a deal, Luce. If you can’t afford to lose, then don’t gamble.’
‘Trust you to tell the gritty side of the story.’
He scratched his beard, eyes twinkling. ‘The underdogs of the fairytale kingdom always get a bad rap. The so-called evil stepmothers and wicked witches, the trolls under the bridge – they were only doing what they thought was best. Tell me, why are baddies always so misunderstood?’
‘Umm,’ I bit back a smile. ‘Because they’re bad?’
Dad’s round cheeks glowed. ‘Everyone’s a hero in their own story. Even the crooks. They’re all struggling to get along in life, find a measure of happiness, just like the next guy.’
I couldn’t help smiling as we went up the Astor’s wide front steps into the entry foyer. I had missed our talks. London was on the other side of the world, and although Dad and I talked on the phone most weeks, the physical distance had brought back the hairline fractures in our closeness.
I hugged the parcel to my chest. ‘It’s good to be back.’
Dad gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘Things aren’t the same without you, kiddo. I’m glad you’re here, but the next month will fly. I wish you and Adam would move home.’
‘London is home for Adam.’
‘But not for you.’
‘It is now,’ I murmured, then instantly regretted how bleak my words had sounded. Dad seemed on the brink of commenting, but the queue progressed suddenly towards the ticket booth and, to my relief, the moment was lost. Our odd little silence reminded me that things between us hadn’t always been so sweet. We still skirted around certain topics – my grandfather, for instance – and we still knocked heads over my decision to live in London. For the most part, though, we were stable – all thanks to Dad’s stories. His publisher marketed his novellas for young adults, but he had fans of all ages, from five to ninety-five. He rewrote fairytales, turning the classics on their heads: a wicked Thumbelina who climbed into little boys’ ears and drove them to evil deeds, a kindly Bluebeard who locked himself in the cellar to escape his henpecking wives, Red Riding Hood as a shape-shifting villain. I loved Dad’s topsy-turvy world. My happiest moments were always those I spent bringing his twisted fairytales to life with pen and ink.
We had been a team for almost a decade, since I was seventeen. One day, cross with Dad after another of our rows, I had defaced one of his manuscripts with angry little sketches, which he later found. He’d begun to cackle and soon he was laughing full-belly.
‘You caught it,’ he marvelled, wiping his eyes. ‘Damn it, Lucy, you caught the ogre’s expression exactly. Talk about funny! And look at the prince’s feeble chin, it’s perfect.’
A few weeks later, his publisher called, asking to see a folio of my work. I had sketches from my art class at school, and other doodles I’d done in my textbook margins. To my surprise, they loved them. When Dad’s next book came out, his legion of young fans were overjoyed to discover it illustrated in full colour. That edition did so well the publisher commissioned me to illustrate the new editions for all Dad’s earlier books. Almost overnight, it seemed, my father and I had become a team. For the first time in years, we had common ground. The arguments petered out; our silences gave way to discussions about character sketches and colour palettes. Dad seemed to regard me through more appreciative eyes.
We bought our tickets and made our way up the grand staircase. We were early. The first film didn’t start for twenty minutes. Still time to settle ourselves, grab a bite to eat and locate our favourite seats.
‘Uh-oh,’ Dad muttered as we reached the upstairs foyer. ‘Here’s trouble.’
I followed his gaze. At first I didn’t recognise the striking young man on the other side of the circular balustrade. He was standing with a group next to the chandelier, and when he turned to acknowledge one of his companions, the light caught the side of his face.
My stomach knotted. Coby Roseblade had filled out in the past five years. His chronic skinniness was gone; he’d clearly been working out. The snug fabric of his pullover left just enough to the imagination to make any red-blooded girl’s mouth water. He’d cropped his hair short, which accentuated his broad cheekbones and square jaw.
‘What’s he doing here?’ Dad said.
I swallowed. ‘No doubt he’s come to see the double feature, like us.’
‘I’m sorry, Luce. If I’d known he was a Hitchcock fan, I’d have suggested we do something else tonight. Want to leave?’
I shook my head. ‘I was bound to run into him eventually. He wasn’t the reason I left, you know.’
Dad didn’t look convinced. ‘You realise I’ll have to go over and say hello.’
‘It’d be rude not to.’
‘You coming?’
‘Actually—’ I gazed around for a suitable excuse, and spied the queue of people at the kiosk. Digging out my wallet, I forced a bright smile. ‘I’ll get us both a choc top before they sell out.’
Dad looked back at me. His face softened. ‘Since Wilma’s not here to witness my depravity, you’d better grab a packet of chips as well.’
I stood in the kiosk queue for an eternity, fighting to control the butterflies swarming my ribcage, determined not to let my attention stray over to the group near the chandelier. My gaze didn’t wander, but my thoughts did. The first time Coby Roseblade declared he wanted to marry me, we were nine. He was a skinny freckle-faced boy, newly fostered and insecure, in need of a friend. I’d shrugged and told him, ‘Sure, why not?’ The second time he asked, five years ago, I’d been twenty-one. I’d made my feelings clear in the only way I’d known how: I packed my bags, and without explanation booked myself on the next flight to London.
I collected my chips and ice cream, relieved to see that my father had returned to our spot near the stairs. On my way back, a woman crossed my path. A tall, beautiful woman with sleek dark hair and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. She stopped abruptly in front of me, covering her shock with a smile.
‘Hey, Lucy.’
My stomach flipped. ‘Nina.’
She looked radiant. Her cheeks were rose-petal pink, her full lips stained dark red. She had always been striking, but in the five years since I’d seen her she’d transformed into a goddess.
‘I was hoping to run into you,’ she said warmly. ‘How long are you staying?’
‘Only a few weeks. I’m housesitting for one of Dad’s friends.’
Her dimples came out as she smiled. ‘A soon-to-be married woman,’ she said with a husky little laugh. ‘Who would have thought?’
I found myself smiling back. ‘Least of all me.’
‘I’m dying to meet him. Adam, isn’t it?’ She peered over my shoulder. ‘Is he here?’
I shook my head. ‘Still in London, I’m afraid. He works for Amnesty, and his hours are horrendous.’
‘What a shame. He sounds interesting.’
I shuffled my shoes. ‘Dad told me you finally set up your shop. How’s it going?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Remind me never to start a business again while the country’s going broke. I had a bumpy start, but things are slowly picking up. Thank goodness.’
‘I wish I could sew. Your clothes are amazing. I know you’ll do well.’
She seemed taken aback, her eyes suddenly shiny. We stood that way for a moment, as though unsure how to proceed. Then I took a breath.
‘How’re things with Coby?’
Nina hesitated, but then smiled and wrinkled her nose. On anyone else, the expression would have looked silly, but Nina Gilbert, my one-time best friend, managed to look even more adorable
. ‘We’re great, never better. He’s following Morgan’s footsteps into uni, a history major. I’m really proud of him.’ There was an uncomfortable beat, and then she leaned nearer and asked quietly, ‘Is it too weird? You know, that Coby and I hooked up so soon after you left?’
‘Maybe a little.’ Then I sighed. ‘Of course not. It’s not weird at all. Coby and I were never together, you know that. Besides, it was me who ran off.’
She brushed her fingers down my arm. ‘He misses you, Luce. So does Morgan.’
I tensed and drew back. A shadow crossed Nina’s beautiful face, and she smiled with such sadness that it tore my heart. I hadn’t meant to flinch away, to react so strongly to the mention of his name. Morgan, I thought bitterly. Coby’s foster father. The man who’d come between us in the end. I felt a shiver starting and rubbed my arms. Morgan’s role in my sudden departure for London might have been unintentional, but it didn’t make him any less to blame.
Suddenly, I wanted to tell Nina everything. The real reason I’d left, the real reason I’d stayed away for so long. The real reason I’d abandoned her and Coby, my two closest friends. I wanted to grab her by the hand and drag her out into the cold air of the street, and tell her the whole long sorry story.
‘How are you?’ I said instead.
Her smile was luminous. ‘Really good. Amazing, in fact.’ She moved her hand protectively to her midriff, and something made me glance down. She’d gained weight, I saw, taken a small step from the realm of voluptuous, into fleshier territory. But as I admired the sapphire–blue vintage dress that clung to her hourglass figure, I noticed how the folds under the bodice gathered delicately over her belly . . . her rather swollen belly.
‘Oh,’ I blurted.
Nina blushed – not the sort of harsh veiny redness that afflicted me, but a pretty flush of colour that danced lightly on her cheekbones.
‘Yeah, who would have thought? Me having a baby, insane isn’t it? A little girl,’ she added with a hitch of excitement. Patting her bulge, she smiled warmly into my face. ‘We’re thrilled. I’m so looking forward to holding her for the first time, can you imagine? And Coby’s really stoked, he’s—’