The Perfect Guests

by Emma Rous

  “Hold on, Wendy,” Sadie says. “I’m at Mum’s. The people are here to collect the last bits of furniture.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Wendy says. “I can wait.”

  Sadie greets the senior charity volunteer at the front door with an apologetic wave of her phone. “Sorry, just on a call. Are you okay to—?” She gestures toward the living room.

  “You carry on, my dear.” The woman gives her a sympathetic pat on the arm, and she and her assistant tug on their thick work gloves as they make a beeline for the sideboard.

  Sadie speaks into her phone again. “So, how much, then?” She listens to Wendy’s reply and laughs. “Seriously? For one weekend? Of course I’ll do it.” She hurries up the stairs, embarrassed to be overheard sounding so desperate for money, but relieved she’ll now be able to pay next month’s rent, and the month after, without a problem. “So, tell me everything. What does it involve?”

  “Well, I’ve got the actual invitation card right here.” Wendy sounds a little breathless. “I’ll forward it on to you. You’ll love it—it’s all embossed and everything. It says on the front, ‘You are cordially invited to play a Game at Raven Hall’ . . .”

  Downstairs, the charity workers load the last of Sadie’s mother’s furniture onto their van, and they close the front door softly behind them.

  She shouldn’t be here. But, oh, how she’s missed her beloved Raven Hall.

  She hurries up the driveway, on full alert, prepared to be challenged at any moment. She used to feel so proud of this long, open approach—the way it shows off the grand beauty of the house to any visitor from a quarter of a mile away. But now, the lack of cover feels like a hostile security measure. No matter how tightly she wraps her arms around herself, or how low she shrinks inside her jacket, the new owner could glance from a window at any moment and spot her approaching.

  And what would they do if they knew who she was?

  As soon as she’s crossed the last drainage ditch, she veers off into the scrubby grass toward the side of the house, heading for the high wall that borders the back garden. She quickly passes out of sight of the front windows. Only someone peering down from the turret bedroom would be able to see her now.

  When she reaches the garden wall, she places her palms against its sun-warmed, wind-softened surface, and it doesn’t feel like stone at all; it feels almost like a living thing. Home, she thinks, have you missed me?

  But she can’t waste time being sentimental.

  She hurries alongside the wall and around its corner, and she smiles with relief to spot her beloved old tree house peeping out from among the leaves at the back of the garden. A little farther along is the familiar curving branch that used to give her a route out into the fields to go looking for hedgehogs and badgers. Now she climbs up and over, dropping into the laurel bush on the inside of the garden wall. She wiggles through, scratching her face and hands, until she can see the lawn, and then the garden chairs, and then the back of the house itself. Her gaze skitters from window to window, and back down to the veranda, but the only living creature in sight is a small white, fluffy dog, apparently asleep, just outside the open French doors.

  Slowly, cautiously, she creeps along the garden’s border, ducking behind bushes, parting branches, and keeping her gaze fixed on the back doors. The little dog lifts its head and scratches itself behind the ear, then settles down again, and she releases a shuddery breath. She finds a dry spot behind a red robin bush and checks the view across to the back of the house, and then she settles in to wait.

  Beth

  July 1988

  Nina picked up one of my bags, and I grabbed the other, then trotted up the broad stone steps after her, through the front door, and into a huge wood-paneled hallway. I slowed my pace as I gazed around. The ceilings were twice as high as in a normal house, and old-fashioned portraits decorated the walls at regular intervals. The air felt cool after the July sunshine outside, and the house smelled of wood polish and lavender and safety. I peered left and right, but there were too many half-open doors and ornately carved side tables for me to work out what each of the many rooms could possibly be used for.

  “Come on,” Nina said, already halfway up the wide central staircase. “This way.”

  My bedroom was up one floor and facing the front of the house; I dropped my bag by the elaborately made-up double bed and hurried straight to the window. Caroline’s car was long gone. The driveway was empty. And there wasn’t another house to be seen, just fields and water channels and—

  “Is that your lake?” I asked. On the far side of the parking area, the grass sloped gently down to a band of feathery-headed reeds. Beyond this, an expanse of water sparkled hypnotically in the afternoon sunlight, silver on blue.

  Nina joined me at the window. “Yes. Avermere, it’s called. After my family, you know—the Averells.”

  I gave her a sideways look. “I thought your parents were Mr. and Mrs. Meyer.”

  “No, they’re Markus Meyer and Leonora Averell, actually. Mum says they always meant to get married; they just never got round to it.” Nina swiveled on her heel and studied me. “Were your parents married?”

  I blinked in surprise. “Yes.” I pushed away from the windowsill and retrieved both my bags, lifting them onto the bed and unzipping them noisily.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be nosy. I just—I wondered, you know, what happened to them, but Mum said I shouldn’t—”

  “A car accident.” I pulled my hairbrush from the first bag. “They were rushing my brother to hospital; he was having trouble breathing. It happened sometimes. They went through a red light, in front of a lorry.”

  “Oh, Beth.” Suddenly she was beside me, tugging my wrists to make me sit on the bed. “I’m so sorry. That must have been awful.” She gave me a moment to compose myself. “So you had to go into the orphanage?”

  “The children’s home. Yes.”

  “Your aunt Caroline didn’t . . . ?”

  I shook my head sharply. “She travels for her job all the time. She’s hardly at home at all, some months.”

  Nina put on a disapproving voice. “Wouldn’t even come in for a cup of tea.” She sounded so much like Leonora, I felt my mouth twitch despite myself.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Your parents’ inviting me here is like Caroline’s dream come true—she can stop coming up with excuses now. She’ll be driving home with a clear conscience.”

  “No more niece locked up in an orphanage.” Nina tilted her head. “Is it really that bad there? What’s it like?”

  I searched her expression. Did she really want to know?

  “They try to make it nice.” I sighed. “Some of the adults are lovely. But you can never relax for long; there’s always someone doing something . . .”

  Nina shifted on the bed. “Like what?”

  “Like—” I shook my head. “Like, there’s this boy who gets to visit his mum once a week—she’s like a drug addict or something. And when he comes back, he’s always really angry, yelling at us for tiny things. And we try to be understanding, you know, because it’s not his fault, but then he takes it too far. He smashes something, or last week he shoved his swivel chair out of his room, and it went down the stairs and hurt another kid. So they called the police, and he spent the night in a cell, and he’s younger than me . . .”

  “Oh, Beth.” Nina squeezed my hand. “Don’t cry. I’m sorry.”

  I swiped at my eyes. “Bet you wish you hadn’t asked now, hey?”

  But Nina looked stern. “No, not at all. You can tell me anything. We’re going to be best friends, aren’t we?”

  I blinked at her. “Really?”

  “Really.” A second later, she was back on her feet. “Come on. I know what’ll cheer you up. Follow me.”

  She was at the door before my mind had caught up. I glanced at my bags—shouldn’t I
unpack first? But Nina had said we were going to be best friends, and I wanted to hold on to that promise. I scrambled up and followed her.

  There was no sign of Leonora or Markus on our way out of the house, and I supposed that wasn’t surprising, considering how vast a mansion it was. I hurried to keep up with Nina, trotting across the gravel and down the grassy slope, until we reached a wooden dock and a little boathouse half-hidden among the reeds. Nina sprang down into a small blue-painted rowing boat, and it rocked alarmingly on the otherwise placid water. She looked up to where I hesitated on the dock, and she gave me an encouraging smile.

  “It’s perfectly safe,” she said. “Here, you sit at this end, and I’ll row first.”

  I glanced back at the house—were we allowed to do this without adult supervision?

  “Come on, Beth.” There was a crack of impatience in her voice.

  I did as she instructed, and within seconds she was unhooking us and pulling on the oars, and we were leaving the reeds behind us, carving our way through the glassy water. At the center of the lake was a small island, dense with brambles and stunted-looking trees. Halfway across to it, Nina made me swap seats, and she showed me how to dip the oars into the water, and how to synchronize my arms to keep us moving steadily toward the island’s stony shore.

  “You see?” she said. “You’re getting the hang of it already.”

  By the time we scrambled out into the island’s shallows, I was ready for a rest. We sprawled in the shade with our feet pointing at the water, and I gazed up at the cloudless blue between the branches and remembered that this was the first day of the summer holidays. Would I still be here on the last day, in six weeks’ time? I had no idea whether the adults had a specific time period in mind for my stay at Raven Hall, but I knew I’d rather be here than tiptoeing around Caroline’s apartment, or stuck back at the children’s home.

  I turned my head and squinted at Nina. Her arm was draped over her face, but she chose that moment to lift it off and look straight back at me.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  I was hot and sweaty, and had no energy left to skirt around the truth. “I was wondering why your parents picked me.”

  She said nothing, just watched me, waiting for more.

  “And,” I said, “I was wondering why you need a companion, anyway. What about your school friends? What about the kids in the village?” I’d spotted a group of teenagers messing around in the park in the last village we drove through before reaching Raven Hall. It could have been only a couple of miles away, not far to cycle.

  “I don’t go to school.” Nina allowed that to sink in, and then she added, “Not at the moment, anyway. I used to. And I might try it again, one day.”

  “Are you sick?”

  She grinned. “No. I just didn’t like the school much, so I talked Mum into letting me learn stuff from books at home instead. She treats me like I’m sick, half the time, so it didn’t take much persuasion.” Her face became serious. “I’m sorry; that was tactless. You said your brother was ill?”

  “Yeah, Ricky. He had cystic fibrosis.” I turned my head away. I didn’t want to talk about my family. “So, what about friends in the village?”

  Nina took her time replying. “I do know one boy, but he’s always busy in term time. He’ll come over this week, though, now he’s off school—you’ll see. Why are you frowning? Are you wishing you hadn’t come here?”

  “No!” I gave her an earnest look. “Honest, I’m not. I’m just—it was so nice of your parents to ask me; I guess I just wasn’t expecting it. Caroline says they were looking for a companion for you, and she’s going to sort out my going to live with her in the longer term, but—” I swallowed a sudden lump in my throat. “The thing is, I don’t think Caroline’ll ever be ready to take me on permanently. So . . .”

  “Then you can stay here as long as you like.”

  “But you don’t even know me yet.”

  Nina pulled a face, considering. “I know. But I’ve got a good feeling about you, Beth. Do you know what?”

  I shook my head mutely.

  Nina grinned. “We should swim.”

  And just like that, the conversation was over. She sprang up, slipped out of her shorts, and splashed into the shallows. The bottom of the lake fell away steeply, and within seconds she was swimming, heading away from me, before curving around and calling out my name. I hauled myself up and hovered at the very edge of the water, flinching as it lapped over my toes, sending goose bumps up my limbs.

  “It’s so cold!” I shouted.

  “Only at the start,” she called back. “Oh, come on, Beth. It’s amazing once you’re in.”

  And again, in response to that note of impatience, I gave in. I copied her by discarding my shorts, and then I waded into the weedy water, only just suppressing a shriek as the biting chill crept up my legs. And I discovered Nina was right. Despite the shock of the cold, it was invigorating to wash the sticky sweat from my skin—to hurl myself forward and feel the tingle of lake water on my shoulders, my face, my scalp, tugging at my hair and snatching my breath away.

  Gradually, my muscles warmed as we raced each other out into deeper water and back to the shallows. It was nothing like the chlorine-fumed swimming pool my dad used to take me to on Saturday mornings; this was slimy underfoot and smelled of swampy wildness. It was exhilarating.

  We stayed in until our fingertips wrinkled and the cold of the lake seeped into our bones. Then we pulled on our shorts and rowed back to the dock. The sun was already drying our hair and our T-shirts, and by the time we’d strolled back to the house, we’d warmed up again. When we reached the front door, Nina caught hold of my wrist.

  “Probably best not to talk about swimming at dinner.”

  I was surprised. “Why not?”

  “Oh, Mum’s a bit overprotective—she worries about me getting ill, you know. It’s ridiculous.”

  I pressed my hand over my stomach, remembering the mouthful of chilly water I’d accidentally swallowed. “Is the lake water dangerous?”

  Nina laughed. “No, it’s fine. Honest. It’s just—it’s easier not to mention it. Come on, I want to show you my bedroom. Best room in the house.”

  Again, there was no sign of Leonora and Markus as we jogged upstairs, and I hoped the faint damp patches we left on the hall floor would dry quickly. This time, Nina turned the other way on the landing, and she led me to a door at the very end of the corridor which opened onto another staircase. This rose in a spiral, and I realized we were inside the turret. At the top, she pushed open a heavy wooden door, and we stepped into a bright circular room.

  A high double bed with a curved headboard nestled against the opposite wall; its sheets and blankets were rumpled, scattered with ornately embroidered cushions. Clothing was strewn over the furniture, and books were piled everywhere, but something in my peripheral vision made me turn slowly, and I found myself gazing at row upon row of eerie faces, all staring unblinkingly back at me.

  They were like dolls, but animals. Furry heads with colored-glass eyes, their necks disappearing into the collars of waistcoats and ball gowns. A fox, a leopard, a badger, a walrus—there must have been two dozen of them at least, and every single one made the hairs on my arms stand on end. How did Nina sleep with all these unearthly creatures watching her?

  “My dad brings them back for me,” Nina said casually, “when he goes traveling. He goes diving sometimes, or climbing mountains. When I’m older, I’m going to go with him.”

  I turned my back on the nightmarish faces. “What about your mum?” I wasn’t sure myself whether I was asking if she went on her own travels or if she went with him.

  Nina shrugged. “She’d rather stay here. She says it’s a precious gift, this house. She doesn’t like to go away even for one night.”

  “Huh.” I strolled from one of the four
tall, arched windows to the next, pretending to admire the views of fields and drainage channels and the walled back garden. Really, I was buying time, puzzling through my feelings about this strange house and the intriguing, lonely-seeming girl behind me. No school friends, an overprotective mother, a sometimes-absent father—I could see why she might want a companion.

  “Beth?”

  I swung around. “Yes?”

  “Do you believe in fate?”

  I frowned, thinking of my parents and my brother; thinking of the lorry that had just happened to be crossing the junction when they shot through the red light.

  “No,” I said shortly.

  But Nina scrambled up from her bed and came to stand directly in front of me, and she caught hold of one of my hands.

  “I do. Mum says everything happens for a reason, and I think you came into our lives for a reason. I really do think we’re going to be best friends.”

  I couldn’t help but return her smile. “Yeah, well, that sounds good to me.” I glanced at the alarm clock on her bedside table. “But, um—can I have a bath before dinner? I feel a bit . . .” I picked up a lank strand of hair and dropped it again.

  Nina laughed. “I’ll show you where your bathroom is.”

  I followed her back down the spiral staircase with a cautious, unfamiliar sense of optimism unfurling inside me. Perhaps it was true—perhaps Nina and I might end up being best friends after all.

  Sadie

  January 2019

  Wendy is as good as her word, and the Raven Hall invitation is delivered to Sadie’s flat the next day, along with an incredibly chic old-fashioned suitcase with Sadie Langton printed on the luggage label. Sadie studies the front of the heavily embossed card: You are cordially invited to play a Game at Raven Hall. She flips it over to read the details: Chauffeur to collect you 5:00 p.m. Drinks in the drawing room from 7:00 p.m. Dinner and the Game to commence 7:30 p.m. in the dining hall. Beneath this is a handwritten line in looping blue ink: Thank you so much for agreeing to join us—it will be a weekend to remember!