by Emma Rous
“They’re nice people,” I said. “It does feel like home now, I have to admit.”
“Hmm.” She looked as though she might say something disparaging, but she must have thought better of it. “Well, that’s good. It all worked out for the best, then.”
She reached forward for her teacup, and there was something about her profile—the line of her jaw, the lowering of her eyelashes—that reminded me suddenly, quite overwhelmingly, of my mother, her sister. Raven Hall had gradually softened my grief, like a layer of new life growing over a raw tree stump. Caroline’s unwelcome presence ripped that protective layer away and reminded me forcefully of the life I’d lost. In that moment, I hated her for it. I’d rather have been left completely alone in the world, I thought, than have her as my aunt.
I grabbed my own teacup and made an effort to bring my emotions under control. Caroline was grieving too, I reminded myself. Although she’d never been particularly interested in my brother and me, I’d seen photos of her and my mum together when they were growing up—they must have been close at some point.
“You’ve spilled tea on your skirt.” She eyed me sternly. “I do hope you’re behaving yourself here, Beth. The last thing I need is to hear they don’t want you anymore.”
Heat rose to my cheeks, but I met her gaze without flinching. “They seem to like me well enough. They say I’m part of the family now.”
It was Caroline who looked away, then, although whether her conscience pricked her or she was merely growing bored, I couldn’t tell. I waved her off soon afterward, but the weight of her words added to the usual pressure I’d grown used to: I was still an outsider. I had to be on my best behavior, all the time.
It was a few weeks after my birthday, when I’d been living at Raven Hall for eight months, that something changed my perception of my position there. It came about because Nina got a part in the school play, and her rehearsals went on well into the evening as the performance night drew closer. Leonora and Markus took pity on me and offered to send two taxis for us, just for those few dates. So I was back at Raven Hall, without Nina, when Jonas knocked on the door late one afternoon.
We strolled around the lake, talking about everything and nothing. I glanced sideways at him frequently, wondering what was going through his mind. Would he tell me again that he liked me? Should I tell him that I liked him? A short way past the old tree stump, he came to a sudden halt by a little stone beach, and I carried on for a couple of steps before swinging around to face him.
“What?”
“Let’s swim.”
I laughed. “No way, Jonas. It’s not even April yet. It’ll be freezing.”
He gestured at his short-sleeved T-shirt. “It’s fine. Practically summer.”
“You’re crazy.” But I followed him down to the water’s edge, and I watched him undress, my pulse jumping.
“Come on, scaredy cat,” he said, and he plunged into the green-black water, splashing wildly and yelling at the shock of it. My heart raced. Could I bear it? But could I bear not to join him? Quickly, I tugged off my school skirt and jumper, and I took a running leap.
I was swallowed into a different world. I hung there, staring sightlessly into the water, unable to move. No air in my lungs, no gentle spring sunshine on my skin, no background chirrup and rustle of life. I waited for something to happen as the tightness in my chest grew.
“Beth!” Jonas was shaking me, and suddenly the sky had returned, and I could breathe again. “Bloody hell, are you okay?”
I made a supreme effort to move my fingers, my arms, my legs, and I felt my blood start moving again.
“I hate you,” I said to him. And then I laughed. “I told you it was too cold.” I kicked away from him and felt warmth flood back into my body as I swam clumsily farther away from the shore and then back again.
We clambered out, teeth chattering, and Jonas’s face was unusually serious. He insisted on my replacing my own soaked blouse with his dry T-shirt, turning away as I made the switch. Then he wrapped his arms around me.
“I admit,” he said, “that was maybe a bit stupid of me.”
And then we were kissing, just like that. As if it were the most natural ending to our first swim of the season. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Later that evening, when Nina came home, she tapped on my bedroom door. I was already in my pajamas, sitting in my bed. She came in, full of gossip about the rehearsal, her costume, the makeup she was planning to wear. It took her several minutes to ask me how my afternoon alone had been.
I hesitated, and it was in that fraction of a second that I realized—I wasn’t dependent on Nina for my happiness; I didn’t need her approval of everything I did. I was fifteen now, and the adult world was within touching distance. Suddenly, I knew I had a future ahead of me, with or without the support of the family at Raven Hall.
“Oh, Jonas called round,” I said, “so we just went for a walk around the lake.”
Nina stilled. “And?”
I pulled a face. “And nothing.”
She went off to her own bedroom soon after that—to her round Rapunzel room in her fairy-tale tower. But as she passed my empty laundry basket on her way out, she glanced into it—so fleetingly, it wouldn’t have registered if I hadn’t had a guilty conscience.
I waited until the next morning—until the last minute, as our taxi was turning onto the driveway and heading toward us—to scurry back up to my room, claiming I’d forgotten my math homework. I snatched my damp clothes from under my mattress and dropped them into the laundry basket, hoping the daily cleaner wouldn’t comment on their state. Jonas’s T-shirt I’d already washed by hand in the bathroom next door and dried on my bedroom radiator. I sat in the taxi and plotted how soon I could return his T-shirt and see him again.
I did feel guilty about keeping a secret from Nina, when up until now we’d shared everything, but I also felt—powerful. Independent. Strong. For the first time in my life.
Unfortunately, that feeling didn’t last. Events at Raven Hall had no regard for my blossoming love life. It was only a few weeks later, on a Saturday, when I was skipping into the house after a brief secret rendezvous with Jonas, that Leonora called me into the drawing room.
“Oh, Beth,” she said. “There you are. I’m afraid I need to ask you a favor.”
I hovered in the doorway, my heart sinking. “Yes?”
Her gaze ran over my hair and down to my new sandals, and I stiffened—had I failed to straighten my clothes after kissing Jonas so passionately just now? How much did Leonora know? But I discovered her mind was on another subject entirely.
“Markus’s father has announced a surprise visit, Beth. He’ll be here in a few hours. And poor old Nina’s feeling unwell again, and—well, now that he’s met you, it would be so hard to explain anyway, and . . . Beth, we need you to play the game again.”
Sadie
January 2019
Sadie is ridiculously relieved to find the other guests still sitting around the dining table as if nothing has happened. Nothing has happened, she reminds herself sternly. It’s an old, creaky house; you have to expect odd noises now and then. She returns to her seat, and Nazleen breaks off midsentence to ask her if she’s feeling better. Sadie nods briskly, and as she picks up her spoon, Zach leans closer.
“You missed the speech about the evening’s clues being at an end,” he murmurs.
“Uh-huh.” Sadie pushes her lychee aside and scoops up a spoonful of mango and cream.
“And now we’re getting the legend of Raven Hall,” he says. “It’s very rich, isn’t it?”
It takes Sadie a moment to realize his second statement refers to her pudding. She nods and sets her spoon back down.
“Ah, perfect timing,” Nazleen says. “Here comes the coffee.”
The trolley clatters and clanks as the waiter wheel
s it into the room, and the rich aroma lifts Sadie’s mood instantly. She sits up straighter, admiring the tall coffee jugs and the dainty china cups and saucers. The waiter turns and nods stiffly at the photographer, like a prearranged signal, and the photographer approaches Nazleen discreetly and dips her head. She murmurs something about the roads icing over, and Nazleen waves a gracious hand.
“Of course,” Nazleen says to her. “I’ll take it from here.”
As the two staff members hurry away, Nazleen stands and pours coffee for all of them. Sadie declines cream, but she drops a granular brown-sugar cube into her cup; she doesn’t normally take sugar, but this evening, she feels a need for it.
“So,” Nazleen says, taking her seat again. “Yes. The legend of Raven Hall. Let me begin by asking you, ladies and gentlemen—have you ever felt desperately, horribly, painfully lonely?”
The gentle noises of the room—clinks of spoons against china, soft coughs, slurps of coffee, and murmurs of appreciation—all fade to silence. Sadie focuses on the delicate handle of the espresso cup in front of her, sensing that the others, too, are avoiding eye contact. She curls her fingers around the cup, using the heat from the china to drive away the ache she feels from missing her mother. When Nazleen speaks again, her voice is lower, as if she knows for certain she has their full attention.
“Well, pity the poor spirit in my tale, then. It’s just a shadow now, a faint shimmer in the corner of your eye, a haze of memories and longing and loneliness . . . but it’s real.”
Sadie lifts her gaze to Nazleen. Their hostess has a printed sheet of text in front of her, but she doesn’t appear to be reading directly from it; she must have rehearsed this thoroughly. Sadie tries to focus on the professionalism of the delivery, rather than the pathos of the story. But despite her determination to remember this is all just part of a game, she leans forward over the table, willing Nazleen to continue and wanting to know more about this supposed ghost.
“This poor spirit is all that’s left,” Nazleen says softly, “of a once-happy family that lived here at Raven Hall a long time ago. But betrayal struck at the very heart of the family, and it was torn apart, ripped apart . . .”
Sadie holds her breath. How much truth is behind this tale? Does it relate to the reason the house was abandoned in the late 1980s?
Nazleen gestures toward the curtained windows. “If you take a stroll around the lake here, around Avermere, you might just glimpse this spirit. But only ever at dusk, in those eerie few minutes when the sun is slipping behind the horizon, and the world is shifting into darkness. That’s when it appears.” Her voice grows louder. “It rises out of the lake, out of Avermere. And it drifts up to Raven Hall, slowly, slowly. And it presses itself against the windows, like a breath of mist against the cold glass, peering in with its hollow eyes, peering . . . peering . . . desperate for one last glimpse of its lost, destroyed family . . .”
Sadie’s heart races. And then what happens? Is the ghost inside the house, now? Roaming around upstairs, watching guests explore where they shouldn’t?
“But,” Nazleen says sharply, “here it meets the ultimate betrayal. Raven Hall refuses our poor spirit entry. No matter how desperately it scratches at the windows, rattles the mail slot, moans down the chimneys . . . Raven Hall is heartless; it won’t let our spirit in. And so it continues, night after night, rising at dusk, roaming around the stone walls, searching, searching for a crack or a gap it can enter through—listen!”
Sadie strains her ears, certain that the other guests must be doing the same, but the noise that erupts isn’t outside the window; it’s across the table. Mrs. Shrew is stifling a cough—or could it even be a sob?—with her napkin.
Joe shoves his chair backward sharply. “Okay, that’s enough!” He makes a visible effort to compose himself. “I think we’ve heard enough for one night, thank you. Shall we take our coffees through to the drawing room, and . . .” He glances at Nazleen, and his expression slides from apology to concern. “Are you okay?”
Nazleen doesn’t look okay; if anything, she looks more distressed than Mrs. Shrew. For a moment, Sadie wonders if Joe’s interruption has offended her, but then Nazleen moans quietly and curls forward over the table, until strands of her dark hair rest in her almost-empty dessert bowl. Joe starts toward her, and Sadie and Everett both rise to join him, but Nazleen straightens again and waves them away.
“I’m so sorry.” Nazleen sounds embarrassed. “I actually don’t feel very well at all. I think I’ll go up to my room, if you don’t mind.” She stands without help, but she looks a little hunched as she walks to the door, as if in pain. Before she leaves the room, she turns back to them with a strained smile. “Please, do take your coffees through and sit by the fire. Breakfast at eight, don’t forget. I’ll see you in the morning.”
The six guests gaze wide-eyed at one another as Nazleen’s footsteps fade up the stairs. Then Sadie grabs her coffee cup and indicates the door.
“Shall we?”
Zach accompanies her across the hall and into the drawing room. Everett shuffles close behind, and Sadie doesn’t begrudge him grabbing the armchair nearest the fire. He’s certainly the oldest in the group, and he’s looking pretty tired. Mrs. Shrew comes in soon afterward, and she heads to the far corner of the room, where she perches on a chaise longue as if not planning on staying for very long.
“It was probably the pudding,” Zach says to Sadie in a low tone. “Don’t you think? Nazleen ate all of hers. It was very rich. I didn’t eat all of mine . . .”
Sadie pulls a noncommittal face; she’s watching the door, straining her ears for the other two guests. Where have Joe and Genevieve got to? She feels unsettled without Nazleen’s presence, as if the whole evening might unravel now that their hostess is feeling ill.
A minute later, Joe makes his entrance. He carries a glass of water, and he takes it straight to Mrs. Shrew. Zach spots a deck of cards on one of the many occasional tables, and he asks Sadie if she wants a game, but she shakes her head.
“I might just sit for a bit,” she says, her hand drifting to her abdomen, “and let my food settle.” Her stomach feels delicate again, and she’s growing increasingly convinced that something she’s eaten tonight has disagreed with her. Each time the nausea stirs, she thinks uneasily of the story line of the game—the toxic substance that supposedly killed their host. She sinks onto a velvet armchair and wonders how soon she can head up to bed.
Finally, Genevieve appears in the doorway, and she looks upset—her face is pale, her dark eyes enormous. She clutches a long fur coat against her chest, and she doesn’t come into the room. Sadie glances at Joe—did he say something to her out there to distress her? But Joe looks just as surprised and concerned as the rest of them. Genevieve clutches the fur coat tighter against herself, and she rushes to give her own explanation.
“I don’t feel very well either, I’m afraid. I’m, erm—I might go outside and get some fresh air.”
Zach sounds triumphant. “I told you it was the pudding. She ate a lot of hers too.” The others ignore him.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Sadie asks, but she’s relieved when Genevieve shakes her head.
“No, no.” Genevieve forces a smile. “I’ll be fine. It’s freezing out there; you stay indoors.”
They listen as her heels clack away down the hall, and the front door slams.
“And then there were five . . . ,” Zach says.
“Please be quiet, Zach.” Sadie hurries to the window and pulls back the curtain, and she watches Genevieve, now wearing the coat, march away—across the little pool of light on the gravel and into the darkness. Her further progress is indicated only by a thin beam of white light from the torch on her phone. Behind Sadie, Joe clears his throat, and he joins her at the window, peering over her shoulder just as Genevieve’s phone light flicks off and a tiny orange glow appears.
�
�She’s on the dock,” he says. “A quick cigarette and she’ll be straight back in; don’t worry. It’s bitter out there.”
Sadie lets the curtain fall back. “I’m not worried. Who says I was worried?”
Joe makes a placatory gesture. “I just meant—”
Sadie turns away, and she sees that Zach is shaking Everett’s arm.
“Dad? Dad!”
Everett blinks awake, and he mumbles a denial.
“Everyone’s feeling ill, Dad,” Zach says, and he adds in a smaller voice, “Even me.”
Everett sits forward and glares at Sadie and Joe, as if it might be their fault. Sadie’s tempted to suggest Zach’s symptoms might be alcohol related, but she bites her tongue.
“Well,” Everett says. “Not vomiting? No? Milk of magnesia, then, and sleep it off.” He eases back in his chair and pats his stomach through his purple waistcoat. “Too much of the fine stuff.” He chuckles. “It was worth it, though.”
Mrs. Shrew rises without even glancing in Everett’s direction.
“I shall retire to bed myself,” she says, “and hope we all feel better in the morning.”
She waves away Joe’s offer of help and leaves the room. Sadie looks at her remaining three companions, and a sudden thought makes her return to the window.
“Both the cars are gone,” she says.
“What?” snaps Everett. “Has that young filly driven off and left us?”
“Not Genevieve,” Sadie says. “They were already gone when she went out.”
Joe’s tone is tense. “They must have been the staff’s cars. The chef and the waiter and the photographer—they all went home a while ago, didn’t they?”
Sadie fails to suppress a swell of panic. The seven of them arrived in chauffeur-driven luxury. Now they’re stuck out here, in the middle of nowhere, with no phone signal, no transport, and they’re all feeling unwell . . . And then her heart lurches with a greater shock, and she leans closer to the glass, searching for, and failing to find, either a white light or an orange glow.