Rose knew that she would never forget any of it. If she lived for a hundred years, she would never forget that she had been the horse’s faithful messenger, and had travelled with him through the winds of time to fight against evil and sorrow.
And win.
She had done it. If she hadn’t taken all the journeys into the past with Favour, and followed up all the clues, right back to their source, she would not have been there with Lilian when Ronald made his tragic mistake, and she would not have heard Leonora calling for help, stricken as Beth had been stricken.
Leonora was saved, and the annexe house was saved. The haunting was gone for ever, Rose was sure of that. The sad, tormented ghosts of Ronald and Beth, who had destroyed so much in the lives of those who came after them, were finally laid to rest.
The front bedroom was … a bedroom. Nothing more; but a lot nicer than most hotel rooms you would find at the English seaside, or anywhere else.
The drooping chrysanthemum on the bedspread was the right way up again. How, in the laws of science, could it have been different? Rose was beginning to think she had imagined it.
The cupboard door stayed shut. When you opened it, as Rose did from time to time, to make sure, the dampness had gone completely, and, with it, the hint of the rotten sea smell, the legacy of the fisherman’s jacket.
‘Know what? That cupboard smells all right now,’ she told her mother. ‘Remember, it used to be so damp?’
‘Well, the weather’s changed. It’s been dry for days.’
They were in the front garden, planting the two rose bushes that Rose had bought for her mother.
‘But there’s another thing about this house.’ This was the best and most astonishing thing. ‘You know that awful stain under the kitchen table?’
‘The one that looked like spilled paint?’
The one that looked like spilled blood. Because it was blood, spilled a hundred years ago.
‘All of a sudden, it’s gone,’ Rose said. ‘How do you explain that?’
‘Gloria must be using a new detergent. Oh Rose, I’m so glad we’ve got the annexe. We’re making more money this year, and people love it. I think you do now, don’t you? Remember how you turned against this house and imagined it was haunted?’
Mollie finished raking the earth round the roses, and stepped back to admire them, flowering a deep pink against the ivy-covered brick. ‘This is a good house!’ she proclaimed. ‘Nothing bad could ever happen here.’
If I could only tell you.
Rose knew she never could. She could never tell anyone about the horse; not even Ben.
His big race was only a week away. She wrote to wish him luck:
I hope you win the championship. I hope you run marvellously.
Love from your Running Mate.
P.S. Thanks for teaching me resuscitation. You’re right. It works.
There was still Mr Vingo.
The hotel was full for the weekend, and Rose did not get a chance to see him alone. He had to share his corner table with two singers from the musical show that was playing at the theatre on Newcome Pier, but when Rose put down his plate of fried plaice and mashed and peas, he said without looking up, ‘So you did it.’
‘Oh – you know.’
‘Of course.’ He picked up his fork and cut through the golden breadcrumbs into the pure white flaky fish. ‘You did well, Rose of all the world.’
After dinner, when Rose was in the garden putting the lawn chairs away, she heard music from Mr Vingo’s room. The singers were upstairs, and he was playing the piano. They were singing a duet from the musical at the theatre. But below and through and above their voices, Mr Vingo began to play the tune, the piano rising up above the singing like a soaring bird.
Holding a chair, Rose stood with her mouth open, staring at the turret window.
Again? Now, when it was all over, and she had got used to the idea of being ordinary once more?
She dropped the chair and turned towards the wood, towards the moor, towards the valley.
This time, as she plunged down through the mist, there were no lurking shadowy figures. The mist parted into a shining path before her feet, and she ran straight down to the bridge and the swift flowing river.
The horse waited for her, his beautiful head turned towards the far distant huddle of white shacks at the end of the valley, where the tiny boats rode on the white-capped sea. Before, she had always shrunk back before his gaze, and glimpsed herself in his challenging eye very small and afraid. Now, as he turned his head, she stood up straight and looked full into his deep grey eye and saw herself mirrored there, erect and proud and confident.
Ready for his next command.