Oliver couldn’t bring himself to look. The truth of it was too real, too terrible. Seeing wouldn’t help. So, he squeezed his eyes shut and kept a tight grip on his brother. It wasn’t until other hands prized his fingers off one by one that the instinct to look became too great. Finally, he opened them to find his mother kneeling beside them, the earth slick, squelching beneath her legs as she tugged Elliot from the hole.
‘What on earth!’
Oliver imagined a swear word to follow her statement. Instead, tears fell down her cheeks, gathering at her chin.
Elliot sat on the ground in front of him, soaked to his waist in sticky mud.
‘What were you doing?’ Nancy fussed over her son and pulled his feet free of a twisted vine knotted around his ankle.
‘Nothing.’ Elliot shook his head with the feeble word, but he said no more.
‘Bloody hell, you two. This place…’ The oak tree loomed overhead. ‘This place isn’t like a normal house, do you understand?’
Her boys were silent, but there was understanding there; she caught the look that passed between them.
‘I wasn’t doing anything wrong,’ Elliot finally said.
‘What were you doing then? Look at the state of the walking stick. What were you doing with it?’
‘Just… I don’t know. Just…’ His eyes fell back to his twin, where the unspoken words were visible.
Oliver sat, his now-empty hands still open, reaching out to his brother. A wild void sat behind Elliot’s eyes, staring past him towards the oak tree, the whites of his eyes glistened in the cold sunlight. As quick as a blink, he turned back to Oliver, full awareness on his features, a knowing deep behind his lashes. Elliot nodded. Oliver turned to see.
‘It knows,’ whispered Elliot.
Oliver jumped to his feet, fretting over the mud that had crusted over his knees. He started to walk back to the Priory, faster and faster until he was in a full sprint.
‘Oliver.’ He was too far away to hear. ‘Oliver, go straight to your room to change.’ His mum’s words fell in the air.
Nancy bent down, picking Elliot up. He wrapped his soggy legs around her waist; she squeezed as he wound his arms around her shoulders and rested his head on hers. The pain struck her chest with a savage blow as guilt washed over them both. She knew he felt it too. He hugged her tighter.
‘I’m sorry, Mummy. I didn’t mean to.’
‘Me too.’ She stroked his hair and trudged back towards the great door. ‘It’s okay now. You are okay? Nothing hurt?’
Elliot shook his head. Tears were strong, and no matter how he tried to brave them, he lost.
‘Love, it’s okay now, you’re safe. What were you doing?’
‘It—’ he mumbled, barely audible over the sobs.
Nancy stood him on the gravel, straightened his jacket over his shaking shoulders. She pressed her hands to his wet cheeks and stared hard. He was her boy, her firstborn. All the pain of the last months came crashing in as she saw Andrew stare back with those terrified eyes. She hadn’t known how to deal with it then. How was she to know now?
‘It— That—’ Elliot pointed back at where they had come.
‘What? The tree?’
†
Estelle was waiting in the entrance hall. Lizzie held a mop, ready to clean the muddy mess off the hall tiles. Estelle hadn’t noticed Nancy step over the threshold, tightly carrying Elliot. Nor had Oliver, who stood at the foot of the staircase, a hand poised on the polished rail, a foot raised to connect with the first rung. No one moved a hair as Nancy trudged new muddy footprints over the black-and-white floor, as Elliot sobbed in her arms.
Elliot stopped crying, the silence deafening to their ears.
‘Mummy?’ he trembled.
‘Love?’
‘You won’t let me go, will you? Please don’t put me down.’ He gripped her tighter.
Elliot buried his face in her neck. Tears trickled down her collarbone beneath her jumper. She walked farther in, making her way to the drawing-room entrance.
‘Whatever is the ma—’ Nancy knew. No one was moving. ‘Hello?’
‘Greetings, Nancy.’ The voice spoke with a soft calmness unfitting for Hardacre Priory. ‘And to you again, Elliot.’
Nancy clung to her boy, squeezed him so tight, she might never let him go.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Can I help you?’
A glance around the entrance hall made it clear that something was impossibly wrong. But she couldn’t quite gather her wits enough to think why Estelle, Lizzie, or even Oliver hadn’t noticed the stranger in the drawing-room doorway or why, as another glance clarified, they were motionless. Still.
Elliot yelped and buried his face deeper inside his mother's jumper. Nancy gazed around the space, searching for answers; Elliot caught sight of the stranger.
He squirmed. ‘Make him go away, Mummy.’
‘It’s okay, I have you.’ She placed a protective hand on his head. ‘What is it you want? Why are you here?’
‘I fear my visit is long overdue.’
She took a step forward, her foot firm on the floor. A crash from behind her made her swing around to find the mop had fallen from Lizzie’s hands. Estelle jumped and scolded Lizzie for making more mess as water slurped over the edge of the bucket. Oliver ran up the stairs like a shot from a gun.
Nancy turned back. The stranger was gone.
‘It looks like I may need to mop it again,’ Lizzie said. ‘Sorry, my lady.’
Estelle said nothing, nodded, and slowly paced towards the drawing-room.
Nancy stood by the fire. Elliot still firmly adhered to her, his arms tight about her neck, bony legs around her waist.
‘I didn’t see you come in,’ Estelle said.
Nancy said nothing, nor did she move. Her eyes were on the swords above the fireplace, then went higher to what lay above, mounted on the wall. Estelle was by her side, gently rubbing Elliot’s back as his sobs subsided.
‘You seem to have had quite a fright,’ Estelle said. ‘How are you now?’
Elliot nodded, wiping tears on his cuff.
‘How about you follow Lizzie upstairs? She will run you a warm bath and find you some fresh clothes.’
Elliot nodded again. Nancy put him down and gave him one last cuddle before she let him go. He appeared to be the only tangible thing in the room with her. If she let him go, maybe he would evaporate into a dusty corner too.
‘He’ll be fine, don’t worry. Children, boys especially, are more resilient than you think, maybe more than you or I.’
Nancy nodded her mouth a tight line. Any movement might have ended in tears. Estelle reached out her hand, without a sound, Nancy took it.
‘That has always been a conundrum,’ Estelle said.
‘What has?’
‘That up there.’
Above the crossed swords, engraved in the dark patina of the wood panelling, was a carving set in an oval frame.
‘Is that a coat of arms?’ Nancy asked.
‘No. This is why it has always held a point of contention with me. I remember arguing, shall we say, with my father. He always dismissed it. I just do not know…’ Estelle tilted her head, further observing the object in question.
The shadow of the deep beams cast most of its detail in murky shadow. As Nancy moved just a touch to her left, allowing the midday light to filter in, it became clearer. Mary, with her baby Jesus Christ sat at the centre.
‘My boys.’ She clutched Estelle’s hand, the portrait of a mother and a son so very raw that it jangled her nerves. ‘My sons aren’t safe here. Please don’t tell me that I’m overprotective.’
‘Those boys are strong. They are Hardacres.’
‘I know the evil here,’ Nancy insisted. ‘You can deny it as much as you like—that’s your prerogative, of course—but me? I’m not a Hardacre. Maybe that’s why I can see it, and you can’t.’
‘I worry that all this concern is far too much for you. Those boys will only suffer if you do not let them settle into their roles.’ Estelle was choosing her words far too carefully; Nancy could hear it.
‘Neither of my boys will be lord of this god-forsaken place. Over my dead body, Estelle.’
‘Neither was my son.’
‘Andrew didn’t want it,’ Nancy spat. ‘He saw it for the curse it was; you knew that. You were his mother. You must have seen how suffocated he felt here.’
‘I still am his mother,’ Estelle said calmly. ‘Perhaps he did. Perhaps he was too blind with love to see that he would always find himself here eventually.’
Closing her eyes, Nancy took deep breaths. It was the panic; she knew that. This place had always got under her skin. She’d never understood why no one else felt what she felt, saw what she saw.
‘Come.’ Estelle guided her to the settee. ‘Would you like some tea?’
Nancy shook her head.
‘Then we shall sit here for a while, let the events of this morning wash away. I know your pain. I feel it.’
Nancy was still holding Estelle’s hand. She didn’t want to let go. Somewhere in her normal behaviour, she would have immediately discarded the gesture, but with Elliot and the stranger… it was all just too much. She watched their hands. Hers had warmed a little from the blazing fire. Her fingernails caked in mud from digging her son out of the hole. She wouldn’t let her mind linger on it now—there’d be plenty of time for that in the night. As she let her mind settle, she realised this was the first time she and Estelle had ever touched. Lady Hardacre had never been the touchy-feely kind when Nancy had arrived, and Nancy had walled herself into her private prison of grief. Only Oliver made it through. The guilt struck hard once again—the sight of Elliot, the panic on his face. Nancy could still feel the shaking… No, it was Estelle.
She patted the top of Nancy’s hand with her other and lay her palm there. She trembled a little, not a shiver or judder but more a vibration that gathered momentum and travelled up her arm. Nancy withdrew, though not entirely—her fingertips still rested in Estelle’s palm. She leant a little closer, placing her hand on Estelle’s cheek. She pulled away as soon as her fingertips touched the wrinkled flesh. A resemblance to alabaster was all she could summon. Cold.
‘Forgive me,’ Nancy said. ‘Please, I meant nothing by it.’
‘My dear, there is nothing to forgive. The sight of me must have conjured many an inquisitive thought over the years.’ She folded her fingers over Nancy’s hand once again.
Maybe she’d never been close enough to pay attention or even allowed herself to think about it. In truth, Nancy hadn’t given it much thought until earlier today. Blind in her determination to have what she wanted, she never looked at those affected by her actions. She shook her head, ashamed.
‘Did I ever tell you about the night Andrew was born? No, of course, I have not. We have never been ones to cluck over baby photographs or the family albums, now, have we?’ Her mind seemed to wander as she mumbled to herself, ‘No, I do not know where they are.’ There was a smile at the side of her lips, but her sadness struck Nancy more. It lit her eyes with a clarity that sat at odds with her disfigured face.
‘I owe you an apology, Lady Hardacre.’
‘Oh, do come on. You have never held with titles, even that day you stepped through the great door. Never had I encountered a will as strong as yours. Neither, it seems, had Andrew.’ The smile grew full. ‘I am surprised you ever made it up the drive, to be brutally honest. Not once was a soul like yours allowed so close.’ Estelle laughed; a sound that hadn’t been heard within the Priory’s walls for decades.
As the ring of amusement and mirth, no matter how uncertain, left Lady Hardacre’s lips, the walls took what they needed, let the unusual sensation reverberate up to the rafters, bleed into the plaster and wood panelling.
However, it had heard too. The sound, more than an enticement, fuelled its craving.
The noon sun swept its chill deeper in through the stone casement windows, and the shadows slowly rose to meet it. Unnoticed at first, invisible. Haemorrhaging from the floor in soft wisps, gathering in creepers that twisted and coiled, crawling along the floor to meet its bait. It inspected Lady Hardacre, its gracious host, but it was tired of this game.
It was time.
Confused, Nancy gazed at Estelle, whose laughter still rang in her ears despite the sorrow that sat low on Lady Hardacre’s motionless lips. Nancy couldn’t unravel the moment, the reasons behind the slowness of her brain.
‘I am so deeply sorry, my dear. Shall we get you to your room? A little lie-down will bring some colour back to those cheeks.’
Nancy saw Estelle’s lips move, though the voice seemed to come from another time, another place. All energy escaped her. Limp and heavy, her legs crumbled. She wanted to see her boys.
‘I shall get Lizzie to make some camomile tea to ease your nerves. What a morning you have had.’
Estelle was no longer beside her. Nancy tried to look around the room, but instead, her head lolled on her shoulders. She found herself being carried from the drawing-room. Heavy as lead, her eyelids shut. She rested her head closer to the figure that held her, felt the rise of every step, one steady after the other in a seamless procession until they reached the gallery landing. Desperation pulled at her eyelids to open but to no avail. So instead, she moved her head slightly, her ears pricked and alert. It would be here. This was the spot by the old, carved chair—she had counted the steps along the landing. Fresh panic set into her chest, she breathed, a musky note filling her lungs that struck her heart with an old arrow.
‘Andrew?’
The arm squeezed her a little in reply. ‘Rest.’