Throughout that winter morning, I had a crash course in hunting.
I learned when to hang back, and when to press forward. When to follow a line, when to check. I even began to interpret the call of the hounds – the keen, bloodthirsty baying of a trail found, and the whining complaint of a scent lost.
I barely got to see Nel and Shafeen, separated as we were by the field, and could communicate only in shaken heads and shrugs. But even from these vague mimes I could tell, with a sinking heart, that neither one of them had seen Ty. And of course it was pretty tricky to identify anyone, as we were all wearing basically the same thing. I thought again of The Thomas Crown Affair when all the decoys wear bowler hats and it’s impossible to pick out the real Thomas Crown. Equally, I saw very little of the Medievals. Esme complimented me, with her trademark insincerity, on how I looked in my riding gear. Cookson once held a gate open for me and touched his hat ironically with his crop when I thanked him. But other than that, there was no real interaction until lunch, and of the one person I really wanted to see, there was no sign.
We all stopped for lunch at this beautiful little medieval pub on the Longcross grounds called the Trip to Jerusalem. It had lots of crazy beams and a sign with a crusader wearing the cross of Saint George – presumably this was the original baddie in this particular screenplay: Conrad de Warlencourt. We all dismounted and gathered in the pub courtyard. A legion of grooms appeared out of nowhere to rub down the horses and give them bran mash and water, while we all trooped inside for sandwiches and beer.
I sat with Shafeen and Nel, well away from the Medievals and the twins. I still liked Cass and Louis, but as they were all sitting together, we swerved that table completely.
It was too loud for much conversation, but when I did manage to say, ‘I haven’t seen Ty all morning, have you?’ they both shook their heads. We ate our sandwiches, grim-faced. Plenty of people, either covertly or overtly, had something to say about Shafeen’s ‘ill-mannered’ riding, so that didn’t exactly improve his temper, but the mood among the rest of the Longcross hunt seemed pretty buoyant. Spirits were high, spirits were drunk. As far as I could tell, we’d just had what passed for a great morning’s sport. They were all talking over each other and laughing, and getting louder and louder, to the point where it was actually a relief to get back outside into the cold afternoon.
But as the afternoon wore on the mood changed.
It was getting dark. Heads and tails down, hounds truffled in the undergrowth. A mean, mizzling rain began to fall and riders pushed cold hands into their riding coats, turned up collars against the wind and took out their silver flasks for a restorative chug of brandy. Nel, Shafeen and I took shelter in a little spinney of trees, enjoying the spectacle of the hunt disintegrating. Now our moods swapped over from what they’d been at lunch. We grew more cheerful, the rest of the hunt more despondent. ‘D’you think Ty just screwed them over with a crazy trail? You know, just went round and round like Mr Messy until they didn’t know which way was up?’
‘I dunno,’ said Nel. ‘Good for her if she did though.’
‘Well, whatever she did, I hope she’s OK,’ said Shafeen.
And then, as if summoned, a figure emerged from the undergrowth like Will Smith in Aladdin, and suddenly Ty was in front of us. Even the placid Sweetbriar flinched at the red figure and skittered on the mossy ground, and I had to really hang on to her reins.
‘Jesus, Ty. Are you OK?’ I wanted to lean down and hug her, but I probably would’ve fallen out of my saddle.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’
To be fair, she looked fine. She was on foot in her red onesie and we were on horseback in posh hunting gear, but somehow she was the more powerful. ‘Has it been all right? No one’s hurt you?’ asked Shafeen.
She flashed a grin. ‘Not yet.’
‘Why didn’t you call?’ asked Nel. ‘You just … stopped communicating.’
‘They took my phone,’ Ty replied briefly.
‘What?’ we chorused.
‘That is … I don’t know for sure,’ she backtracked. ‘Cass saw me using it, and she seemed cool at the time. But the next day it was gone from my knicker drawer, and I haven’t seen it since. My mum will skin me.’ Suddenly she was like the old Ty.
‘My dad will sort you out with a new phone,’ said Nel comfortingly. ‘But we did what you asked. We found out about Foxes.’
‘Me too,’ said Ty, serious again. ‘I found out all about them. But listen – you guys have to let this play out.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Nel.
‘Hang back,’ she said. ‘Stay out of the way. Everything’s chill.’
‘What’s chill?’ I asked.
‘No time now.’
‘Can’t we help?’ Shafeen offered.
Ty seemed to think about this. ‘If you want to help, tell them the hounds picked up a scent in Acre Wood. You got that?’
‘Acre Wood,’ I repeated.
‘Gotta go,’ she said, and began to recede into the trees.
‘Ty,’ I blurted.
She turned back for a moment. There were so many things I wanted to say. Be careful. Stay alive. We’re with you. But instead I said, ‘Your mum says hi.’
For a moment her face crumpled. Then that familiar look of stubborn resolve replaced the sadness, and she was gone.