AS HAS BECOME HER HABIT, Lily looks in on Ronnie on her way down to breakfast. This time, though, instead of lying silently in bed, Ronnie is fully dressed, standing by the window. Lily joins him.
‘Aunt Liliana would call it pathetic fallacy,’ Ronnie says. His voice is monotone, as flat as the pane of glass between him and the freezing fog that haunts the grounds.
Lily can’t see the woods, or any trees at all. Everything is a mystery in white. ‘Is that how you feel?’ she asks. ‘As if you’re covered in mist?’
Ronnie nods. ‘Numb. Like there’s nothing in front of me.’
Lily nods. ‘I understand,’ she says. She tentatively places a hand on Ronnie’s shoulder. He doesn’t shrug it off, which is a start. ‘Do you feel up to coming down for breakfast?’
He hesitates. That’s also a good sign. Then he nods. Even better.
‘Take it easy,’ Lily says. ‘You can come back up any time you want.’
‘I’ll come,’ he says. ‘And then I’ll ask Mrs Castle to drive me to see Philippa. I put on the suit she gave me. I thought she’d like to see it on.’ He shyly strokes the lapels of his lilac suit.
‘Oh, Ronnie,’ Lily says. She has to tell him. It’s not fair to lie to him like this.
‘But I have to ask you something first,’ Ronnie says.
‘Ask away,’ Lily says. She is glad of the brief reprieve, and hates herself for it.
‘And you have to answer me honestly.’ His Labrador eyes look so sad. ‘You promise?’
‘I promise.’
Ronnie takes a deep breath. ‘Why are you really here, if it’s not for the house? Why are you so keen on solving the clues? ’Cause I may have hidden away up here, but I’ve been listening. And you are unravelling those anagrams like you used to sit at your mum’s feet, getting knots out of wool.’ When it’s Lily’s turn to hesitate he says, ‘Remember, you promised.’
Lily thinks of Liliana’s letter, to not trust any relatives, for their sake as much as hers, to keep her secrets while she found out those of the house.
But she’s promised him. And it’s time Lily started keeping her word and spilling her secrets. ‘Aunt Liliana told me that the clues would reveal things other than the keys.’
‘Like what?’ He’s staring at her intently.
Lily’s turn for a deep breath now. ‘How my mum was murdered.’
‘What?’ Ronnie says. His hand goes to his chest as if even now his heart is hurting for her.
‘And other things that I haven’t worked out yet. In fact, I haven’t worked out anything.’
Lily feels the tears of frustration welling. She’s been here, what, five, six days now? And is she really any further on?
‘You’ll get there,’ Ronnie says. ‘Judging by the way you’re finding the keys. Looks like Tom was right – you always were good at the Christmas Game.’
‘That’d be ironic,’ she says. ‘I find the keys and win someone the house, but not the secrets locked away inside.’
‘Aunt Lil always played the long game,’ Ronnie says. ‘Our last presents were only found if you looked at all the clues together.’
‘So I have to stay here till Twelfth Night?’
Ronnie shrugs. ‘Depends how much you want to know the truth. And I may be able to help with that.’ He looks around to see if anyone is on the landing or the stairs. He closes the door to make sure. ‘Look, I’ve always found it hard to believe that your mum killed herself. It didn’t make sense. She was so alive, always smiling.’
‘Smiling can cover many things.’
‘I know. But it never felt right. And then I saw something recently that made me doubt it more.’
‘What?’
In the hallway, footsteps cross the landing. Ronnie waits for them to pass, but a wariness has come over him like mist. ‘I’ll dig it out and show you later.’
‘Thank you.’ Lily’s guilt rises to the surface like rust. ‘And I need to tell you the whole truth.’
The breakfast gong clangs.
‘Tell me when everyone’s running around the house looking for keys,’ Ronnie says. He puts his arms out and they hug until the gong goes again.
‘I loved your mum, you know,’ Ronnie says as they walk down the stairs. He points to Mariana’s picture on the wall. ‘And I don’t blame you for wanting to get as far away as possible.’
‘Is that how you feel now?’ Lily asks.
Ronnie shakes his head. ‘You know, I thought I’d want nothing more to do with it. Philippa had plans for the house, not me. She was going to keep it as a hotel, and put me in the kitchen as executive chef. She thought I wanted that, and maybe I did. But now, I don’t know. Maybe I should keep trying, for her sake.’
‘I think she’d like that,’ Lily replies.
The smell of kedgeree swims from the dining room, suggesting that the silver servers have been opened. Lily tries not to breathe in as she walks through the door.
‘Lily! Have you seen the devil fog?’ grins Tom, pointing out of the window. His smile drops as he sees Ronnie just behind her. ‘Sorry, mate. Didn’t see you there.’
‘You don’t have to be miserable around me,’ Ronnie replies.
‘Exactly,’ Sara says from her chair, her spoon already filled with spiced rice and fish. ‘Life goes on.’
And that’s all it takes for Ronnie to run back upstairs.
‘Well done, Sara,’ Tom says.
‘Just telling it like it is,’ Sara replies.
‘As you’re so keen on the truth,’ Lily says. ‘I was wondering if you were able to tell me anything about my mum’s death.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d want to dwell on that,’ Sara says, ‘given that you caused it by being such a terrible daughter.’ Fake sympathy swamps her face.
Holly and Gray gasp at the same time, Rachel shakes her head, Tom tuts and Lily pictures herself slamming Sara’s face into the kedgeree – of that face surfacing with a moustache of fish flakes.
‘I’ve been led to believe that’s not the case,’ Lily says, swallowing her anger with her orange juice.
‘By whom?’ Sara asks.
‘I’m not going to tell you.’
‘All I know is what Dad said about your mum,’ Tom says. ‘It was at her funeral. He said, “Sisters always have an issue with their sisters,” and looked at Aunt Liliana who was standing by your mum’s coffin. He then said, “If it wasn’t for Liliana, your aunt would still be alive.” I asked him what he meant but he wouldn’t say. I found it all horrible, thinking of Mariana in there, but it seemed weird at the time so I remembered it.’
‘Are you saying that Mum did something to make her sister kill herself?’ Sara asks. ‘Because I know she was vindictive but not in that way, surely.’ She doesn’t, however, seem sure.
Gray clears his throat. ‘Your mum was lovely,’ he says, looking at Lily. ‘And Mum loved her more than anything. That’s why she loved you.’
Sara glares at Lily.
‘You see,’ Tom says, ‘even adopted sisters have issues with each other.’
*
Later, Lily is in the orangery, on weather watch. The snow seems to have stopped, and the sun is shining bright and low over the grounds of Endgame. If it can get up enough wattage, maybe the sunshine can melt enough snow to let them move more easily outside and, most importantly, allow cars to pass through the country roads. They can then move the fallen tree, drive to a police station and stop lying to Ronnie.
She tries to go up to him a few times, but Sara always follows, suspecting Lily of having found the next clue and not telling anyone. Lily can’t shake her. And she won’t impose Sara on Ronnie.
Sara’s morning, and half her afternoon, is spent in anticipation of the next sonnet. Every time Mrs Castle glooms in with new food or drink, she picks though it like a magpie looking for shiny things. It’s not until the stretched-out afternoon that Gray cries out, ‘Here!’
Everyone rushes in from wherever they’re sitting.
Gray is standing in the hallway, pointing to the Christmas tree. Very carefully, he lifts a huge red bauble from the tree. ‘There’s something inside.’ He holds it up to the light. It looks like a translucent pomegranate. Gray shakes it gently as if to jiggle its pips. A rolled-up piece of paper tips from one side of the bauble to the other.
‘What if it’s for another day?’ Sara says. ‘You might forfeit the chance of the house.’
‘They weren’t here yesterday,’ Gray says, ‘I’m sure of it.’
‘What, you go around clocking everything that changes?’ Sara says, her voice rising with incredulity. ‘In a house this size?’
Gray scratches his neck and shrugs. ‘Can’t help it, my mind just does it.’
‘There are some strange brains in this family,’ Sara says, shaking her head. She looks over to Lily. ‘But they’re useful. Come on then, give it over.’ She holds out her hand and Gray places the bauble gently on her palm.
Sara examines the decoration, then unscrews the crownlike top. She tips out the paper and reads it out loud.
Really, we should be marking Haloa,
A winter festival where vines were pruned
Wines were tasted, time was taken slower.
Women gathered together in festooned
Streets, gave phallic gifts, elders whispering
To maidens, tacit secrets they should know.
They feasted on gentle foods, left off’rings
Of first fruits to Demeter in the snow.
Bring this tradition down from history:
For inside every model woman grows
A true Eleusinian mystery.
Don’t worry. I won’t give you a dildo,
This old woman whispers to a maiden:
Unveil all the gifts you have been given.
When she finishes reading, she throws the sonnet and the decoration on the floor. The bauble smashes, sending pomegranate shards across the floor. Gray stoops to pick up the pieces.
‘Is that really necessary, Sara?’ Rachel says. Impatience crackles in her voice. Holly is standing in the doorway. Neither of them has opened up a bauble.
‘Haloa? How are we supposed to know what that is? Mum’s punishing me all over again for not wanting to read her precious books,’ Sara says.
‘What if she’s talking to you?’ Holly says. ‘You could be the maiden, and she’s the woman whispering her secrets, telling you to use your gifts.’
Sara’s laugh is harsh and abrupt. ‘Mum didn’t think I had any gifts.’ She turns to Tom. ‘You did Greek. What’s this all about?’
Tom reads through it again. ‘You’re right, if you know a bit of Greek then today’s location is implicit in the clue. You could say it’s “tacit”.’
Lily laughs.
‘Even Lily gets it,’ Sara replies. Her face is going red, whether from shame or anger is hard to tell. Maybe they’re the same feeling, stood back to back.
‘Just tell us, would you?’ Rachel replies. ‘We don’t need taking through all the things we don’t get.’
‘Anyone know the prestige language spoken in ancient Greece?’ Tom asks.
‘Er, ancient Greek?’ Holly says.
‘Otherwise known as “attic”,’ Tom replies.
‘Thank you, Tom.’ Sara bends to pick up the clue then runs up the staircase.
‘I’m hoping it’s in a dildo,’ Rachel says, following Sara slowly up the stairs. ‘And prim Sara has to open it. That’d be entertaining.’
‘Not sure she’s that prim,’ Lily says, rehearing the noises Sara was making last night.
‘Oh, really!’ Tom says, rubbing his hands. ‘If you have gossip, it’s only right you share it. Though I can’t imagine Sara indulging in more than a gloved frig. Sin, sexually at least, and Sara, seem very far apart.’
Lily tries not to laugh, but can’t stop herself. ‘That’s an image I really didn’t want,’ she says.
*
Lily stands on one leg and knocks on Ronnie’s door with her foot. ‘I’ve cobbled together a lunch tray for you,’ she says. ‘The others are chasing keys, I thought we could talk while you ate.’
When there’s no answer, she places the tray outside his room. ‘It’s out here, I won’t intrude. Come and find me when you’re ready.’ She presses her hand to the door. ‘Love you,’ she says.
At the top of the house, Sara, Gray, Rachel and Holly are making floorboards groan as they search the attic. The air feels fresher in here since Lily was in a few days ago. The skylight is open. A stream of dusk-lilac light is showing up the far end. There is warmth in the sun, even now. Maybe the snow will melt, after all.
A memory comes back, ghostly, the figures almost in place before her. Lily sitting with Isabelle in the attic, under the open skylight. One winter’s day, encouraged by Aunt Liliana, they’d written ‘LILYANDISABELLE’ on paper and cut out each letter, then rearranged them to make anagrams.
Isabelle had found rude words of four or five letters, but Lily managed to fit all the letters in their names into, ‘Naiad Belle Silly’.
‘You should be “Naiad”, that’s pretty,’ Isabelle had said. ‘And I’ll be “Belle”.’
‘Then who’s silly?’ Lily asked.
‘We both are,’ Isabelle said, and they’d settled down under the skylight to read, sucking rhubarb and custard sweets till their tongues dried out.
*
That memory had been underneath all the others in this house. Coming up to the attic again has whipped off the dustsheet and allowed her to see it for the first time in years. And the others must be going through something similar.
Gray strokes the mane of the rocking horse that used to be in the nursery.
Tom is making a Lego house next to a toppled Jenga tower.
Rachel is going through a box of photos and papers, passing them to Holly and explaining who everyone is in the old pictures.
Sara, though, is still on track, referring back to the sonnet, brow furrowed. ‘I really hope we’re not looking for a dildo,’ she says.
Rachel sniggers.
‘Fucksake, Rachel,’ Sara says, turning her back on Rachel. ‘Tom, you need to help me.’
‘I really don’t,’ Tom replies, getting out a Playmobil set. ‘I already told you to look up here. I reckon you owe me.’
‘We could be in here for years,’ Sara replies, gesturing towards the wall of boxes.
‘Fine by me,’ Tom replies, not looking up.
‘We all know I’m going to win,’ Sara says, ‘so you might as well help me.’
Anger, simmering in Lily for too long, bubbles to the surface. She imagines Sara throwing everything out of the house, trouncing the memories of Lily and Tom and Ronnie. There’s Ronnie, lying in bed, mourning his love, and Sara, not giving a shit about anything, makes it clear that ‘life goes on’. And it should go on. But this house would have a much better life if Ronnie were the chef in its restaurant, and it was run by Rachel and Holly.
Lily knows she hasn’t helped. In the last few days, she’s led Sara to a key, even given her another. And if Sara took the key from Philippa, killed her for it perhaps, then she has a fair chance of having the right key to win the house.
Time for Lily to tip the balance in the house’s favour and win the key for Ronnie.
She takes out the sonnet again and, while Sara is busy throwing things out of a trunk, she reads. Tom sees her, and smiles. He zips his lips shut again.
Lily starts rearranging the letters of words that stand out: ‘maiden’ is in there twice, and that’s an anagram of ‘die man’, and . . . no, that’s a dead end.
She looks around the attic, taking in the old lampstands and bureaus; tables etched with initials and the old dressmaker’s dummy that Mum had used to teach her to make clothes.
And what is a mannequin other than a ‘model woman’?
Slowly, Lily gets up.
Seeing Lily go towards the dummy, Tom calls out, ‘Sara, come here!’ Sara snaps her head up and follows Tom into the corner of the attic. He buries his head in an old dressing-up box. ‘I reckon the key’s in here somewhere.’
Sara has her serious face on as she pulls out scarves and hats and old clothes they’d used to put on plays.
Lily, meanwhile, turns round the dummy. A zip runs down the spine like a brace. That never used to be there. She learned how to attach zips by using this dummy, but there was never one actually on her.
Trying not to make too much noise, Lily pulls down the zip. Tucked inside, attached to the underside of the mannequin’s skin, is the fifth key.
*
Lily is still smiling when she goes back down the stairs. Sara has disappeared in a grump, Rachel can’t stop laughing, Gray has asked to be left alone in the attic, mending an old play pen, and Tom’s gone to help Mrs Castle get dinner ready.
Stopping outside Ronnie’s door again, she sees that his lunch tray hasn’t been touched. The tea is cold in its pot, the scrambled egg more of a jellified lump, the toast floppy on the plate. Only the apple looks untouched by time.
She knocks on the door. ‘Ronnie? Can I come in?’
No answer.
‘I know I said I wouldn’t intrude, but I want to know you’re OK.’
The lack of reply isn’t unusual, he’s often not answered when she’s checked on him. This time, though, the silence is different. She’d never thought about whether a room feels inhabited or not, but now the room feels empty.
Fear pricks her skin. She opens the door before thinking about it.
Ronnie is on the floor. His head is a mess of red.
Lily’s heart resounds in her ears but not as loudly as her scream. She runs over, wants to touch him, soothe him. But she knows it’s to soothe her, not him. This isn’t fake blood. Ronnie is dead.