It had seemed the only thing to do. Robert had said that he would drive her across London to her old house. Then she would know whether her dad was there or not. And if he wasn’t, she could leave him a note and then he, Robert, would drive her back again. So that is what she wanted to believe would happen.
But then they had crossed over the river and were heading along Pimlico Road when he said, “There’s something I must sort out first. It won’t take long. My house isn’t far away.”
What could she say? It didn’t feel right, but then nothing did just now. The whole world seemed about to collapse around her in terrifying chaos. Her anxiety levels were off the scale. Three in the morning. She’d never been out that late without her mum and dad. Now she was with a man she really knew nothing about, except he wanted something very badly and she was the key. Well, she would stay in the car while he went into the house. That would be the safest thing to do.
And when they arrived, pulled up outside that house, he said, as if he knew what she was thinking, “You can stay in the car if you like. I won’t be long. But keep the doors locked and sound the horn if you get scared. You never know who’s around this time of night.”
So she sat in the car, terrified. And the fear made her want to pee. She needed to distract herself. Took out her mobile and tried her dad again. A signal this time, but his phone was still off. She’d started to ring Zacharie, but stopped. Didn’t want to wake him… and anyway, what did she expect him to do? Now the need to pee was becoming urgent. Painful. She could get out of the car and use the gutter. But supposing someone came… found her with her knickers down around her ankles. Vulnerable. She looked out of the car window and thought she saw someone, small and slight, slipping into the alleyway that ran alongside the house.
She tried to hold on, but now she was desperate. So desperate that it blocked out the fear and in seconds she was banging on the door to be let in. But when she ran to use the cloakroom downstairs, he stopped her, saying the toilet was blocked and she would have to use the bathroom on the top floor.
She was bursting, so she ran up the stairs after him, even though every nerve ending in her body was screaming out; telling her not to go.
“You look worn out,” he said, pushing open the bathroom door and turning on the light. “If you want to have a wash…” She pushed past him and slammed the door in his face, locking it.
She tore down her jeans and knickers and sat down on the loo. And for a second nothing happened and then… oh, the relief of it… and she was able to look around. Notice there were clean towels laid out on the side of the bath. A new toothbrush and toothpaste. A round cake of soap, smelling of honeysuckle and roses. She would have given anything to have a shower. Strip off her dirty, sweaty clothes and stand under a stream of hot, pure water. But even with the door locked she didn’t feel safe. So she just pulled up her jeans, flushed the toilet and then washed her hands and splashed water on her face. She felt better now. Calmer. Was able to say to herself: “Bad things happen to other people” and almost believe it.
So when she came out and saw that the door to the room next door was ajar, she couldn’t stop herself from pushing it open. Just a quick look, she thought, and because it was still dark outside, her hand automatically searched for the light switch. But the room was lit already… with candles, though they had burned down a long way and the draught of air as she had pushed open the door had made a few of them gutter and then go out. The light in the room was hazy with their smoke. And it was hot. Unbearably hot. She could feel a trickle of sweat run down the side of her forehead. She brushed it away.
At the far side of the room was a four-poster bed, hung with heavy silk curtains. She crept closer to have a look and could see now that there were clothes laid out on it. She dropped her backpack down at the foot of the bed and reached out to touch them. The grey silk dress and the fine cotton petticoat smelling of roses and honeysuckle. And the little shoes. Oh, the shoes were beautiful. Pale grey silk. She had never seen anything like them before. She reached out to touch their glittering silver buckles and trace the outline of the flowers exquisitely embroidered on them.
He must have been watching her as she moved about the room, stopping to look and to touch anything that caught her interest. But she hadn’t known he was there. Waiting. Not until she stopped at the table near to the shuttered window, laid out with combs, a looking glass and a silver necklace, thick and heavy as rope. Not until she had picked up the necklace, threading it through her fingers, coiling it, smooth and cool, sinuous as a snake, into her palm.
“Seventeenth century,” he said, reaching a hand over her shoulder and making her start. Then, before she could stop him, he had taken the necklace, looped it round her neck and, pushing her hair up out of the way, had fastened the catch. “There.” He turned her to face him. “A present for your birthday, just gone.”
She was going to say that she didn’t want it. Her hands were already fumbling with the catch.
But then he said something that stopped her dead in her tracks. “It was Margrat’s. Now you must wear it.” He held up the looking glass. “See how beautiful you look. The image of her.” He reached inside his jacket and taking out a tiny oval miniature, held it out.
Claire didn’t want to look at it. She was afraid of what she might see. But she felt compelled to take it.
“I had so little time,” he was smiling, “but I did well, don’t you think? It is a very good likeness. I have caught exactly the colour of her eyes and hair.”
Claire’s eyes and hair too. Her hand shook uncontrollably. She was alone in a house with a man who clearly believed he had known a woman alive over four hundred years ago. He was mad. He had to be. What other explanation was there?
He held out his hand to take back the miniature. She would give it back and then sprint for the door. It was still half open. Then she could be down the stairs and out and running until she reached safety. So she held out the miniature, but instead of taking it, he grabbed her wrist and squeezed it so tight Claire could feel her fingers throbbing. The ring burned so hot now on her finger, it seemed almost to glow against the paleness of her skin. The miniature fell to the floor.
Now he’ll let me go, she thought. So he can pick it up.
But he didn’t. Quite calmly and not dropping his eyes from hers, even for a second, he stepped on it. Deliberately. Ground his heel into it, destroying it completely. “I do not need her, now I have you… the one true daughter, the key to opening the Emerald Casket at last.”