Francesca

MICHELLE JUST CALLED TO SAY there's been a disturbance on the beach. Locals, again. She assures me it's all in hand, nothing to worry about now. Still... I touch my black opal ring. Normally I'm immediately soothed by its vibrations but at this moment it just feels like a cold, dead stone. Usually I would do an energetic cleanse and feel instantly better, but right now that's not going to cut it. I know what I need. I need Julie.

I pass some guests on my way to the Orangery. Give them my most serene smile. "Are you having a nourishing stay with us?" I ask. Is my voice slightly higher than usual? A little shrill?

They're on the way to lunch. At least, I think they said that. It's a little as though I'm listening to them through a buzz of static.

"Well, I'm so glad," I say. I beam at them. "I hope we'll see you at our solstice celebrations tomorrow night!"

The Orangery is tucked round to the west side of the main house. I've always thought there's something a little budget, a little Groupon voucher/Boots toiletries aisle, about the word "spa," you know? And the original part of the building used to be Granmama and Grandfa's orangery, so there's an amazing feeling of light and space, which Owen has cleverly replicated in the treatment rooms.

I'm so proud of having state-of-the-art wellness infrastructure here. Everything you might expect to get in London—or LA—tucked away in this little quaint corner of the English countryside. We also have our own skincare line, formulated from local moss and a tiny sprinkling of chemicals, sold exclusively here, though (on the downlow for now!) soon to be stocked by Space NK, Liberty, and Cult Beauty, so everyone can experience just a little of the magic. Quite democratic, if you ignore the price! It wouldn't be great for business to admit I get a medical facial every four weeks which probably has more to do with my glow than any serum. But do I use the products? Of course I do! Sometimes, anyway: my aesthetician is rather exacting.

As soon as I step inside the Orangery and inhale the scents of the local herbs infusing the air, I feel better. I go straight to the front desk, where they're all smiles, ready to welcome me.

"Hello lovelies," I say. "Suze, how's your family?"

Suze beams. "Good thanks, Francesca. Sol was three yesterday, so we had a party—"

"Oh, how wonderful! I'm sure that was a very special day." It's so important to treat your staff well. I read a fascinating book about it. Did you know, for instance, that people will actually accept lower pay if they think that they're truly valued at their place of work? "Right my lovelies," I say. "I need to see Julie."

"Hm." Suze frowns, consulting her bookings. "She's got someone in at one."

"That's OK!" I say, brightly. "I know you two will be able to work your magic. You'll be able to find them a different slot. Won't you?"

"Er..." Suze is scanning the screen. She'll make it happen. I mean, we would never actually acknowledge this, any of us, but she doesn't have much of a choice. "... I think so." That's not really good enough and she knows it. She rallies. "Of course I will. Leave it with me, Francesca. I'll sort it now."

"Super! I'll just go straight on through to her then, shall I?"

The moment I'm out of sight I feel my smile snag and falter like a sail losing the wind. But Julie will help me. Honestly, she's the best. I had Reiki with her when I was down here overseeing the renovations and needed a quick self-care boost. Her "clinic" was out of her house, a damp cottage on the outskirts of Tome: very much a last resort in the absence of anything else. But talk about a hidden gem. I sensed immediately that she had a gift—I'm pretty good at that, at "discovering" people, bringing out the best in them. Curating, you might say. Julie is older than most of our employees here—in her sixties—but actually that can be a good thing for this sort of role, you know? It suggests experience. People see wrinkles and think wisdom. And she looks a lot smarter, these days, in the ecru linens I've politely requested she wear. The MS cardies and jeggings somehow didn't say "spiritual healer."

"Hello Francesca," she says now. Julie has a very direct gaze.

"I'm feeling a little... jittery," I tell her. "It's as though"—I search for a way to put the feeling into words—"as though I've just drunk four cups of coffee, even though I never touch caffeine besides a sprinkle of matcha."

She nods. "How long have you been feeling like this?"

"Only very recently," I tell her. I can't bring myself to tell her about the face I thought I saw at breakfast. "Maybe it's because there's so much on," I say, "with the opening, you know? It's only natural!"

She has me lie down on the bed. I close my eyes as she cups my head briefly in her hands and asks me to take three deep breaths. I find it surprisingly difficult—I feel like I've just run up several flights of stairs. She hovers her palms above me and immediately I sense the heat of them, as though she is somehow warming the air between her hands and my skin. As she moves slowly down my body, I hear her breath catch. I sit up, even though I'm not meant to interrupt. "What is it?" I ask. "What did you feel?"

"I heard something," she says, solemnly. "A voice."

I grip the sides of the bed. "What... what did it say?"

"They said"—the next words in an awful, keening pitch—"‘It's dark and cold down here. It's dark and cold.' Just that, over and over."

"I have no idea what that could mean. Perhaps the energies are confused," I say.

She doesn't answer, gestures for me to lie back down. I hear her take a deep breath, as though she's steeling herself. Her hands hover over me once more. But she soon stops again. There's a long pause, and my sense of dread builds. "You aren't safe," she says, finally. "There is one nearby who would do you harm." She closes her eyes. When she next speaks her voice is lower in pitch—like someone talking in their sleep: "An enemy draws near."

I feel my skin prickle with cold, despite the heat of the day. "Who? Who is it?"

She shakes her head, as if clearing it. Back in her usual register, she says: "I can't answer that for you. It's a blind kind of knowledge: more of a feeling. All I know is what I've told you. I can't give you a face or a name."

"But—there must be something you can do to make it clearer?"

She frowns at me. "Not this way," she says. "But there is something. I don't have much experience in it. It's an ancient kind of..." She hesitates. "... of practice." For a moment, I wondered if she might be about to say "magic." "My grandmother taught me."

"Can we try?" I ask, a little desperately.

"Yes. I need a basin of water. And an egg."

"An egg?" She nods. I haven't eaten eggs for years, but at this point I'm not going to argue. I ring Suze from the phone in here and ask her to get the kitchen to send everything over right away. As we wait, Julie lights several candles and the scent of vetiver seeps into the space. She fills a large earthenware bowl full of water. A couple of minutes later there's a knock on the door.

A handsome young guy stands on the other side. It's more difficult than usual to remember what he's called, which is annoying as I've made such an effort to speak to the staff on a first name basis, talking about them all as "The Manor family." He hands Julie a little wicker basket of mismatched eggs, fresh from The Manor's own chickens. As he does he blushes, a stain spreading up his neck to his cheeks; the proximity to me in my towel, perhaps, or the dim candlelit intimacy of the room.

"Thanks," I say, and smile at him. His blush deepens. Sweet. "Thank you"—I remember just in time—"Eddie." He gives a funny little bow, closes the door.

Now Julie turns off all the remaining overheads so the only light shines from the trembling flames of the candles. Suddenly there's a very definite atmosphere in here. I watch as she breaks the egg on the side of the bowl with a sharp flick of her wrist so only the white goes in. I glimpse a tiny marking on the inside of her arm before she pulls her sleeve down again. Some kind of symbol, a Chinese character, perhaps. Goodness, I wouldn't have thought her the type for a tattoo. It doesn't go with the grandmotherly image, somehow. A youthful folly? I can understand that.

She washes the yolk down the sink, then turns to me, holding the basin.

"Sit," she commands. I lower myself onto the massage table. She picks up a candle and sets it down next to me. Then she holds the basin in front of me. "Look," she says.

By the light of the candle, I can make out the jellyfish outline of the egg white, the thin meniscus separating it from the water.

"What do you see?" Julie asks. I can hear how her breathing has changed: it's low and harsh, as though she's been doing something that requires great effort.

I keep looking. "I can't see anything."

"Closer," she commands. "You must come closer."

I lower my face until my nose is practically touching the water. "I can't see anything."

"Stop trying. You must look, but not with your eyes. You must look with your inner knowing."

She begins to murmur, the words too low to understand: they might even be foreign. I feel myself start to drift, that moment just before you fall asleep. Odd, I'm sure I can feel a kind of heat coming off the surface of the water—even though I watched her fill the basin from the cold tap.

I still can't see anything special besides the egg white bobbing there, undulating, changing shape... morphing into—"I can see something," I say, "there's something there." Some kind of image—a face—beginning to reveal itself. There are eyes. Two small eyes, with no boundary between the white and the iris: more animal than human. And then... no nose, no mouth, but something that protrudes beneath the eyes. It looks like... a beak. Yes, I can see it clearly now: the face of a bird, with a cruel hooked beak and small, beady eyes.

A bird?

I'm beginning to lose focus. The image wavers, then disappears.

"It's gone," I say, looking up at Julie.

"But you saw something."

"Yes... but—well, it looked like a bird!" I let out a little laugh, which sounds more nervous than I had meant it to. "But that's ridiculous, isn't it?"

She doesn't smile back. Her eyes are black and pupilless in the low light, her mouth grim. She's frightening me.

"The basin never lies," she hisses. "But whatever you saw in some way represents your enemy. It means you need to watch your back."