Francesca

THE BLOOD IN THE WOODS. The image in the stone basin. The note that Owen found. I'm trying to stay grounded. Keep it all in perspective. Not let anything detract from all the positivity I have been feeling about this weekend. But it is beginning to niggle at me.

I walk into the library (one of a few private spaces in the main house) and find Grandfa's ledger, the one he kept in his study in the woods. Open it to the last couple of pages. The letters are faint and wobbly, nothing like Grandfa's usual, immaculate copperplate:

The Birds...

Must warn Francesca...

Must tell her where...

I remember his hand gripping my wrist, hard, nails clawing into the skin.

I shut the book quickly. No. The poor old thing was definitely not well—he'd obviously been losing his grip on reality at the end. Because the Birds aren't real. I know that for a fact. I refuse to be spooked by some crusty old myth.

I do believe someone might be meddling, though.

She always was the clingy sort. A hanger-on. Basking in the reflected glory of others. Also a lurker, a watcher... a cipher without any substance of her own. So it's just like her to show up here under a false name. I suppose I should feel sorry for her. What a sad little life.

When I think about the past it all feels like it happened to someone else. It's like I wasn't really there, you know? Maybe it's no surprise: we all contain multitudes. And one can't spend one's time dwelling on ancient history, feeling hung up over things that happened years ago. It would be totally self-destructive, wouldn't it? Self-love is the first step toward loving others. I'm a huge believer in practicing what I preach.

Back up in the apartment, I sit down at my laptop. I find the historic feeds from Woodland Hutch number 11 for the last twenty-four hours.

The footage is wonderfully clear. But the woman in the room looks like a stranger: the sharp blonde haircut, the fringe, the clothes. She looks nothing like the scrawny girl I remember from back then, all split ends and high street clothes. I almost almost begin to doubt myself. Then some noise must catch her attention because she looks straight up, a perfect shot. I see the heart shape of the face, the curve of the eyebrows beneath the fringe. And I know for certain. I remember thinking that nothing about that face should add up to much. The features all small, nothing remarkable. And yet she was rather beautiful, in a mousy way, sadly wasted on her.

You know, now I think about it, it makes sense that she's staying here alone—especially if she's been holding on to toxic energy all these years. That sort of thing isn't conducive to finding happiness with another person. She always was destined to be a lost, lonely soul.

Scrolling back through the feeds I find some footage from half an hour ago. And there she is: on the path that leads in to the woods. Silly little Sparrow. Always one step behind. I'm not going to let you mess this up for me.