Francesca

TODAY IS GOING TO BE a triumph.

It's the day of our solstice feast, the jewel in the crown of our opening weekend. And it is going to be perfect.

I walk to the windows and throw them open, bathing myself in warmth and sunlight. The hot air streams in laden with the scent of sea salt and blossom. Honestly, if you could bottle it you could make a killing. Perhaps I should look into that, actually—the next iteration of our wellness line.

On the lawns beneath me I watch staff scurrying hither and thither, planting stakes for the hanging lanterns, building the stage for our musical entertainments, lifting the fire pit for the spit roast into place, setting up three long tables a few meters back from the cliff edge. The tablescapes will be arranged atop them shortly: the woman designing them (theme: "midsummer cornucopia") is a genius. She doesn't like to discuss her other clients as she's so wonderfully discreet, but let's just say that she accidentally let slip the words Amal and Como while we were brainstorming my vision.

I feel a thrill of anticipation as I imagine the view my guests will have as they make merry: of the sun sinking beneath the waves and the stunning limestone formation of The Giant's Hand. I have created something truly unique here. I have thrown off the shadows of the past, manifested a new future for myself and this place.

Ah! And here come my willow sculptures, carried on the broad shoulders of the boys from the gardening team. Arguably my pièce de résistance, they will form an enchanted sylvan scene for my guests to wander through as they sip their fine cider and listen to the first strains of the music.

Everything beneath me is gilded by the morning sun—a scene of such perfection it seems hardly real. The epitome of "pagan chic." I've always been good at curating an experience. Hosting a party, too. We had a couple here when we were teenagers, actually. Of course, it was rather different then. A barbecue, some speakers, the pool. A little youthful horseplay. But the basic principles are the same. In place of alcopops we'll have fine cider, in place of the barbecued sausages we'll have a high-end spit roast (they play the pigs Bach and feed them hand-selected acorns), and in place of tinny tunes from my portable speakers we'll have our live acts. We've been very hush-hush about the line-up—to stop anyone alerting the press and because The Manor doesn't boast about such things—but we have the sort of talent performing tonight that could be expected to appear on one of the main stages at Glastonbury. All begging to be included!

Oh, we are totally going to make the Condé Nast Hot List. No: we are going to destroy it, grind the competition to dust beneath us—

I'm just so excited.

And surprisingly calm. Or perhaps not so surprising, considering how much work I've done on myself over the years. Once upon a time I would have allowed my rage at what I witnessed in the wine store last night to overtake me, cloud my judgment. Now I know it's much better to be clear-eyed about these things.

The simple truth is I need them both right now: Owen for his work on the Treehouse project; Michelle for the preparations for the evening's celebrations. I need her diligence, her attention to detail. Still, it is really so disappointing. I do hate it when people let me down.

Well, no matter. For today at least nothing and nobody is going to send my Mercury into retrograde.

I close my eyes to better enjoy the warmth of the new day upon my face. Goddess, but it is hot. But hopefully it won't get much hotter. Almost in answer to this thought I feel the heat ease a little. The rosy glow of the light through my eyelids dims. Did I actually make that happen? I open my eyes. A shadow has fallen across the sun. Some of the staff below are pointing at the sky.

I look up. Huge black storm clouds have appeared overhead. It's impossible. It's meant to be entirely clear today. Nowhere—in either the forecast or my manifestation—was it to be like this. I stare up at them, willing them to disperse.

Yet the way they're moving, shifting... they're no ordinary clouds. I shield my eyes and squint up at them. And now I see that they're...

Birds.

Darkening the sky. Blotting out the sunlight. Filling the air. Black seething swarms of them. They're everywhere I look: arriving in waves, surging together, their wing tips brushing as they circle, settling on the lawn until I can see barely a shred of grass for their black bodies. They're landing on the tables, too, the backs of chairs, the wicker sculptures. They look like a giant spillage of tar. The noise comes to me now: the cackling and chattering building to a roar of sound. Suddenly I can't even hear my own thoughts. I go to shut the window to drown them out and just as I do one flies right at the glass, hits the pane with a thud and ricochets away. A little scream escapes me.

I fumble for my phone, I need Michelle... I need her to sort this now. I stab at her name on my screen, clutch the phone to my ear as I wait for her to pick up. She isn't answering. Why isn't she answering?

Of course I am all about harmony with the natural world, but this is the limit. This doesn't feel natural at all. It feels personal. It feels like a haunting.