Francesca

I GAZE AT THE TEEMING crowds, fear climbing my throat. Owen's voice at the end of the call—the coldness in it. I've never heard him like that.

"Where are you?" he asked. Is he looking for me at this very moment? Hunting me down? If so I suddenly feel very exposed here, standing right in the middle of the lawn.

I need to give him space, until he's had time to calm down. I hesitate to use the word "hide," but that's what I need to do.

Then, well, perhaps I can think of a way to persuade him of my innocence. Surely it's not insurmountable. Nothing is. I learned that a long time ago. Everything will come well. It always does. I feel the stranglehold of fear loosening, my breath coming easier.

Michelle crosses in front of me holding a walkie-talkie, heading into the melee. In a sudden vision I see the coupling in the wine store last night, all the vile things she did to my husband: a kaleidoscope of pure filth.

Fear transmutes instantly to rage. Yes... rage I can work with! The outlet I need for all this bad energy.

"Oh. Hello, Francesca," she says, looking in my direction, as though we're not surrounded by scenes of utter chaos. She appears totally unflustered. Her practical, ugly bun doesn't have a strand out of place and hers must be the only face not shining with perspiration. Does this woman not feel the heat? How dare she not be sweating, when everything on the lawns has descended into mayhem?

I want to smack her.

"Michelle, my lovely," I say. "I think we need to have a little chat." I cast a glance toward the crowds on the lawn. "Not here. Somewhere private." Best that we are not observed. I beckon.

Obedient little thing that she is, she trots along behind me. Yes. I feel an energetic release coming on. A purging of toxic emotion.

I lead her away from the hubbub and into the walled garden. It's nice and quiet here. Also, crucially, I have a view of both entrances. I turn to face her but she clears her throat, nods toward the bench in the corner where a couple of guests sit, visible only by the white glow of their outfits. Wait. Not just sitting. One appears to be straddling the other.

Oh for God's sake. But she's right. I lead her on, through the walled garden and onto the path that leads to the Woodland Hutches. It's very dark and quiet here, away from the chaos and noise on the front lawns. This will do.

Except that I'm feeling a little... peculiar. A little untethered. Something strange seems to be happening to my vision. The Hutches seem to grow taller and taller: I blink, and they shrink back to their normal size. But the next second they seem to lean in toward me. I put up a hand to fend them off and close my eyes for a little longer. When I open them again—the relief!—they've returned to their usual positions.

"Everything all right, Francesca?" Michelle asks.

"Absolutely," I say, regathering myself and my clarity of purpose by visualizing that footage from the wine store once more. Francesca Meadows can rise above that sort of thing. Francesca doesn't experience true jealousy. She understands that sex and attraction are important natural urges that sometimes just cannot be suppressed.

But Frankie ... Frankie is pretty fucking angry with Michelle, the sneaky, ungrateful little cunt.

I think I'm actually going to enjoy this.

"Michelle," I say. "It's quite clear to me you're out of your depth here. It's time for you to go now, my lovely. I'm afraid you've rather let me down and I hate it when people let me down."

Michelle juts her chin and I see again that mutinous flicker in her eye. Not quite what I had expected. "No," she says.

"What do you mean, no?" I actually laugh. Of all the—

The laugh sticks in my throat. Something has caught my eye by the trees. Something strange is happening to the shadows. They appear to be shifting and expanding toward me, out of the deeper darkness of the wood. I shake my head.

"Thing is," Michelle says, reaching up to smooth back an imaginary strand of hair. "It's time for you to leave, Francesca."

For a moment I'm so astonished I can't speak. It's like a tame pet has just turned and bitten my hand. For Christ's sake. I chose Michelle partly because she's so beige. The most basic of bitches, someone I could own like a lapdog.

I catch more movement by the trees. Over Michelle's shoulder I seem to glimpse freakish, otherworldly forms coalescing and dissolving into the shadows of the wood once more. Dark figures with the heads of birds. Demonic, scythe-like profiles. Blank staring eyes.

Not real not real not real.

"Oh very real," Michelle says.

Did I speak aloud?

"You see them," she says, "don't you?"

I take a step back from her.

"You thought you were the worst thing in the woods," she says. "Didn't you?"

"Stop it," I say.

"You always did show disrespect for this place. For our traditions." She pulls aside her collar to reveal a mark just below her collarbone. I know that mark because I once painted it all over the woods to frighten others.

"You're... one of them?"

"Your disgusting brothers locked me in that treehouse," she says. "What they did..." For a moment she breaks off, closes her eyes. Then she opens them again. "I wasn't the first, either. And probably not the last."

I stare at her. "You're—"

"Shelly. Not that you bothered to ask my fucking name back then."

I'd say I recognize her but the truth is I barely glanced at her that night. She was just some girl from the chippy in a tracksuit, awful gold hoops. "That wasn't even me," I say. "That was my brothers—"

"You were very happy to let them get on with it, though, weren't you? But you're right, my personal grievance is against them."

As she's been speaking everything has fallen into place in a very sinister fashion. "This whole time, you've been—"

"The seed on the lawn. The cider." She makes a little bow. "Yours truly. The dead cockerel pinned to your door yesterday—that was another of our number. And I do hope you appreciated our installation on the beach."

I have no idea what she means about the cider or the cockerel. But the birdseed? That was her? The thing on the beach?

Once more, I feel more angry than afraid. I put her in a position of trust, I overcame my reservations about her terrible personal style and dodgy accent. And this is how she repays me? How fucking dare she? I don't try to stem my feelings this time. I have no need of any calming breath. My rage is my dark power.

"Well," I say. "It all makes sense now. Once a slut, always a slut. Yes, I saw you, you stupid cow. Last night, in the wine store. I only kept you on today because I thought you could prove useful. But now you've quite clearly outlasted your use to me."

I step toward her. As I do I sense the grotesque shadows seeping forward, out of the trees. The cowled heads appearing, the vicious beaks. Reaching toward me as though ready to envelop me. With them an unholy snickering, chattering, building to a roar. I put my hands over my ears but I can still hear it. Is it inside my own head?

"Someone left us a message," Michelle says. "In the old place. The old way. Accusing you of a worse crime. The taking of a life. The killing of a resident of Tome. Right here, in these woods. You covered it up. You and the old man."

Slumped in his study in the woods... the door open to the night. The terrified ravings before he died...

The ground beneath me seems to pitch and sway. This cannot be happening. "I didn't do it," I say. "You have no proof."

She smiles. "We don't need proof. Don't you understand? We take care of things in our own way, as we've always done. But we'll give you a chance. Leave now, within the hour, and don't come back."

The outrage of it. The absolute barbaric insolence of ordering me from my ancestral home.

"This is my land," I hiss. "My inheritance." It is now that I remember the broken bottle in the tote I took from Sparrow. I reach into the bag and feel the severed glass nick my fingertip. Yes. Sharp enough to do the job.

My hand closes around the stem. I am about to withdraw it when I see a new figure, stepping into the clearing from another part of the woods. Very real, definitely human. But utterly changed from the man I know, face transfigured by rage.

Owen.

I turn and run.