Francesca

I BOLT TOWARD THE MANOR. I'm nearly at the main building, crossing through the staff car park, when I look across the gravel and see two of the grubby locals who gatecrashed the stage standing there. The older one—some desperate spectacle of a middle-aged man dressed like a teenager in a disgusting sloganed T-shirt—holds one of my flaming lanterns. I stare at them for a moment and they gawp back at me, two cornered rats. The stink of petrol, the naked flame, the gleaming pools of liquid on the ground between them and the building. And in the same moment it occurs to me that Sparrow, the only true witness to what happened back then, is currently locked inside the house. What did I say? The universe always delivers for me.

"Go on!" I say. "Do it. I dare you. I dare you."

Still they hesitate. They look frightened. I think they're afraid of me. Perhaps that encounter beside the wood has changed me in some way, lent me an otherworldly power.

"Oh for God's sake," I shout. "Do I have to do everything myself?" I lunge toward them and grab the lantern and I toss it toward the shimmering pool of fluid and it rushes in a liquid chain of fire toward the building faster than the eye can track and it may be the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

This place has been the creation of a lifetime. It's the only place I have ever felt truly happy. Truly myself. But it is poisoned now. Contaminated irrevocably. This could be the answer. A terrible fire started by bitter locals. If they try to say otherwise I will batter them in the courts. One of Grandfa's maxims: never go anywhere under-lawyered.

A new start. A cleansing of all that has gone before. Yes: I can see it clearly now. Purification by flame. A rising, phoenix-like, out of the soot and remnants of tragedy.

And besides, I've got excellent insurance.

Briefly I hunker in the shadows of the house and watch as the flames begin to climb. Then I turn and race back toward the staff car park, where Owen's Aston Martin sits gleaming like a silver chariot ready to whisk me away.

I need to get away. A little distance from all of this, to reclaim my headspace. This is all—well, it's a lot, you know?

A plan is starting to form. Of course I knew nothing about the body buried in the grounds. A nasty little surprise inheritance. But I did happen to know Grandfa was having an affair with the woman, I'll say that. He had form, after all, with those earlier scandals that drove Granmama to her wits' end. And perhaps things got out of hand one night, out in the woods where he had his study...

Grandfa was a pragmatist, after all. You can't libel the dead, he once said, when he'd published his memoirs and thrown several deceased peers under the bus. You can't convict the dead of anything either. Do you know, I really don't think he'd mind? I certainly think he'd understand. Might even approve? And Grandfa was resourceful, like me. When I told him about a note Cora had left for me, trying to get back into my good books after she'd snuck into Grandfa's woodland study, he told me he'd use it to our advantage:

I'm so sorry. I can't imagine what you think of me right now, but I hope you understand...

What could be more simple than repurposing the note? Posting it to Cora's husband and pretending she'd run away? Left her shitty life in that caravan park behind. It was probably only a matter of time anyway.

I take a deep, restorative breath. I'm feeling better already. I am beginning to see how it's all going to work out. Grandfa will take the blame, posthumously. I'm the injured party. The sins of our fathers, grandfathers, etcetera. The poison of the patriarchy. We can put a whole feminist spin on it. No, perhaps we'll make it less angry than that, more sorrowful. All about healing.

I refuse to be punished for something that happened so long ago. The girl I once was feels like a distant relative. I suppose the only thing I have in common with her is that we are both survivors. Surviving all those moments people have let us down.

I skid to a stop on the gravel and jump behind the wheel of the silver car. I slip the key from my phone cover and it roars into life as everything behind me begins to burn.