A sombre silence fell upon the mourners as the service began. Accompanied by the pipe organ, a procession of choirboys, wearing red cassocks with white lace ruffs around their necks, sang a Latin hymn by candlelight, their angelic voices spiralling into the dark.

This was not a funeral; the actual burial would take place in Scotland. There was no body here to mourn. Mariana thought of that poor broken girl lying alone in the morgue.

And she couldn’t help but remember how her lover had been returned to her, on a concrete slab in the hospital in Naxos. Sebastian’s body was still wet when she saw him, dripping water onto the floor, with sand in his hair and eyes. There were holes in his skin, small chunks of flesh bitten off by fish. And one of his fingertips was missing, claimed by the sea.

As soon as Mariana saw this lifeless, waxy corpse, she knew at once it wasn’t Sebastian. It was just a shell. Sebastian was gone – but where?

In the days after his death, Mariana was numb. She remained in a prolonged state of shock, unable to accept what had happened – or believe it. It seemed impossible that she would never see him again, never hear his voice, never feel his touch.

Where is he? she kept thinking. Where’s he gone?

And then, as reality began to sink in, she had a kind of delayed breakdown – and, like a dam breaking, all her tears came rushing forth, a waterfall of grief, washing away her life, and who she thought she was.

And then – came the anger.

A burning rage, a blind fury – which threatened to consume her and anyone near her. For the first time in her life, Mariana wanted to cause actual physical pain – she wanted to lash out and hurt someone, herself mostly.

She blamed herself – of course she did. She’d insisted they go to Naxos; if they’d stayed in London, as Sebastian had wanted, he would still be alive.

And she blamed Sebastian too. How dare he be so reckless; how dare he go out swimming in that weather, be so careless with his life – and with hers?

Mariana’s days were bad; her nights were worse. At first, combining enough alcohol and sleeping pills bought her a kind of temporary, medicated refuge; albeit with recurring nightmares filled with disasters like sinking ships, train crashes, and floods. She’d dream of endless journeys – expeditions through desolate arctic landscapes, trudging through icy winds and snow, searching endlessly for Sebastian but never finding him.

Then, the pills stopped working and she would lie awake until three or four in the morning – lie there longing for him, with nothing to quench her thirst but her memories projected against the darkness: flickering images of their days together, their nights, their winters and summers. Finally, driven half mad with grief and lack of sleep, she went back to her doctor. As it was obvious she had been abusing the sleeping pills, Dr Beck refused to write her another prescription. Instead, he suggested a change of scene.

‘You’re a wealthy woman,’ he said – adding callously, ‘with no children to support. Why not go abroad? Travel? See the world?’

Considering the last trip Dr Beck had sent Mariana on had ended in the death of her husband, she elected not to follow his advice. Instead, she retreated to her imagination.

She would shut her eyes and think of the ruined temple on Naxos – the dirty white columns against the blue sky – and remember her whispered prayer to the Maiden – for their happiness, for their love.

Was that her mistake? Had the goddess somehow been offended? Was Persephone jealous? Or perhaps she fell for that handsome man at first sight, and claimed him, as she herself had once been claimed, taking him to the Underworld?

This seemed easier to bear, somehow – blaming Sebastian’s death on the supernatural, on the capricious whim of a goddess. The other alternative – that it was meaningless, random, signifying nothing … was more than she could bear.

Stop it, she thought. Stop, stop it. She could feel pathetic, self-pitying tears welling up in her eyes. She wiped them away. She didn’t want to break down, not here. She had to get out of here, out of the chapel.

‘I need some air,’ she whispered to Zoe.

Zoe nodded, and gave her hand a quick, supportive squeeze. Mariana got up, and hurried outside.

As she left the dimly lit and crowded chapel, emerging into the empty courtyard, she felt an immediate sense of relief.

There was no one in sight. Main Court was silent and still. It was dark, apart from the tall lampposts spaced out through the courtyard – their lanterns were glowing in the darkness, with haloes around them. A heavy mist was seeping in from the river, creeping through the college.

Mariana wiped away her tears. She looked up at the sky. All the stars, invisible in London, shone here so brightly – billions of shimmering diamonds, in an infinite blackness.

He must be there, somewhere.

‘Sebastian?’ she whispered. ‘Where are you?’

She listened and watched, and waited for some kind of sign – for a shooting star, or a cloud passing in front of the moon – something; anything.

But there was nothing.

Only darkness.

18

After the service, people mingled outside in the courtyard, talking in small groups. Mariana and Zoe stood apart from the others, and Mariana quickly told Zoe about her visit to Conrad, and that she agreed with her assessment.

‘You see?’ Zoe said. ‘Conrad is innocent. He didn’t do it. We have to help him somehow.’

‘I don’t know what else we can do,’ said Mariana.

‘We have to do something. I’m pretty sure Tara was sleeping with someone else. Apart from Conrad. She hinted at it a couple of times … Maybe there’s a clue on her phone? Or her laptop? Let’s try and get into her room—’

Mariana shook her head. ‘We can’t do that, Zoe.’

‘Why not?’

‘I think we need to leave all that to the police.’

‘But you heard the inspector. They’re not looking – they made up their minds. We need to do something.’ She sighed heavily. ‘I wish Sebastian was here. He’d know what to do.’

Mariana accepted the implied rebuke. ‘I wish he were here too.’ She paused. ‘I was thinking. How about you come back to London with me for a few days?’

She knew, as soon as she said this, that it was the wrong thing to say. Zoe stared at her with a look of astonishment.

‘What?’

‘It might help, to get away.’

‘I can’t just run away. That won’t make any difference. Do you think that’s what Sebastian would say?’

‘No,’ said Mariana, suddenly feeling irritated. ‘But I’m not Sebastian.’

‘No,’ said Zoe, mirroring her irritation. ‘You’re not. Sebastian would want you to stay. That’s what he’d say.’

Mariana didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she decided to voice something – a worry that had been bothering her since their phone call last night.

‘Zoe. Are you sure … you’re telling me everything?’

‘About what?’

‘I don’t know. About this – about Tara. I keep thinking – I can’t escape the feeling you’re holding something back.’

Zoe shook her head. ‘No, nothing.’

She looked away. Mariana had a continuing feeling of doubt. It concerned her.

‘Zoe. Do you trust me?’

‘Don’t even ask that.’

‘Then listen. This is important. There’s something you’re not telling me. I can tell. I can sense it. So trust me. Please—’

Zoe hesitated, then weakened. ‘Mariana, listen—’

But then, glancing over Mariana’s shoulder, Zoe saw something – something that silenced her. A strange, fearful look flashed into Zoe’s eyes for a second – and then it was gone. She turned back to Mariana and shook her head. ‘There’s – nothing. Honest.’

Mariana turned to see what Zoe had seen. And there, standing by the chapel entrance, were Professor Fosca and his entourage – the beautiful girls in white dresses, deep in whispered conversation.

Fosca was lighting a cigarette. His eyes met Mariana’s through the smoke – and they stared at each other for a second.

Then the professor left the group and walked over to them, smiling. Mariana heard Zoe sigh slightly under her breath as he approached.

‘Hello,’ he said when he reached them. ‘I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself before. I’m Edward Fosca.’

‘I’m Mariana – Andros.’ She hadn’t meant to use her maiden name. It just came out like that. ‘I’m Zoe’s aunt.’

‘I know who you are. Zoe has told me about you. I’m very sorry about your husband.’

‘Oh,’ said Mariana, taken aback. ‘Thank you.’

‘And I’m sorry for Zoe,’ he said, glancing at her. ‘Having lost her uncle, and now having to grieve all over again for Tara.’

Zoe didn’t answer; she just shrugged, evading Fosca’s eyes.

There was something not being said by Zoe here – something being avoided. She’s afraid of him, Mariana suddenly thought. Why?

Mariana didn’t find Fosca remotely threatening. To her, he seemed completely genuine, and sympathetic. He gave her a heartfelt look. ‘I’m so sorry for all the students,’ he said. ‘This will devastate the whole year – if not the entire college.’

Zoe turned abruptly to Mariana. ‘I have to go – I’m meeting some friends for a drink. Do you want to come?’

Mariana shook her head. ‘I said I’d pop in to see Clarissa. I’ll find you later.’