‘Her parents are boxing up her things today,’ she said. ‘I offered to do it. Save them the bother. They didn’t want me to, for some reason. No pleasing some people. I’m not surprised. I know what Tara thought of them. She told me. That Lady Hampton is a right stuck-up bitch – and no lady, let me tell you that. As for her husband …’

Mariana was only half listening, wishing Elsie would go away so she could focus. She went over to a small dressing table. She looked at it. There was a mirror with some photos stuck in the edges of the frame. One of the photographs was of Tara and her parents. Tara was incredibly beautiful, luminously so. She had long red hair, and exquisite features – the face of a Greek goddess.

Mariana considered the rest of the objects on the dressing table. A couple of perfume bottles, some makeup, and a hairbrush. She looked at the hairbrush. A strand of red hair was caught in it.

‘She had lovely hair,’ said Elsie, watching her. ‘I used to brush it for her. She loved me doing that.’

Mariana smiled politely. She picked up a small soft toy – a fluffy rabbit that was propped up against the mirror. Unlike Zoe’s old Zebra, battered and beaten up from years of abuse, this toy looked strangely new – almost untouched.

Elsie quickly solved the mystery.

‘I bought her that. She was so lonely when she first got here. Needed something soft to cuddle. So I got her the bunny.’

‘That was nice of you.’

‘Elsie’s all heart. I got her the hot-water bottle too. It gets awfully cold in here at night. That blanket they give them is no use – thin as cardboard.’ She yawned, looking a little bored. ‘Do you think you’ll be much longer, dear? Only I really ought to be getting on. I’ve another staircase to do.’

‘I don’t want to keep you. Perhaps … perhaps I could let myself out in a few minutes?’

Elsie deliberated for a second. ‘Alright. I’ll pop out and have a ciggie and get back to work. Pull the door closed when you leave.’

‘Thanks.’

Elsie left the room, shutting the door behind her. Mariana let out a sigh. Thank God for that. She looked around. She hadn’t found it yet, whatever it was she was seeking. She hoped she would recognise it when she saw it. Some kind of clue – an insight into Tara’s state of mind. Something that would help Mariana understand – but what was it?

She went over to the chest of drawers. She opened each drawer, examining the contents. A depressing, morbid task. It felt surgical, as if she were cutting open Tara’s body and picking through her internal organs. Mariana looked through all her most intimate possessions – her underwear, makeup, hair products, passport, driving licence, credit cards, childhood photographs, snapshots of herself as a baby, little reminders and notes she had written to herself, old shopping receipts, loose tampons, empty cocaine vials, loose tobacco, and traces of marijuana.

It was strange; Tara had vanished, just like Sebastian – leaving all her things behind. After we die, Mariana thought, all that remains of us is a mystery; and our possessions, of course, to be picked over by strangers.

She decided to give up. Whatever she was looking for wasn’t here. Perhaps it had never existed in the first place. She closed the last drawer, and went to leave the room.

Then, as she reached the door, something made her stop … and turn back. She glanced around the room one more time.

Her eyes rested on the corkboard on the wall above the desk. Notices, flyers, postcards, a couple of photos stuck into it.

One of the postcards was an image Mariana knew: a painting by Titian – Tarquin and Lucretia. Mariana stopped. She looked at it more closely.

Lucretia was in her bedroom, on the bed, naked and defenceless; Tarquin was standing above her – raising a dagger that was glinting in the light, and poised to strike. It was beautiful, but deeply unsettling.

Mariana pulled the postcard away from the board. She turned it over.

There, on the back, was a handwritten quotation in black ink. Four lines, in Ancient Greek:

?ν δ? π?σι γν?μα τα?τ?ν ?μπρ?πει:

σφ?ξαι κελε?ουσ?ν με παρθ?νον κ?ρ?

Δ?μητρο?, ?τι? ?στ? πατρ?? ε?γενο??,

τροπα?? τ? ?χθρ?ν κα? π?λει σωτ?ριαν.

Mariana stared at it, puzzled.

7

Mariana found Clarissa sitting in her armchair by the window, pipe in hand, surrounded by clouds of smoke, correcting a pile of papers on her lap.

‘May I have a word?’ said Mariana, hovering by the door.

‘Oh, Mariana? Are you still here? Come in, come in.’ Clarissa waved her into the room. ‘Sit.’

‘I’m not interrupting?’

‘Anything that takes me away from marking undergraduate essays is a truly welcome reprieve.’ Clarissa smiled and put down the papers. She gave Mariana a curious look as she sat on the sofa. ‘You’ve decided to stay?’

‘Just for a few days. Zoe needs me.’

‘Good. Very good. I’m so pleased.’ Clarissa relit her pipe and puffed away for a moment. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’

Mariana reached into her pocket and pulled out the postcard. She handed it to Clarissa. ‘I found this in Tara’s room. I was wondering what you make of it.’

Clarissa glanced at the picture for a moment, then turned it over. She raised an eyebrow and read the quotation out. ‘?ν δ? π?σι γν?μα τα?τ?ν ?μπρ?πει: σφ?ξαι κελε?ουσ?ν με παρθ?νον κ?ρ? Δ?μητρο?, ?τι? ?στ? πατρ?? ε?γενο??, / τροπα?? τ? ?χθρ?ν κα? π?λει σωτ?ριαν.’

‘What is it?’ asked Mariana. ‘Do you recognise it?’

‘I think … it’s Euripides. The Children of Heracles, if I’m not mistaken. You’re familiar with it?’

Mariana felt a flicker of shame that she’d never even heard of the play, let alone read it. ‘Remind me?’

‘It’s set in Athens,’ Clarissa said, reaching for her pipe. ‘King Demophon is preparing for war, to protect the city against the Mycenaeans.’ She wedged the pipe in the corner of her mouth, struck a match, and relit it. She spoke between puffs. ‘Demophon consults the oracle … to find out his chances of success … The quotation comes from that part of the play.’

‘I see.’

‘Does that help you?’

‘Not really.’

‘No?’ Clarissa waved away a cloud of smoke. ‘Where’s your difficulty?’

Mariana smiled at the question. Sometimes Clarissa’s brilliance made her a bit obtuse. ‘My Ancient Greek is a little rusty, I’m afraid.’

‘Ah … yes. Of course, forgive me—’ Clarissa glanced at the postcard, and translated it. ‘Roughly speaking, it says … “The oracles agree: in order to defeat the enemy and save the city … a maiden must be sacrificed – a maiden of noble birth—”’

Mariana blinked in surprise. ‘Noble birth? It says that?’

Clarissa nodded. ‘The daughter of πατρ?? ε?γενο?? – a nobleman … must be sacrificed to κ?ρ? Δ?μητρο? …’

‘“Δ?μητρο?”?’

‘The goddess Demeter. And “κ?ρ?”, of course, means—’

‘“Daughter.”’

‘That’s right.’ Clarissa nodded. ‘A noble maiden must be sacrificed to the daughter of Demeter – to Persephone, that is.’

Mariana felt her heart beating fast. It’s just a coincidence, she thought. It doesn’t mean anything.

Clarissa gave her the postcard with a smile. ‘Persephone was rather a vengeful goddess, as I’m sure you know.’

Mariana didn’t trust herself to speak. She nodded.

Clarissa peered at her. ‘Are you alright, my dear? You look a little—’

‘I’m fine … It’s just—’

For a second she considered trying to explain her feelings to Clarissa. But what could she say? That she had a superstitious fantasy this vengeful goddess had a hand in her husband’s death? How could she possibly say that out loud without sounding completely insane? Instead, she shrugged, and said, ‘It’s a little ironic, that’s all.’

‘What? Oh, you mean Tara being of noble birth – and being sacrificed, so to speak? Indeed, a most unpleasant irony.’

‘And you don’t think it could be more than that?’

‘Meaning what?’

‘I don’t know. Except … why was it there? In her room? Where did the postcard come from?’

Clarissa waved the pipe dismissively. ‘Oh, that’s easy … Tara was doing the Greek tragedy paper this term. It’s hardly beyond the realms of possibility for her to have copied a quotation from one of the plays, is it?’

‘No … I suppose not.’

‘It is a little out of character, I grant you that … As I’m sure Professor Fosca would attest.’

Mariana blinked. ‘Professor Fosca?’

‘He taught her Greek tragedy.’

‘I see.’ Mariana tried to sound casual. ‘Did he?’

‘Oh, yes. He is the expert, after all. He’s quite brilliant. You should see him lecture while you’re here. Very impressive. Do you know his lectures are by far the best attended in the faculty – students queue from downstairs to get in, sitting on the floor if they run out of seats. Have you ever heard of such a thing?’ Clarissa laughed, then added quickly, ‘Of course, one’s own lectures have always been very well attended. I’ve been very fortunate in that regard. But not to that degree, I must admit … You know, if you’re curious about Fosca, you should really talk to Zoe. She knows him best.’

‘Zoe?’ Mariana was taken aback by this. ‘Does she? Why?’