Yes, she thought. That’s what I’ll do – I’ll call Ruth, and see her in London tomorrow.

But first, she had an appointment tonight, here in Cambridge.

At eight o’clock she had dinner – with Edward Fosca.

11

At eight o’clock, Mariana made her way to Fosca’s rooms.

She stared at the large, imposing door. Professor Edward Fosca was painted in white calligraphic writing on a black plaque by the door.

She could hear classical music coming from inside. She knocked. No reply.

She knocked again, louder. No response for a moment, and then— ‘It’s open,’ said a distant voice. ‘Come on up.’

Mariana took a breath, steadied herself – and opened the door. She was greeted by an elm staircase: old, narrow, and uneven in places where the wood had warped. She had to watch her step as she climbed up.

The music was louder now. It was Latin, a religious aria or a psalm set to music. She had heard it before, somewhere, but couldn’t quite place where. It was beautiful but ominous, with pulsating strings like a heartbeat, ironically mimicking Mariana’s own anxious heartbeat as she ascended the stairs.

At the top, the door was ajar. She went inside. The first thing she saw was a large cross hanging in the hallway. It was beautiful – made of dark wood, ornate, Gothic, intricately carved – but its sheer size made it intimidating, and Mariana hurried past it.

She entered the living room. It was hard to see; the only light was from the half-melted, misshapen candles dotted around. It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the stygian gloom, thick with burning incense; its black smoke further diffusing the light from the candles, making it harder to see.

It was a large room, with windows overlooking the courtyard. Several doors led off to other rooms. The walls were covered with paintings, and shelves were crammed with books. The wallpaper was dark green and black, a repeating pattern of leaves and foliage with an unsettling effect – it reminded Mariana of being in a jungle.

There were sculptures and ornaments arranged on the mantelpiece and the tables: a human skull glowing in the gloom, and a small statue of Pan – shaggy-haired, clutching a wineskin, with the legs, horns, and tail of a goat. And next to it, a pinecone.

Suddenly, Mariana was sure she was being observed – she felt eyes on the back of her neck. She turned around.

Edward Fosca was standing there. She hadn’t heard him enter. Had he been in the shadows the whole time, watching her?

‘Good evening,’ he said.

His dark eyes and white teeth glinted in the candlelight, and his tousled hair was falling around his shoulders. He was wearing a black dinner jacket, crisp white shirt, and black bow tie. He looked extremely handsome, Mariana thought – and immediately felt angry with herself for thinking it.

‘I didn’t realise we were going to high table,’ she said.

‘We’re not.’

‘But you’re dressed—’

‘Ah.’ Fosca glanced at his clothes, and smiled. ‘I don’t often have the opportunity to dine with such a beautiful woman. I thought I’d dress for the occasion. Let me get you a drink.’

Without waiting for a reply, he pulled an open bottle of champagne from the silver ice bucket. He refilled his own glass, then poured one for Mariana. He handed it to her.

‘Thank you.’

Edward Fosca stood there for a moment, watching her, his dark eyes appraising her.

‘To us,’ he said.

Mariana didn’t echo the toast. She raised the glass to her lips and sipped the champagne. It was bubbly and dry, refreshing. It tasted good, and hopefully would settle her nerves. She took another sip.

There was a knock on the door downstairs. Fosca smiled. ‘Ah. That will be Greg.’

‘Greg?’

‘From the buttery.’

There was a flurry of footsteps – and Gregory, a nimbly footed, lithe waiter in waistcoat and tie, appeared with a hot-box in one hand and cold-box in the other. He smiled at Mariana.

‘Evening, miss.’ He glanced at the professor. ‘Should I—?’

‘Absolutely.’ Fosca nodded. ‘Go ahead. Set it up. I’ll serve us.’

‘Very good, sir.’

He disappeared into the dining room. Mariana gave Fosca a quizzical look. He smiled.

‘I wanted us to have more privacy than Hall could afford. But I’m not much of a chef – so I persuaded the buttery to bring Hall to us.’

‘And how did you do that?’

‘By means of a very large tip. I won’t flatter you by telling you how much.’

‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble, Professor.’

‘I’ve asked you before – please call me Edward. And it’s a pleasure, Mariana.’

He smiled and stared at her in silence. Mariana felt a little uncomfortable, and looked away. Her eyes drifted to the coffee table … and the pinecone.

‘What’s that?’

Fosca followed her gaze. ‘The pinecone, you mean? Nothing, just reminds me of home. Why?’

‘I seem to remember a slide of a pinecone, in your lecture on Eleusis.’

Fosca nodded. ‘Yes, indeed. That’s right. Each initiate into the cult was presented with a pinecone on entry.’

‘I see. Why a pinecone?’

‘Well, it’s not really about the pinecone itself. It’s what it symbolises.’

‘Which is?’

He smiled and stared at her for a moment. ‘It’s the seed – the seed inside the cone. The seed inside us – the spirit within the body. It’s about opening your mind to that. A commitment to looking inside and finding your soul.’

Fosca picked up the pinecone. He presented it to her.

‘I offer this to you. It’s yours.’

‘No, thank you.’ Mariana shook her head. ‘I don’t want it.’

She said that more sharply than she intended.

‘I see.’

Fosca gave her an amused smile. He replaced the pinecone on the table. There was a pause. A moment later, Greg emerged.

‘All done, sir. And the pudding is in the fridge.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Good night.’ He nodded at Mariana and left the room. Mariana heard him descending the steps and closing the door.

They were alone.

There was a pause, a tension between them as they stared at each other. Mariana, at any rate, felt it; she didn’t know what Fosca was feeling – what lay beneath that cool, charming manner of his. He was almost impossible to read.

He gestured into the next room.

‘Shall we?’

12

In the dark, wood-panelled dining room, the long table was covered with a white linen tablecloth. Tall candles burned in silver candlesticks. And a bottle of red wine had been decanted and was sitting on the sideboard.

Behind the table, out through the window, the oak tree that grew in the centre of the courtyard was visible against a darkening sky; stars were twinkling through the branches. In any other situation, thought Mariana, eating in this beautiful old room would be incredibly romantic. But not now.

‘Sit down,’ Fosca said.

Mariana went to the table. Two places had been set opposite each other. She sat, and Fosca walked to the sideboard, where the food had been laid out – a leg of lamb, roast potatoes, and a green salad.

‘Smells good,’ he said. ‘Trust me – this will be much better than if I attempted to cook something myself. I’ve a fairly sophisticated palate, but I’m pretty basic in the kitchen. Only the usual pasta recipes taught by an Italian mother to her son.’

He smiled at Mariana and picked up a large carving knife. It glinted in the candlelight. She watched as he quickly and deftly used the knife to carve the lamb.

‘You’re Italian?’ she said.

Fosca nodded. ‘Second generation. My grandparents came over on the boat from Sicily.’

‘You grew up in New York?’

‘Not really. New York State. A farm, in the middle of nowhere.’

Fosca served Mariana with several slices of lamb, a few potatoes, and some salad. He prepared a similar plate for himself.

‘And you grew up in Athens?’

‘I did.’ She nodded. ‘Just outside.’

‘How exotic. I’m jealous.’

Mariana smiled. ‘I could say the same about a farm in New York.’

‘Not if you went there. It was a dump. I couldn’t wait to get the hell out.’ His smile faded as he said this, and he looked quite different somehow. Harder, and older. He placed the plate in front of her. Then he took his own plate to the other side of the table and sat down. ‘I like it rare. I hope that’s okay.’

‘That’s fine.’

‘Bon appétit.’

Mariana looked at the plate in front of her. The slices of razor-thin lamb were so rare, so raw, that a shiny red puddle of blood was oozing out and spreading across the white china plate. She felt sick looking at it.

‘Thank you for agreeing to have dinner with me, Mariana. As I said in the Fellows’ Garden – you intrigue me. It’s always intriguing when someone takes an interest in me. And you’ve certainly done that.’ He chuckled. ‘This evening is my opportunity to return the favour.’

Mariana picked up her fork. But she couldn’t bring herself to eat the meat. Instead, she focused on the potatoes and salad, moving the green leaves away from the expanding pool of blood.

She could feel Fosca’s eyes on her. How chilly his gaze was – like a basilisk.