Very slowly, she reached out and pushed open the door. It creaked as it opened.

Mariana looked inside and what she saw made her gasp. It looked as though someone had torn the room apart: all the drawers and cupboards were thrown open and rifled through, Mariana’s possessions strewn around, her clothes torn and ripped to pieces.

She quickly rang down to Morris at the porter’s lodge – and asked him to find a police officer.

A few moments later, Morris and a couple of policemen were in her room, inspecting the damage.

‘Are you sure nothing’s been stolen?’ said one officer.

Mariana nodded. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘We’ve not seen anyone suspicious leave the college. More likely to be an inside job.’

‘Looks like the work of a spiteful student,’ said Morris. He smiled at Mariana. ‘Been upsetting anyone, miss?’

Mariana ignored him. She thanked the police officers and agreed it probably wasn’t a burglary. They offered to check for fingerprints, and Mariana was about to agree – when she saw something that made her change her mind.

A knife, or some sharp instrument, had been used to carve a cross deep into the mahogany desk.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ she said. ‘I won’t take this any further.’

‘Well, if you’re sure.’

As they left the room, Mariana stroked the grooves of the cross with her fingertips.

She stood there, thinking about Henry.

And for the first time, she felt afraid of him.

11

I was just thinking about time.

About how maybe nothing ever really goes away. It’s been here the whole time – my past, I mean – and the reason it’s catching up with me is because it never went anywhere.

In some weird way I’ll always be there, always twelve years old – trapped in time, on that terrible day, the day after my birthday, when everything changed.

It feels like it’s happening to me right now as I write this.

My mother is sitting me down to tell me the news. I know something is wrong because she has brought me into the front sitting room, the one we never use, and sat me down on the uncomfortable wooden chair to break it to me.

I thought she was going to say she was dying, that she was terminally ill – that’s what the look on her face led me to believe.

But it was much worse than that.

She said she was leaving. Things with my father had been particularly bad – she was sporting a black eye and split lip to prove it. And she finally had found the courage to leave him.

I felt such a rush of happiness – ‘joy’ is the only word that approximates it.

But my grin quickly faded as I listened to my mother rattle off her immediate plans, involving staying on a cousin’s couch, then visiting her parents until she got on her feet – and it became obvious by the way she was avoiding my eye, and by what was not being said, that she was not taking me with her.

I stared at her in a state of shock.

I was unable to feel or think – I don’t remember much else of what she said. But she ended with a promise to send for me when she was settled in her new home. Which might as well have been on another planet, for all the reality that held for me. She was leaving me behind. Leaving me here. With him.

I was being sacrificed. Damned to hell.

And then, with that strange crass ineptitude she sometimes had, she mentioned she hadn’t yet told my father she was leaving. She wanted to tell me first.

I don’t believe she intended to tell him. This was her only goodbye – to me, here and now. Then, if she had any sense at all, she’d pack a bag and flee in the night.

That’s what I would have done.

She asked me to keep her secret, and promise not to tell. My beautiful, foolhardy, trusting mother – in many ways I was much older and wiser than she was. I was certainly more devious. All I had to do was tell him. Tell that raging madman of her plan to abandon ship. And then she would be prevented from going. I wouldn’t lose her. And I didn’t want to lose her.

Did I?

I loved her – didn’t I?

Something was happening to me – to my thinking. It began during that conversation with my mother, and the hours afterwards – a kind of slow, creeping awareness – a weird epiphany.

I thought she loved me.

But it turns out, there was more than one of her.

And now I started to see this other person, suddenly – I started to see her, there, in the background, watching while my father tortured me. Why didn’t she stop him? Why didn’t she protect me?

Why didn’t she teach me I was worth protecting?

She stood up for Rex – she held a knife to my father’s chest and threatened to stab him. But she never did that for me.

I could feel a fire burning – a rising anger, a rage that would not go out. I knew it was wrong – I knew I should curb it before it overwhelmed me. But instead, I fanned the flames. And I burned.

All the horrors I endured – I put up with them for her sake, to keep her safe. But she never put me first. It was every man for himself, it seemed. My father was right – she was selfish, spoiled, thoughtless. Cruel.

She needed to be punished.

I never could have said this to her then. I didn’t have the vocabulary. But years later I might have confronted her – in my early twenties, perhaps – when age had made me more articulate. And after one drink too many, after dinner, I’d turn on her, on this old woman, and try to hurt her, as she had once hurt me. I would list my grievances – and then, in my fantasy, she’d break down, prostrate herself and beg my forgiveness. And benevolently, I would bestow it.

What a luxury that would be – to forgive. But I never got that chance.

That night I went to bed, burning, hating … It felt like red-hot magma rising in a volcano. I fell asleep … and I dreamed I went downstairs, took a large carving knife out of the drawer, and used it to cut off my mother’s head. I hacked and sawed through her neck with the knife, until it was severed. Then I hid the head in her red-and-white-striped knitting bag – and put it under my bed, where I knew it would be safe. The body I disposed of – in the pit with the other carcasses – where no one would ever find it.

When I woke up from this dream, in the horrible yellow light of dawn, I felt groggy, disorientated – and afraid, confused about what happened.

I felt unsure enough to go downstairs into the kitchen to check. I opened the drawer where the knives were kept.

I took out the largest knife. I examined it, looking for any traces of blood. There were none. The blade glinted cleanly in the sunlight.

And then I heard some footsteps. I quickly hid the knife behind my back. My mother walked in, alive and unhurt.

Weirdly, seeing my mother with her head intact did nothing to reassure me.

In fact, I was disappointed.

12

The next morning, Mariana met Zoe and Clarissa for breakfast in Hall.

The fellows’ buffet was in an alcove to the side of high table. There was a generous selection of breads, pastries, and pots of butter, jams, and marmalades; and large silver terrines containing hot dishes, such as scrambled eggs, bacon, and sausages.

Clarissa was extolling the virtues of a big breakfast as they queued for the buffet. ‘It sets you up for the day,’ she said. ‘Nothing more important, to my mind. Kippers, usually, whenever possible.’

She contemplated the various options laid out before them. ‘But not today. Today, kedgeree, don’t you think? Good old-fashioned comfort food. So reassuring. Haddock, eggs, and rice. Can’t go wrong with that.’

Clarissa’s pronouncement was soon proved wrong, once they sat down and she took her first mouthful. She went bright red, choked – and pulled out a large fishbone from her mouth. She peered at it in alarm.

‘Good God. It seems the chef is out to kill us. Do be careful, my dears.’

Clarissa carefully picked through the rest of her fish with her fork, while Mariana gave them a report of her trip to London – relaying Ruth’s suggestion about organising a group session with the Maidens.

Mariana saw Zoe raise an eyebrow at this. ‘Zoe? What do you think?’

Zoe shot her a wary look. ‘I don’t have to be there, do I?’

Mariana hid her amusement. ‘No, you don’t have to be there, don’t worry.’

Zoe looked relieved, and shrugged. ‘Then go ahead. But I don’t think they’ll agree, to be honest. Not unless he tells them to.’

Mariana nodded. ‘I think you’re probably right about that.’

Clarissa nudged her arm. ‘Speak of the devil.’

Mariana and Zoe looked up – as Edward Fosca appeared at high table.

Fosca sat at the other end of the table from the three women. Sensing Mariana’s gaze, he looked up, and his eyes lingered on her for a few seconds. Then he turned away.

Abruptly, Mariana stood up. Zoe gave her an alarmed look.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Only one way to find out.’

‘Mariana—’

But she ignored Zoe, and walked to the other end of the long table, where Professor Fosca was sitting. He was nursing a black coffee, and reading a slim volume of poetry.

He became conscious of Mariana standing there. He looked up.

‘Good morning.’