‘What is it?’

‘A letter. It’s for you – it explains my feelings better than I can in person. Read it. Then you’ll understand.’

‘I don’t want it.’

He thrust it at her again. ‘Mariana. Take it.’

‘No. Stop. I will not be bullied.’

‘Mariana—’

But she turned and left. As she made her way down the street, she felt anger at first, then a surprising twinge of sadness – then regret. Not at having hurt him, but at having rejected him, having closed the door to this other narrative that might have been.

Was it possible? Could Mariana ever have grown to love him, this serious young man? Could she hold him at night, and tell him her stories? Even as she thought this, she knew it was impossible.

How could she?

She had too much to tell. And it was for Sebastian’s ears alone.

When Mariana returned to St Christopher’s, she didn’t immediately go to her room. Instead, she drifted through Main Court … and into the building that housed the buttery.

She wandered along the darkened passage until she was face to face with the painting.

The portrait of Tennyson.

The picture had been on her mind – and she kept thinking about it, without quite knowing why. Sad, handsome Tennyson.

No – not sad – that wasn’t the right word to describe the look in his eyes. What was it?

She searched his face, trying to read the expression. Again, she had the strange feeling he was looking past her, just over her shoulder – staring at something … something just out of sight.

But what?

And then, suddenly, Mariana understood. She understood what he was looking at; or, rather, who.

It was Hallam.

Tennyson was staring at Hallam – at Hallam, standing just beyond the light … behind the veil. That was the look in his eyes. The eyes of a man communing with the dead.

Tennyson was lost … He was in love with a ghost. He had turned his back on life. Had Mariana?

Once, she thought she had.

And now—?

Now, perhaps … she wasn’t so sure.

Mariana stood there for a moment longer, thinking. Then, as she turned to walk away … she heard some footsteps. She stopped.

A man’s hard-soled shoes were slowly walking along the stone floor of the long gloomy passage …

And he was getting closer.

At first, Mariana couldn’t see anyone. But then … as he drew nearer, she saw something moving in the shadows … and the glint of a knife.

She stood there, frozen, scarcely daring to breathe, trying to see who it was. And then, slowly … Henry emerged from the darkness.

He stared at her.

He had a horrible look in his eyes; not entirely rational, slightly manic. He’d been in a fight, and his nose was bleeding. There was blood smeared on his face and spattered on his shirt. He was holding a knife, about seven or eight inches long.

Mariana tried to sound calm and unafraid. But she couldn’t keep a slight tremor out of her voice.

‘Henry? Please put down the knife.’

He didn’t answer. He just stared at her. His eyes were huge, like lamps, and he was clearly high on something.

‘What are you doing here?’ she said.

Henry didn’t reply for a moment. ‘Needed to see you, didn’t I? You won’t see me in London, so I had to come all the way here.’

‘How did you find me?’

‘Saw you on the telly. You were standing with the police.’

Mariana spoke cautiously. ‘I don’t recall that. I’ve done my best to avoid being caught on camera.’

‘You think I’m lying? You think I followed you here?’

‘Henry, it was you who broke into my room, wasn’t it?’

A hysterical tone crept into his voice. ‘You abandoned me, Mariana. You – you sacrificed me—’

‘What?’ Mariana stared at him, unnerved. ‘Why – did you use that word?’

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

He raised the knife, and took a step towards her. But Mariana held her ground.

‘Put down the knife, Henry.’

He kept walking. ‘I can’t go on like this. I need to free myself. I need to cut myself free.’

‘Henry, please stop—’

He held up the knife, as if preparing to strike. Mariana felt her heart racing.

‘I’m going to kill myself right now, in front of you,’ he said. ‘And you’re going to watch.’

‘Henry—’

Henry raised the knife higher, and then—

‘Oi!’

Henry heard the voice behind him and turned around – as Morris charged out of the shadows – and lunged at Henry. They wrestled for the knife – and Morris easily overpowered him, throwing him aside as if he were made of straw. Henry landed in a crumpled heap on the floor.

‘Leave him alone,’ Mariana said to Morris. ‘Don’t hurt him.’

She went over to Henry, to help him up – but he shoved away her hand.

‘I hate you,’ he said, sounding like a little boy. His red eyes filled with tears. ‘I hate you.’

Morris called for the police, and Henry was then arrested, but Mariana insisted he needed psychiatric care – and he was taken to the hospital, where he was sectioned. He was prescribed antipsychotic medication and Mariana arranged to speak to the consultant psychiatrist in the morning.

She blamed herself for what had happened, of course.

Henry was right: she had sacrificed him, and the other vulnerable people in her care. If she had been available, as Henry needed her to be, it might not have come to this. That was the truth.

And now Mariana had to make sure this enormous sacrifice was not in vain … whatever the cost.

18

It was nearly one in the morning by the time Mariana got back to her room. She was exhausted, but too wide awake to sleep, too anxious and wound up.

The room was cold, so she turned on the old electric heater attached to the wall. It couldn’t have been used since the previous winter – as it heated up, there was the heavy smell of burning dust. Mariana sat there, on the hard, upright wooden chair, staring at the electric bar glowing red in the dark, feeling its heat, listening to it hum. She sat there, thinking – thinking about Edward Fosca.

He was so smug, so sure of himself. He thinks he’s got away with it, she thought. He thought he had won.

But he hadn’t. Not yet. And Mariana was determined to outsmart him. She had to. She would sit up all night and think, and work it out.

She sat there for hours, in a vigil, a kind of trance – thinking, thinking – going over everything that had happened since Zoe first called her on Monday night. She went over every event of the story, all the various strands – examining it all from every angle, trying to make sense of it – trying to see clearly.

It must be obvious – the answer must be right there in front of her. But still, she couldn’t grasp it – it was like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle in the dark.

Fred would say that in some other universe, Mariana had already figured it out. In some other universe, she was smarter.

But not this one, unfortunately.

She sat there until her head hurt. Then, at dawn, exhausted and depressed, she gave up. She crawled into bed, and immediately fell fast asleep.

As Mariana slept, she had a nightmare. She dreamed that she was searching for Sebastian through desolate landscapes, trudging through wind and snow. She finally found him – in a shabby hotel bar, in a remote Alpine mountain hotel, during a snowstorm. She greeted him, overjoyed – but, to her horror, Sebastian didn’t recognise her. He said she had changed – that she was a different person. Mariana swore over and over that she was the same: It’s me, it’s me, she cried. But when she tried to kiss him, he pulled away. Sebastian left her, and went out into the snowstorm. Mariana broke down, weeping, inconsolable – and Zoe appeared, wrapping her in a blue blanket. Mariana told Zoe how much she loved Sebastian – more than breathing, more than life. Zoe shook her head, and said that love only brings sorrow, and that Mariana should wake up. ‘Wake up, Mariana.’

‘What?’

‘Wake up … Wake up!’

Then, suddenly, Mariana woke up with a start – in a cold sweat, with her heart racing.

Someone was banging on the door.

19

Mariana sat up in bed, her heart pounding. The banging continued.

‘Wait,’ she called out, ‘I’m coming.’

What time is it? Bright sunlight was creeping around the edges of the curtains. Eight? Nine?

‘Who’s there?’

There was no reply. The banging got louder – as did the banging in her head. She had a throbbing headache; she must have drunk a lot more than she thought.

‘Okay. Just a second.’

Mariana pulled herself out of bed. She was disorientated and groggy. She dragged herself to the door. She unlocked and opened it.

Elsie was standing there, poised to knock again. She smiled brightly.

‘Good morning, dear.’

She had a feather duster under her arm, and was clutching a bucket of cleaning materials. Her eyebrows were painted on in a stern angle that made her look rather frightening – and she had an excited glint in her eye, a glint that struck Mariana as sinister and predatory.

‘What time is it, Elsie?’