The moment passed as quickly as it arose. In a second, the sun came out, and Mariana forgot all about it.

But she remembered it later, of course.

The next morning, Sebastian got up at dawn. He put on his old green trainers, and whispered to Mariana he was going for a run on the beach. He kissed her, and left.

Mariana lay in bed, half asleep, half awake, conscious of time passing – listening to the wind outside. What began as a breeze was picking up strength and speed, tearing through the olive branches with a kind of wail, rattling the trees against the windows, like long fingers impatiently rapping against the glass.

Mariana wondered for a moment how big the waves were – and if Sebastian had gone swimming, as he often did after a run. But she wasn’t worried. He was such a strong swimmer, such a strong man. He was indestructible, she thought.

The wind grew and grew, whirling in from the sea. But still, he didn’t come home.

Starting to worry, but trying not to, Mariana left the house.

She made her way down the steps in the cliff face, holding tightly onto the rock as she descended, for fear of being hurled off by the gale.

On the beach, there was no sign of Sebastian. The wind was whirling up the pink sand and hurling it at her face; she had to shield her eyes as she searched. She couldn’t see him in the water either – all she saw were massive black waves, churning up the sea all the way to the horizon.

She called his name. ‘Sebastian! Sebastian! Seb—’

But the wind flung the words back in her face. She felt herself starting to panic. She couldn’t think, not with that wind whistling in her ears – and, behind it, a never-ending chorus of cicadas, like hyenas screeching.

And fainter still, in the far distance, was that the sound of laughter?

The cold, mocking laugh of a goddess?

No, stop, stop – she had to focus, she had to concentrate, she had to find him. Where was he? He couldn’t possibly have gone swimming – not in this weather. He never would have been so stupid—

And then she saw them.

His shoes.

His old green trainers, neatly placed together on the sand … just by the water’s edge.

After that, everything was a blur. Mariana waded into the water, hysterical, howling like a harpy – screaming, screaming …

And then … nothing.

Three days later, Sebastian’s body washed up along the coast.

11

Nearly fourteen months had passed since then, since Sebastian’s death. But in many ways, Mariana was still there, still trapped on the beach in Naxos, and she would be forever.

She was stuck, paralysed – as Demeter had once been, when Hades kidnapped her beloved daughter, Persephone, and took her to the Underworld to be his bride. Demeter broke down – overwhelmed by grief. She refused to move or be moved. She simply sat and wept. And all around her, the natural world grieved with Demeter: summer turned to winter; day turned to night. The earth fell into mourning; or, more accurately, melancholia.

Mariana related to this. And now, as she drew closer and closer to St Christopher’s, she found herself walking with increasing trepidation, as the familiar streets made it hard to hold back the memories flooding into her mind – ghosts of Sebastian were waiting on every corner. She kept her head low, not looking up, like a soldier trying to pass unnoticed in enemy territory. She had to pull herself together if she were to be any use to Zoe.

That’s why she was here – for Zoe. God knows Mariana would rather never see Cambridge again. And it was proving harder than she thought – but she’d do it for Zoe. Zoe was all she had left.

Mariana turned off King’s Parade, onto the uneven cobbled street she knew so well. She made her way along the cobbles, up to an old wooden gate at the end of the street. She looked up at it.

St Christopher’s College gate was at least twice her height, and set in an ancient, ivy-clad red brick wall. She remembered the first time she ever approached this gate – when she came from Greece for an admissions interview, barely seventeen years old, feeling so small and fraudulent, so scared and alone.

How funny, to be feeling exactly the same way now, nearly twenty years later.

She pushed open the gate and went inside.

12

St Christopher’s College was there, just as she remembered it.

Mariana had been afraid to see it again – the backdrop to her love story – but thankfully, the college’s beauty came to her rescue. And her heart didn’t break – it sang.

St Christopher’s was among the oldest and the prettiest of the Cambridge colleges. It was made up of several courtyards and gardens leading down to the river, and built in a combination of architectural styles – Gothic, neoclassical, Renaissance – as the college had been rebuilt and expanded over the centuries. It was a haphazard, organic growth – and, Mariana thought, all the lovelier for it.

She was standing by the porter’s lodge in Main Court – the first and largest courtyard. An immaculate green lawn spread out in front of her, up to the dark-green wisteria-covered wall at the opposite end of the courtyard. The greenery, peppered by splashes of white climbing roses, hung over the bricks like an elaborate tapestry, all the way to the walls of the chapel. There, the stained-glass windows gleamed green and blue and red in the sunlight, and from inside, the college choir could be heard practising, their voices soaring in harmony.

A whispering voice – Sebastian’s voice, perhaps? – told Mariana she was safe here. She could rest, and find the peace she craved.

Her body relaxed, almost with a sigh. She felt a sudden and unfamiliar sense of contentment: the age of these walls, these columns and arches, untouched by time or change, made her momentarily able to put her grief into some kind of perspective. She saw that this magical place did not belong to her or Sebastian; it was not theirs – it belonged to itself. And their story was only one in a myriad that had taken place here, no more important than any other.

She looked around, smiling, taking in the hive of activity around her. Although term had recently begun, last-minute preparations were ongoing, and there was a palpable sense of anticipation, like in a theatre just before a performance. A gardener was mowing the grass on the other side of the lawn. A college porter, in a black suit and bowler hat, and a large green apron, was reaching up into the archways and nooks and crannies high above, using a long pole with a feather duster at the end of it, whisking away cobwebs. Several other porters were lining up long wooden benches on the lawn, presumably for matriculation photographs.

Mariana watched a nervous-looking teenager, obviously a first-year student, making his way through the courtyard, accompanied by a pair of bickering parents clutching suitcases. She smiled fondly.

And then, across the courtyard, she saw something else – a dark cluster of uniformed police officers.

And Mariana’s smile slowly faded.

The police officers were emerging from the dean’s office, accompanied by the dean. Even from this distance Mariana could see the dean was red-faced and flustered.

This could only mean one thing. The worst had happened. The police were here – and so Zoe was right. Tara was dead, and it was her body that had been found by the marsh.

Mariana needed to find Zoe. Now. She turned and hurried towards the next courtyard.

Distracted by her thoughts, she didn’t hear the man calling her name until he said it twice.

‘Mariana? Mariana!’

She turned around. A man was waving at her. She squinted at him, unclear who he was. But he seemed to know her.

‘Mariana,’ he said again, this time with more confidence. ‘Wait there.’

Mariana stopped. She waited as the man crossed the cobbles towards her, smiling broadly.

Of course, she thought. It’s Julian.

It was his smile Mariana recognised, rather a famous smile these days.

Julian Ashcroft and Mariana had studied psychotherapy together in London. She hadn’t seen him in years, except on television – he was a frequent talking head on news shows or true-crime documentaries. He specialised in forensic psychology – having written a bestselling book about British serial killers and their mothers. He seemed to take a prurient delight in madness and death, which Mariana found slightly distasteful.

She studied him as he approached. Julian was in his late thirties now, and about medium height, wearing a smart blue blazer, crisp white shirt, and navy-blue jeans. His hair was artfully messy, and he had striking light-blue eyes – and a perfect white smile, which he frequently employed. There was something slightly artificial about him, Mariana thought, which probably made him just right for television.

‘Hello, Julian.’

‘Mariana,’ he said as he reached her. ‘What a surprise. I thought it was you. What are you doing here? Not with the police, are you?’

‘No, no. My niece is a student here.’