I shiver a little, though whether it is from the temperature or the excitement I’m not sure.
I glimpse a rough blanket folded on the back seat beside my bag. As I twist and lean over to get it I’m forced to clamber about a bit. Ben grinds the gears rather dramatically.
“Car troubles?” I ask sympathetically, dropping back into the seat. “If it helps, I think you might be trying to change up too quickly.”
“The only problem I have is you flailing around while I’m trying to concentrate,” he snaps.
“I’m cold,” I say. “I needed the blanket.” I drag it around my shoulders, welcoming the warmth it brings.
We travel on in silence, which is fine by me – I am happy just to sit and strain my eyes against the darkness for any clues about our whereabouts. I am in Italy, I think, as Ben hums beneath his breath and the car heaves itself along. I am really here; it is really happening.
Suddenly, Ben turns the steering wheel sharply to the left and, as we judder along over the dirt road, a row of cypress trees appears, their knife-like silhouettes cutting dense shadows against the inky sky. Moments later, lights blaze into view: burning torches dug into the ground that reveal a rough driveway and a long, imposing wall with an arch carved in the middle. It looks like a fortress, the shadows of the trees playing eerily across the stone in the firelight. It’s as though we’ve been dropped unceremoniously into the past.
“No electricity outside the house,” Ben explains, gesturing to the torches. It must be the early hours of the morning now and everything is silent as we trundle through the archway into a sort of courtyard. The car comes to a stop and the weak glow from its headlamps is extinguished.
I take a deep breath; there’s a clinging, heavy scent in the air that’s sweet, like jasmine. Ben steps out of the car and I do the same, slipping out from under the blanket and stretching my cramped limbs.
“We’re here,” I say into the night. I can’t believe it.
Ben picks up my bag and deposits it with a thud at my feet. “What gave it away?” he asks.
I ignore him. My eyes adjust to the velvet darkness, and I make out rough walls and a tall crenellated tower that looms over us like something from a fairy tale.
Ben reaches into the car and leans on the horn for a moment. The short, sharp blast shatters the silence as definitively as a gunshot.
“They’re expecting you,” he says, and then he leaps back in and starts the car, driving away through another archway at the other end of the courtyard, and leaving me standing alone in the dark.
For a second, I let the sensation of finally being here wash over me. I close my eyes and listen to the crickets chirrup into the night and I breathe in that heady, perfumed air, relishing the unfamiliarity of it all. Then I reach down and pick up my bag, deciding that I’ve done quite enough waiting. It’s time to take my destiny into my own hands, and that means finding a way into this building.
Then, as though I have summoned it myself, a light appears, a fine silver crescent carved into the impenetrable wall, widening like a waxing moon.
It is a doorway, I realize, and it is opening to let me in.
CHAPTER SIX
“Bea!” A figure tumbles through the door and throws herself into my arms. I stiffen for just a moment, unused to such a spontaneous display of affection, and then close my arms around her in a tight hug.
“Hero!” My fourteen-year-old cousin pulls away, and the light from the open door spills across her sweet, pretty face, turned to look up at me.
“I can’t believe you’re here! I’m so happy!” She dances from foot to foot and I suddenly feel … wanted. The feeling is so unfamiliar that it swamps me, too big for me to quite understand. I suppose I’m more used to feeling like I am in the way. I swallow and give myself a mental shake. I must be overwrought from the journey.
“I’m so happy too,” I say, pulling her towards me for another hug, resting my cheek against her blonde curls. “And you’ve grown!”
Hero laughs. “I should hope so. It has been three years, you know.” I remember the last time I saw her at her mother’s funeral, pale and pinched and small under all the black clothing that hung heavy on her slender frame.
“And it’s a good job too,” my cousin continues now. “Fancy being stuck with a name like Hero and being so short. What an embarrassment.”
Ah yes, Aunt Thea had been quite a fan of the tale of Hero and Leander – especially the part where the two lovers are punished for their “promiscuity” by being killed off. That woman never missed an opportunity to revel in the misfortune of others. I glance at my cousin – her easy good nature could not be more different from her mother’s.
“Don’t keep her out there all night, Hero!” a bluff, cheerful voice calls and we look back to face the doorway.
I turn and move forward to greet my uncle, heading through the open door and into a well-lit hallway that leaves me blinking as my eyes adjust. The room is chamber-like, with high stone walls and a brightly woven rug on a flagstone floor. A large wooden chandelier hangs above us like an enormous old carriage wheel: a touch of the old, though the lights attached to it buzz with electricity. Several doors lead off this room and I’m already itching to open them and explore what lies behind. The huge stone staircase that dominates the hall climbs one flight and then forks into two different directions, smooth, broad steps snaking away into the darkness.
It is chilly in here, almost the same temperature as it is outside. I turn to face my uncle and see that he is smiling. He also looks younger than the last time I saw him, stouter and happier with a rough red beard. I do remember him being fractionally warmer than his frosty wife, which is certainly not saying much – I think a block of ice would be warmer than Aunt Thea was – but I certainly don’t remember him being as relaxed and rumpled as he is now. In my mind’s eye I picture him, neat and particular. I hesitate, not quite sure how to greet him, but before I can decide on the appropriate words he folds me into a hug.
When he releases me I catch my breath. His welcome is surprising, to say the least. We have never been particularly close, but his happiness seems genuine. His gaze moves between Hero and me with the sort of indulgent fondness I have never seen on my own father’s face. I frown, trying to match up the man in front of me with the reserved and formal figure of my memory.
“It’s about time your parents sent you out here,” he says. “This little sprite has been longing to see you.” He gestures towards Hero, who is beaming and barefoot, her warm fingers clamped around my wrist, tethering us together.
“It’s going to be so much fun!” she says. “The others are so excited to meet you.”
“The others?”
“Bea, we have so much to talk about. Do you remember the puppies in the barn?” Hero tugs at my arm, ignoring my question, her words coming out so quickly that they fall over each other. “Mother was so mean not to let me keep one, and that scolding she gave us… Oh, but you got revenge, didn’t you? Remember the toad?”
I flush a little at that, my eyes darting towards my uncle. On a long-ago visit to Langton Hall I had taken ten-year-old Hero to see a litter of puppies being born – an educational activity of which Aunt Thea had decidedly not approved. Following a lengthy telling-off and a sermon on propriety, I had retaliated by slipping a toad into her bed. I don’t regret it, but I also don’t want Uncle Leo to think I’m a troublemaker. My parents have probably already hinted at that fact.