Mrs. Shrew closes her eyes as if she’s in pain, but Genevieve gives Nazleen a bright smile and helps her to hand around the small envelopes.
“Please keep your own cards private,” Nazleen says. “And remember, you must answer all questions truthfully.”
Sadie tears open her envelope and pulls out a square card. Miss Lamb, it reads, In your last conversation with Lord Nightingale, he told you he used to be a friend of your mother’s. Sadie blinks and reads on. He said you must have been a great disappointment to your mother, turning up at grand houses in the hope of employment, unable to hold down a job.
Sadie’s pulse races. She knows this is about her character, but it feels disturbingly close to home—to her recent sacking from the shop, and to her belief that she was a disappointment to her own mother. It’s unnerving. She glances at the serious expressions of the other guests as they each read their private cards. Everett rips his into quarters and posts them in the empty gravy boat in front of him with a snort of disgust.
Sadie drops her gaze back to her own card and reads the second paragraph. Lord Nightingale told you there would never be a place for you at Raven Hall. “Over his dead body” was the phrase he used. He felt the same way as your mother—he knew you’d never amount to anything.
Sadie’s vision blurs. This is just a game, so why does it feel so personal—so nasty? At her side, Zach folds his card carefully in half and slides it into his jeans pocket.
“Is yours . . .” Sadie’s not sure what she wants to ask him. “Is yours what you expected? Does it—you know. Does it make sense, for your character?”
Zach frowns, hesitating, as if suspicious she might be cheating. “I think I’m close to working it out. Is there a prize, do you know, if we get the right answer?”
His oblique reply only disconcerts her more. Across the table, Joe, too, seems to have disposed of his card entirely. Genevieve has rolled hers into a tube, and she looks mildly bored. Mrs. Shrew’s envelope sits unopened next to her plate, and an uncomfortable silence hangs heavily in the room. Nazleen looks like she wants to say something, but she can’t seem to find the words needed to reignite their enthusiasm for the game.
Feeling distinctly uneasy, Sadie slides her card back into its envelope, the word disappointment rolling around in her mind like a marble in a jar. She’s never had a problem keeping a character’s story separate from her own life before, but this has touched a nerve.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Sadie draws herself up as everyone stares at her. She’s determined to regain her former good spirits, to stop being so oversensitive, and to move the game along now. “Come on, then. Who’s going to go first? The answer must be here somewhere.” She catches Joe’s eye. “Right, Colonel Otter, tell me . . .”
The group fires questions and answers across the table for a few minutes. Sadie suspects Genevieve at first, and then Everett. Zach acts as though he suspects her. Joe accuses Nazleen, who in turn accuses Zach. Apart from Mrs. Shrew, they’re all smiling, all making an effort . . . But somehow it still isn’t enough, and eventually the questions tail off. Sadie’s gaze rises to the portrait hanging at the head of the table, and she has the uncomfortable sensation that the stern man is glaring back down at her, rigid with disapproval.
“It’s all red herrings anyway,” Everett grumbles, leaning back in his chair. “They won’t give us all the information until tomorrow morning, will they? They can’t have the game solved before breakfast; that would never do.”
“Oh,” Sadie says, strangely comforted by this thought, “I suppose that’s true.”
On her other side, Zach gives a heavy sigh. “I’m sure I’ve almost got it. If I could just work out who . . .”
While the waiter clears their plates, Sadie drains her water glass and refills it, vowing not to drink any more wine. She has an odd, hollow feeling in her head, and a prickling sensation that the unseen clue writer knows too much about her. If that were true and they thought poorly of her, why would they have hired her? They wouldn’t. She’s being ridiculous. The waiter bustles out of the room, but he quickly returns with the dessert trolley, and all eyes swivel to the elegant glass dishes.
“Tropical fruit pavlova,” Nazleen murmurs.
Sadie wishes it were something simpler—what’s wrong with plain English strawberries and cream? The waiter sets down her bowl in front of her, and her throat closes; a peeled lychee, resembling nothing more than a ghostly eyeball, stares back at her from its bed of meringue. Her stomach churns, and she can’t tell whether it’s panic, but in that brief clammy moment, she’s seized by the overwhelming conviction that someone has been watching her . . .
She shoves her chair back, desperate to get away from the table, away from these strangers. She thinks she might faint if she stands up, but she lurches to her feet anyway.
“Are you okay?” Nazleen half stands, but Sadie composes herself and gestures for Nazleen to sit down again.
“Yeah, I’m just—” Sadie tries to keep her body language calm as she heads toward the door; she’s a little unwell, that’s all, and she can’t bear any fuss. “I just need some fresh air. Just give me a few minutes.”
It’s much cooler in the hall.
She stands in front of a huge gilt-framed mirror and rests her fingertips on the polished wood of the table beneath it. Slowly her heart rate settles, and the panic-inducing flashes of heat and cold on her skin ease. Perhaps it was something she ate. Perhaps it was just too warm in the dining room. She studies her reflection and gives herself a rueful grin: fancy seeing eyeballs in her pudding; how embarrassing. She feels well enough to go back and join the group now, but she’s struck with the idea of sending Wendy a quick text about this—it’ll make her laugh.
A clattering of pans somewhere at the back of the house jolts her into action—she’s supposed to be a sophisticated dinner guest; she doesn’t want to be caught lurking out here, pulling faces in the mirror. She hurries up the stairs, relieved to have a clear head again, but when she reaches her bedroom, she discovers that, just like Genevieve’s phone, hers has no reception.
Oh well. The humorous text to Wendy will have to wait.
Back out in the corridor, Sadie eyes up the other bedroom doors. She’s curious about her fellow guests. She’s learned all sorts of details about their game characters, but next to nothing about them as real people, and the chances are, she’ll never see them again after this weekend. She’ll probably never stay in such a grand house again either. In a couple of days’ time, she’ll be slumped on the sofa in her flat, browsing uninspiring job adverts and waiting for that big-break phone call from Wendy that never comes. But tonight, she has a chance to explore this mansion and to peek into the lives of the strangers she’s sharing it with.