“Cult?” Joe says.
“Well, they call it a retreat. It’s in the Scottish Highlands. They do talking therapies, that kind of thing, and she’s convinced it’ll help her, but they’re really strict. No phones allowed, no visitors for the first six months, only one letter a month, things like that. She just went and joined them. I couldn’t talk her out of it.”
“It does sound a bit cultish.”
“That’s what I told her.” Beth drops her gaze, and she sighs. “But she thought I’d be better off if she left for a while. She thought I was too dependent on her, that because we saw each other all the time, she was stopping me from taking responsibility for myself . . .”
Joe hesitates. “And was that true?”
“No!” Sadie looks out over the black water. “At least, well . . . I did use to go round there a lot and let her go through the job adverts for me, you know, and cook me meals and stuff, but—” She shakes her head. “I miss her.”
“So . . .” Joe sounds confused. “How did you get invited here tonight if . . .”
“I don’t know.” Sadie rubs her arms. She pictures her mother falling through the ice with that other girl, Nina, and a thought slams into her, sending a shiver from her fingertips all the way up to her neck. What if I wasn’t picked for this job at random? What if someone invited me here because of the connection between this house and my mother?
* * *
* * *
Back in the drawing room, Sadie and Joe describe the footprints they saw heading down the driveway. The relief in the remaining guests’ voices is clear.
“It makes sense,” Zach says. “It’s not that long a walk to the B and B. I’m quite tempted myself.”
“Thought she was too good for us,” Everett grumbles.
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” Nazleen says.
Sadie is still reeling from the discovery that her mother once lived in this house, and she eyes the other guests curiously. So, Joe was once a friend of her mother’s, but what about the others? Everett would have been in his forties back then, she guesses, and Zach just a small child.
“Have you been here before?” she asks Nazleen abruptly.
“To this house?” Nazleen frowns. “No. Why do you ask?”
Sadie shakes her head. “No reason.”
But if Sadie’s presence here isn’t a coincidence—if someone at the company knows that her mother used to live here—why did they invite her here without explaining the connection? And who are they, anyway? Sadie frowns, thinking of the other names Joe mentioned outside—Leonora and Markus. Could it be one of them?
“Well, I’m going to bed.” Zach hauls himself up off the sofa. “Remind me not to do this sort of thing again, Dad, won’t you?”
Sadie wanders across to the window, wanting one last look outside before she, too, heads up. She feels self-conscious as she parts the curtains—imagine if Genevieve was back out there on the dock, smoking another cigarette and laughing at them. But it’s something far stranger—Sadie blinks and turns her head from side to side, trying to catch it in her peripheral vision. Tiny bluish lights flicker and jump in the darkness; with nothing else visible, it’s impossible to judge how far away they are.
“There’s something—” she says, and she can hear the fear in her voice, but she can’t hide it. The others hurry toward her—even Everett, who a moment ago was heaving himself out of his chair as if he barely had the energy to stand. They crowd round her, peering into the black night.
“There are tiny lights—look.” She turns a stricken face to Joe. “You don’t think Genevieve—?”
The others watch for a moment, and then Zach laughs.
“They’re will-o’-the-wisps,” he says. “Have you never seen them before?”
“It’s just marsh gas,” Joe says to Sadie, more kindly. “It’s a natural phenomenon. Nothing to do with Genevieve.”
“Oh.” Sadie lets the curtain drop back.
“Perfectly normal to see them . . . ,” Everett begins.
“In the Fens.” Nazleen sounds weary. “We know; we know. Well, it’s lucky we’ve seen them tonight, ’cause I, for one, certainly won’t be coming back.”
Sadie grinds her teeth against the thought that she ever contemplated trying to get the hostess job here for herself. Certainly not one of her better ideas. Especially now she knows of the connection between this house and her mother’s painful past.
The guests exchange muted good-nights at the top of the stairs, and as soon as Sadie is alone in her room, she kicks off her shoes and collapses with a groan onto the bed. Her eyes close instantly, and she’s tempted to sleep where she is, fully dressed—but a worrisome thought gnaws at the edge of her consciousness. She shouldn’t be feeling this tired; it’s not even midnight yet . . .
She hauls herself up and prepares for bed properly, trudging down the corridor to the bathroom to brush her teeth, relieved to get back to her room without bumping into any of her fellow guests. Her thoughts are sluggish, as if her mind were operating underwater. What was she thinking as she climbed the stairs? Something about the job. The hostess job . . .
She flips back the sheet and blankets, and she frowns as a new idea occurs to her. What if Nazleen’s wrong? What if there is no long-term hostess job? What if . . . Sadie forces herself to stay on her feet, determined to think this through before she sinks onto the soft mattress and allows her head to touch that oh-so-tempting pillow. What if this evening’s event is a one-off, designed to gather the seven of us together?
Sadie sways, a hint of her earlier nausea returning. She should have left when she had the chance. She should have volunteered to follow Genevieve’s footsteps. She could be tucked up safely in the cozy B and B by now, instead of being stuck here in this huge house with five complete strangers . . .
She lifts her gaze to the door. There’s a keyhole, but she hasn’t seen a key. She plods barefoot to the big cheval mirror and drags it across to just in front of the door, then stands back to assess the effect. Anyone could force their way in, still, but at least she’d have a warning now.
When she finally falls into bed, she pulls the sheet and blankets right up to her chin and holds them there, while images slide through her kaleidoscope mind. Blue, looping handwriting: Hendrik will be grateful for your support. The fair-haired old man in the portrait, looming over them. That fish eye, dead like a circular stagnant pool. The black, ominous surface of the lake, rippling, rippling . . .
Sadie doesn’t so much fall into sleep; she’s sucked down under its surface.