‘Not long.’
‘Did you do your reading?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
Her shoulders relax, and I can tell she’s finished admonishing me.
Tugging the collar of her gilet a little tighter, she says, ‘There’s a heaviness to the air, don’t you think? I thought the storm would break today, but all we’ve had is this spotty rain.’
‘We need a good downpour.’
‘We do. It’ll blow away all the cobwebs, freshen up the sky. Elijah, I don’t want to find you out here again, understand? This place, these woods …’ She hesitates, her eyes clouding over. ‘Promise me.’
‘I swear it, Mama.’
It’s an easy promise to make. She didn’t ask me to stay away, just to make sure she doesn’t find me. Trouble is, with Mama, even the slightest of wool-pulling feels sneaky. ‘What’re you doing here?’ I ask.
‘Thinking.’
‘About what?’
‘About you, about Kyle. About your father.’
‘What about us?’
‘Do you like living here, Elijah? Do you want to stay?’
I stare at her, dumbfounded. The estate, the cottage, the Memory Wood: it’s all I’ve ever known. My throat aches with the pressure of pent-up emotion. No! I want to shout. I hate it! I want to live in a house on a street, with pavements and lamp posts and neighbours. I want to go to a proper school, with other kids my own age. I want a mobile phone, with apps. I want my own chessboard, my own chess pieces. I want them to smell like Gretel’s, all buttery and sweet, and I want Gretel to live next door so I can see her whenever I want.
Instead, I say, ‘I love it here.’
Mama thrusts her hands into her pockets. ‘I’ll see you back at the house, Elijah,’ she says. ‘After today, I don’t want you out in these woods again.’
This time, if I acknowledge her words, I’ll trap myself, so I keep quiet. Mama watches me a moment longer. Then she turns and picks her way through the trees. It doesn’t take long for the Memory Wood to swallow her up.
At last, I’m alone again. It’ll be dark in an hour. I feel far colder than I should. Looking down, I see that my trainers are soaked through. As I walk, I think of the secret world beneath my feet: the damp cellar and its precious resident. I hear the whispery slither of rosewood as it rotates in Gretel’s fingers.
In this game, the most powerful person is the queen.
Gretel isn’t a queen, but she does have power. It’s only a matter of time before she uses it. When she does, the fallout will affect us all.
Everyone tells me I’m a clever clogs, a bright spark. But I’ve no clue what to do next. One thing I do know is that I have bad instincts, which means there’s a good chance that, whatever happens, I’ll choose the wrong path.
I’m still considering that when the report of a high-powered rifle tears the Memory Wood’s silence to shreds.
III
Around me, every pheasant, crow, magpie and jay explodes into the sky, a startled symphony of caws, shrieks and beating wings.
I’m still standing, which means I haven’t been shot. That wasn’t the sound of Kyle’s .22 but the crack of a supersonic bullet compressing the air.
Mama.
My heart rises into my throat. What if she’s been hit? An image comes to me of her lying prone, brains strewn about like so much grey Bolognese. I feel something inside my head quiver, as if a wall’s about to collapse, but no more than a few seconds pass before my pulse begins to slow. If Mama had been hit – if her thoughts and memories had been scattered across the soil – I’d know. I’d feel it like a cavity in my own head, and when I close my eyes and focus I’m sure that she’s OK. When I open them, I see someone emerge from the undergrowth that I wasn’t expecting: the lord of Rufus Hall and master of this estate – Leon Meunier.
IV
‘You,’ he hisses, crashing through dead leaves to reach me. ‘Good Christ, what have I told you, eh?’ He grabs me by the arm and turns me around, checking for what I can only imagine are bullet holes. ‘I’ve made it abundantly clear that these woods are off limits. How long have you been out here? What on earth have you been doing?’
I’m about to tell him I’ve just been playing, but then I remember how much that word seems to rile him. To the lord of Famerhythe, there’s work and there’s blood sport, and little else between.
Under a tweed jacket, his check shirt is paired with an olive tie embroidered with tiny kingfishers. Over the jacket is a hunter’s vest, the same shade of orange as Mama’s rucksack. Perhaps she was wearing it for the same reason: protection through visibility. Meunier’s grey hair, falling in slick ripples like those on a Roman bust, is partially hidden by a cloth cap. His nose is fleshy and pore-pitted. His lips are large for a man’s: plump fruits full of dark blood. By contrast, his eyes seem almost entirely lacking in colour.
‘Are you deaf or dumb or both?’ he demands, shouldering his rifle. ‘Well? Cough it out.’
‘I … I wasn’t doing any harm. I was just walking, sir.’
‘I could’ve put a bullet through you. Then where would we have been?’
Meunier glares at me a moment longer. Then a change seems to come over him. His fierce expression loosens. Those full lips push outwards, giving him the appearance of a Napoleon fish. ‘You’d better come with me,’ he says, releasing my arm. When he strides off through the trees, I know well enough to keep up.
‘What were you shooting at?’ I ask, after we’ve walked a few minutes in silence.
At first, Meunier doesn’t answer. As we skirt the clearing where the oldest Memory Trees grow, he crouches beside a sharp impression in the mud. ‘See that? The way the dew claws are set so far back?’
‘A boar. Did you get one?’
‘No. Blighter tore off just before I pulled the trigger.’
Meunier introduced boar into these woods years ago. With no natural predators – except for the man himself – their numbers have swelled. They’re scary as hell. If I hear one in the undergrowth, I bolt in the opposite direction.
It seems Meunier has read my thoughts, because he says, ‘They’re vicious shits. You surprise one – especially a mother with young – it’s more likely to attack than run away. If it gets its tusks into you, you’ve had it. Which is why you shouldn’t, under any circumstances, be wandering around these woods. Tell me you understand.’
‘I do.’
‘Say it.’
‘I understand.’
‘Better.’
Meunier climbs to his feet. He sets off again, and I trip along beside him. Five minutes later we emerge on to the lane that runs past Fallow Field. His Land Rover Defender is parked halfway across it. ‘Hop in,’ he says. ‘I’ll run you back home.’
I can’t refuse, even though the prospect makes me sick. That pressure inside my head returns, like a wall’s about to collapse. I don’t know what’s behind it, but I’m pretty sure it’s not good.
The Defender smells citrusy, as if it’s recently been cleaned. I’m almost too afraid to let my filthy trainers touch the floor.