‘Why should you? It’s hard to be selfless about sacrifices that other people make on your behalf, no matter how much you love them.’
‘I know, but I don’t want to be that person. Just now, when you were talking about Jonathan getting married, I was so jealous I could have screamed.’ Nora smiled apologetically. ‘I thought I’d see her married, Em – properly married, not that mockery of a wedding we had to go through at the convent.’ She thought back to the scene and how picturesque it had all been, how deceptively gentle – a procession of nuns holding lighted tapers with the new novices in the middle, dressed as brides. She had watched while her daughter knelt before the priest at the altar and asked for God’s mercy; watched as the young women were led away to have their hair cut, with tears pouring down her cheeks as Jenna’s long, blonde hair fell to the floor like a light extinguished. The mother superior had dressed her in a girdle and veil, and all Nora could think about, stupidly, was how hot the habit would be in the summer and whether or not the veil would protect her daughter’s pale skin from the sun – ordinary, motherly things that she really had no right to consider any more, because now someone else was Jenna’s mother. ‘They even had a wedding cake in the refectory afterwards,’ she said, trying to laugh, but the words came out in a strangled sob as she thought about all the things she had taken for granted. ‘I thought I’d be planning her wedding, I’d be the one by her side when she was having last-minute doubts or trying on her dress. And now I can’t even call her by the name I gave her at birth. She’s Sister Mary Theresa, but I have no idea who that is.’ It was the first time she had used the name, and it broke her. ‘Why, Emily?’ she demanded through her tears. ‘Why did she have to be that way? Why couldn’t it be someone else’s daughter?’
‘I can’t answer that, Nora. No one can except Jenna and God. I suppose it’s what He wanted for her.’
‘And what about what I wanted for her?’ Afterwards, Nora couldn’t remember if she had screamed the words aloud or said them only in her head. She swung round, lashing out at her friend, and the next thing she knew, Emily was lying on the floor with blood seeping from a wound in her head. She was horribly still.
Nora looked at the figure in her hands as if it had nothing to do with her, but the stain of red on the newly painted wood brought her back to her senses and she let it fall to the floor as if it had burnt her. She rushed to the door to lock it, terrified that someone might come in before she had decided what to do. Emily was partially obscured by the counter where she had been standing, and Nora knelt down to check her pulse, trying not to recoil from the blood that had begun to matt her hair and stain the collar of her blouse. There was nothing, and Nora began to cry again, shaking her friend’s shoulders and begging her to wake up, but the only response was a noise from the floor above, a soft thud like the closing of a door. To her horror, Nora realised that she had no idea if anyone else was on the premises; Emily had lived alone since her husband died, but she was popular with the villagers, and as she had said only a few minutes ago, the kettle was invariably on, waiting for visitors.
She took one of the dust sheets from a pile of boxes behind the counter and covered Emily’s body with it, then dragged the boxes across the floor to cut off any prying glances from the window at the side of the building. Her heart was pounding as the shock of what she had done threatened to overwhelm her, and she tried to calm her breathing before climbing the stairs, which came out onto a narrow landing. Emily’s sitting room was straight ahead and she began to panic when she saw a coat draped over the arm of a chair, but relaxed when she recognised it as Emily’s own mackintosh. ‘Hello?’ she called out, trying to keep her voice as normal as possible. ‘Hello?’ The silence gave her courage, and she was relieved to find the room empty except for a black-and-white cat sitting by a pile of books that had toppled over onto the floor, staring at Nora as if to say that the accident had nothing to do with him. That must have been the noise she had heard, but the explanation didn’t comfort her, and as the cat began to rub round her legs, oblivious to what she had done, Nora’s guilt hit her with all the force of a blow.
She hurried back downstairs, conscious that she would soon be missed at the castle, but still at a loss to know what to do. For a moment, she considered fetching Tom, but the harbour was always busy at this time of day; it would be impossible to bring him here without attracting somebody’s attention. In any case, she realised sadly, she couldn’t rely on him to save her. Emily was like family to them both, and he was a good man with a strong sense of right and wrong. He would make her go to the police and explain that what she had done was an accident, putting his faith in a justice which he never questioned – but she knew different. There was no justice in the world, the last few months had taught her that, and she didn’t want to die for what her grief had made her do.
The urge to survive was sudden and primitive, and its strength took her by surprise; for months she had believed that there was no point in going on, but now, faced with the prospect of giving her own life for the one she had taken, she wanted nothing more than to live. Possibilities raced through her mind, some more plausible than others. The causeway was open at the moment and anyone could access the island. If she took some of the more valuable objects from the displays when she left, people would think that Emily had disturbed a burglar, a stranger to the Mount whose guilt would shame no one. She had read somewhere that crime always went up at Christmas as people struggled to pay their debts, and why should that be any different here?
There was no time to think more logically. She picked the nativity figure up from the floor and took it through to Emily’s workroom to wash it in the tiny sink, but a noise from the floor stopped her in her tracks, a terrible, hollow gurgling that came from Emily’s throat. She looked back and stared in horror as the dust sheet – now stained with blood – stirred almost imperceptibly, as if her friend was trying to lift her arm. ‘No, please God, no,’ she whispered, but the movement came again, stronger this time, and Nora began to whimper like an animal, torn between a longing for her friend to live and the possibility of escape which she had so briefly glimpsed. She looked round, desperate for an answer, and saw the statue of St Michael through the museum window, standing above the lych-gate with his spear raised ready to strike; there was a judgement to be made, between good and evil, between life and death, and in that moment she knew that she was damned whatever she did.
She pulled the sheet back to see if she could help, forcing herself to look at Emily’s face. The wound was still pouring with blood, so Nora scrunched the material up and tried to stem the flow, begging all the time for her friend’s forgiveness, for a second chance for them both. Emily’s eyes and mouth were open, her lips moving in agitation, but no words came out, only a dreadful wheezing that grew more shallow and laboured by the second. Nora knew in her heart that there was no hope, but still she kept talking, praying for a miracle until the rise and fall of her friend’s chest – already barely perceptible – stopped altogether. There was a final, forlorn groan, so difficult to separate from her own despair that Nora half wondered if she had uttered it herself, then silence – a bleak, wretched silence that was the very opposite of peace.