‘“Mercy,” his enemy pleaded.
‘But the damsel demanded his head, and the knight obeyed. His blow fell hard; the head flew out onto the heath and the body crumpled.
‘Heedless of his wounds, the knight approached and cut the cord that bound the lady.
‘“Thank you, Sir Knight,” she said. “You have saved me from a grievous fate. What reward would you have?”
‘“Only a token, and perhaps a kiss.”
‘She laughed. “I will give you better than that.” She took his hand and led him around the back of the tree. “This is what the wicked knight sought from me.”
‘The good knight saw nothing. But the damsel reached into a hollow in the tree and pulled open the bark like a curtain. Within, the knight beheld a tree-root stair twisting down into the earth.
‘“This is my realm,” said she. “Come down, and I will give you your full reward.”
‘But the knight delayed, for he saw that the lady was an enchantress, and he feared what might befall him in her kingdom.
‘“Have no fear, Sir Knight. You may depart whenever you choose. All you must promise is that whatever you find, you must leave behind when you return. There is a great treasure in my castle, and many are the thieves who have tried to take it.”
‘Then the knight swore, and eagerly followed her down the twisting stair. And he was not disappointed, for the lady’s kingdom was just as she had said. She had a fair castle with a great hall and galleries, and every room was piled with treasure. Servants came to dress his wounds; they served wine in golden cups, and a haunch of venison cooked with hot pepper. And the knight thought there had never been a place so wondrous.
‘He stayed there a year and a day. At night he feasted and took his pleasure with the lady, and in the daytimes he hunted and never came home empty-handed, for she had hounds who never lost the scent, and a bow whose arrows always hit their mark.
‘But eventually he grew weary of this constant leisure, and thought he would return to his own world. And as he took his leave, he spied a goblet of fine, pure gold, set with precious stones. And though it was small and plain next to the other treasures in the castle, yet he thought it was the most beautiful piece he had ever seen.
‘“She has so much treasure here she will not miss this one small cup,” he said to himself. “And they will never believe me at Arthur’s court if I do not take back some proof of where I have been.”
‘So he slipped the cup inside his tunic and stole out of the castle. He climbed the twisting stair, hurrying until he reached the top. He could see sunlight through the hole in the tree and the green leaves beyond. For the first time in a year he could smell the air of our world.
‘But he had forgotten the cup in his tunic. The moment he set foot on the threshold of our world, the earth began to tremble. The jaws of the tree snapped shut; the tree-roots withered to dust, and he fell back to the ground. And when he limped back to the castle, the towers were torn down and the rooms empty; the treasure had vanished.
‘The lady received him in her great hall. Her eyes were like drops of ice, her skin white as bone. “You have broken your oath,” she told him. “Now you can never leave my kingdom.” And she cast him into a dungeon, and whatever he ate tasted like ash in his mouth, and whatever he drank never slaked his thirst.’
‘Go on,’ I say. ‘What happened next? How did the knight escape?’
My mother puts down her harp and folds her hands in her skirt. ‘He never did. He had broken his promise, and he could not return to this world.’
I haven’t told this story as well as my mother told it. Perhaps because I don’t like it. Surely, I think, there is always a way back?
VII
Ellie’s first week at the bank felt like the longest of her life. On Friday night she ordered a pizza and ate it in bed, trying not to drip grease or tomato sauce on the eighteenth-century woodwork. She slept for twelve hours and was still tired when she woke. She stayed in bed with her laptop and her phone, grinding down the week’s backlog and watching the clouds hang over London. Doug was at a conference in Nottingham, which had seemed like a pity when he arranged it, but was now a relief.
At four in the afternoon, she realised she was starving. She got out of bed, reluctantly, and pulled on an old sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. After five days of skirts and stiff jackets, all she wanted was comfortable clothes. She took the lift thirty-eight floors down and went out, surprised by the smell of the outside air. The city had become a ghost town. The streets were empty, the office buildings dark and blinded. It took her half an hour to find a corner shop that was open, where she bought a box of cereal and some milk, and a selection of crisps and chocolate. She’d meant to go further, to walk down to the Thames or St Paul’s, but the empty city frightened her. She retreated to her flat, skulking past the concert-goers who had begun to gather outside for the Barbican’s evening performance.
By Sunday evening, Ellie had fought back her e-mails to half a dozen outstanding. She’d written one report on the privatisation of the Government’s share in a bank, and another on a Belgian conglomerate that wanted to acquire a cement company. She’d learned a whole new vocabulary, using words like leverage and synergy and capital optimisation promiscuously. She felt like an impostor, a student bluffing an exam in a language she barely understood. And the next morning it would start all over again.
There were only two files on Ellie’s desk on Monday. She still had no idea who put them there — Blanchard? the secretaries? — or how they knew so accurately what she would need for the day. Even before she took off her coat, she skimmed the summary pages. She’d learned very quickly it was important to have at least a vague idea what was in your in tray.
She’d arrived early, fighting her way through the Autumn rain. Doug was coming down that evening, and she wanted to be back in good time for him. She’d bought two fillet steaks from the butcher in Leadenhall Market and spent half an hour on the Internet finding out how to cook them. They’d cost thirty pounds, which in Oxford had been a week’s food budget.
The building was almost empty, but when she went into Blanchard’s office to drop off her reports his jacket was already draped over the back of his chair. She could smell his scent in the air, mingled with the ever-present cigar smoke. A folder lay on his desk, red leather with gold writing stamped in the cover. Leather bands tied it shut, and the knots had been covered in something that looked like dried blood. Sealing wax?
Ellie read the gold lettering upside down. LAZARUS.
‘What are you doing?’
Blanchard’s voice, behind her and sharp. Ellie spun around and tried not to look guilty. His hard jaw softened into a wolfish smile. ‘You’re dripping all over my carpet.’
He advanced into the room until he was almost touching her. He reached out and pushed a damp lock of hair back behind her ear.
‘You look like a drowned mouse.’
‘I didn’t have an umbrella.’ The rain hadn’t looked so bad from the thirty-eighth floor, but it had wormed its way through her clothes almost as soon as she stepped out the door. ‘I couldn’t find a bus.’
‘Have you heard of such a thing as a taxi?’ Blanchard sounded appalled. Ellie shrank: it had never occurred to her.
Darting around, her eyes fixed on a blemish on Blanchard’s bone-white shirt cuff. She tried not to stare, but Blanchard’s eagle gaze missed nothing.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ Embarrassed. ‘There’s a spot of blood on your cuff.’ No response. ‘I wondered if you knew.’