‘I don’t know. Her signs are good. It depends if there’s any, ah, underlying damage.’
He means brain damage, Ellie thought dully. She looked at her mother’s face again, the thin bones and sharp creases. In a horrid way, she looked more at peace than Ellie could ever remember seeing her.
The doctor gave a subtle glance at the clock on the wall.
‘She’s in the best possible place. We’ll take good care of her, I promise.’
Ellie didn’t know how long she sat with her mother. The doctor said it might help to talk, and so she spoke. Halting and awkward, often tearful — honest in a way she’d never dared when her mother could hear. She told her about Doug and his poem; about Blanchard and the ring he’d given her; about the cities she’d visited and the places she’d stayed. She described Saint-Lazare’s fairy-tale castle, and the dead goose with its blood so bright on the snow. It made her realise how little there was in her life any more that wasn’t connected to the bank. Sometimes her thoughts drifted away; she didn’t know she’d stopped speaking until uncounted minutes had passed.
Visiting hours ended. Ellie made her way out of the hospital, trailing her suitcase down the corridors like guilt. I should have been here. She’d found a set of house keys in her mother’s handbag. With nowhere else to go, she went home.
Ellie slept in her mother’s bed that night. As soon as she woke, she phoned the hospital. No change, better or worse. They told her it was a Sunday: no visitors until the afternoon. She picked through the impractically formal clothes in her suitcase until she found a pair of jeans and a woollen jumper. The house was freezing, and when Ellie went to have a shower the water wasn’t much better than ice.
With vague memories of a tank in the loft, Ellie unhooked the ladder in the ceiling and clambered up. A sign nailed under the rafters warned that the joists wouldn’t support her weight, though perhaps that was just because every inch already had to contend with the mass of boxes stacked as high as the roof would allow. The hot water tank, she thought, lay somewhere at the back.
There was no way through. With a sinking heart, Ellie pulled on one of the boxes nearest to her. The old tape holding it together was brittle and dry: the moment she touched it it snapped like rice paper. The box fell open, spilling papers and photographs across the floor.
Ellie wanted to cry in frustration. For a second, she imagined walking away and checking into a hotel downtown: abandoning this cold, broken past for functional anonymity. But something in the sprawl of old documents caught her eye. It was a photograph of her mother, younger than Ellie could ever remember her, with long straight hair and a skirt so short it made Ellie cringe. She was standing in front of a cathedral with her arm around a man: the camera must have snapped just as something distracted him, for his head had turned and he was staring off-camera. He looked handsome in profile, with strong features and a deep, questioning look on his face.
Aneurin Stanton. Ellie recognised him at once, though she’d only ever seen half a dozen photographs of him. She turned over the photograph and saw her mother’s small neat handwriting, efficient as ever.
Bressanone, Italy — March, 1987.
So far as she knew her mother had never left the country, never even had a passport.
Curiosity took hold of her. She delved into the boxes, sorting through the papers. It reminded her of the data room in Luxembourg — due diligence on an unfinished life. Two lives, in fact, for among the bank statements and electricity bills was a fair sampling of Ellie’s past. School photographs and exercise books; drawings and paintings; report cards, certificates, school concert programmes. And slipped among them, the faintest shadows of a third life that had defined them both. An army discharge certificate; an old life-insurance policy; postcards from the continent. She’d never imagined her father travelling so much. The weather is fine. I’ve seen some beautiful things. Not much luck here. I love you. Nye.
She looked at her watch. Past twelve — visiting hours would start soon. She gave up on trying to get to the hot water tank and steeled herself for an icy shower. There was one bundle of papers left in the box she’d been working on. On top, tucked under the rubber band, was what looked like an unused airline ticket. Ellie pulled it out, wondering why the journey had never happened.
The ticket was for a British Airways flight from London to Munich. February 20th 1988.
She felt a wave of sadness as she realised why the ticket had never been used.
Aneurin Stanton: 12th May 1949 — 19th February 1988.
Except the name on the ticket wasn’t Aneurin Stanton. It was John Herrin.
XXIV
Jocelin stands in the doorway holding the burning brand. The flames spit and hiss like a demon; his face is etched with fury.
He raises his sword. Ada’s nearest the door, and I think in his rage he’ll cut her down just to get to me. Instinct takes over. I snatch a spear from the rack on the wall and lunge at him. He dodges the blow the way Gornemant taught us, twisting away, but the tip catches a fold of his tunic and flings him back, into the space where the stairs drop away. He falls down the stairs, thudding and clattering on the treacherous spiral, his sword ringing like a dropped coin. The torch goes out.
I put an arm around Ada’s shoulder and hug her to me, trying to impress the urgency.
‘If you stay here, Guy will kill you.’
She nods. I take her hand and lead her down the stairs, feeling my way with the butt of the spear. We find Jocelin in a heap on the next landing, blood oozing from a wound in his skull. I don’t stop to see if I’ve killed him. Somebody must have heard the noise.
But no one’s raised the alarm yet. We reach the bottom of the stairs and creep across the courtyard to the stables. I find a groom curled up in a stall and shake him awake. He rubs the straw out of his eyes.
‘Jocelin had an accident — a fall in the dark. I have to go to Guy. Saddle my horse, and the grey palfrey.’
I leave him and run to the gate, while Ada goes inside to fetch some things. I feed the watchman the same half-truth, and together we crack open the gate wide enough for a horse to pass. I glance at the buildings, wondering if Ada will come. What if she’s changed her mind?
Ada emerges dressed in a stout travelling dress and cloak, with a small bundle tied over her back. Whatever misgivings she has, she’s mastered them for the moment. Her face is invisible under the hood: I can’t guess what she’s thinking. She puts something cold and sharp in my palm.
‘Don’t forget these.’
My spurs. The groom buckles them on around my boots. He sees Ada climb into the grey mare’s saddle and gives a bewildered stare. Has he begun to wonder why the house is so dark, so quiet, if Jocelin’s in such distress?
‘She needs to be with her husband.’
We slip out the gate. The moon’s strong, lighting our way. The rhythm of the horse under me calms my nerves. Ada rides beside me. Her hood blows back and her hair flies behind her. I gaze across the fields where we practised our swordplay and made mock charges. Past the orchard, where I told Ada the tale of Tristan, and the low-roofed barns where we met by night. These places have been my world for the past six years. It’s a strange thought that I’ll never see them again.
I feel free, but I know it’s an illusion. I saw the look on Jocelin’s face. If he’s alive, no power on earth will stop him coming after us.