She staggered out of bed and went over to the window. Sue’s bedroom overlooked the front of the house. It was raining again and the view of the valley was obscured by a blanket of cloud, white and all enveloping, drifting up between the trees, curling through their branches, clinging to the rocks, licking at the walls of the house. Opening the window, she leaned out, her hands on the cold wet sill.
Was it the house itself making her dream, switching something on inside her? Had it done the same for Catrin? That was a hugely exciting and at the same time frightening thought. But it was also empowering. In the past people had obviously learnt to control this gift the house gave them, and if other people had done it, surely it was potentially something she could do as well. She closed her eyes, her fingers clutching the stone as she tried to picture Catrin, not here in this isolated house where silence enfolded the memories, but out there on the banks of the River Dee, listening to her father, her eyes wide, her cloak clutched around her, her hood pulled up against a cold wind.
Rhona had two full, black rubbish bags on the kitchen floor. She turned as she heard a sound behind her. ‘So, you’ve come back. I thought you might. Well, while you’re here you can watch and see what I intend to do with your belongings. Perhaps you thought you would come back and collect them. Well, you’re too late.’
Andy wasn’t sure if Rhona could actually see her as she opened the door and pulled the bags out onto the terrace. It was raining in Kew as well. The boards were wet and slippery as the woman dragged them across the decking and pushed them down the steps onto the lawn. She ran down after them and pulled them onto the grass then dragged them towards the far corner of the garden. ‘Come on then’ – she turned back with a shrill laugh – ‘don’t you want to see?’
Andy hesitated. She didn’t want to be here. She hadn’t intended to be here. How had this happened? Were they both dreaming?
Somehow she couldn’t stop herself moving down the steps and onto the wet grass. Rhona was ahead of her, dragging the lid off the old, singed incinerator in the far corner of the garden. She untied the first bag and dived in, pulling out handfuls of paper. She pulled a box of matches out of her pocket, struck one and dropped it into the bin, watching in satisfaction as the blue smoke spiralled into the air. ‘See?’ She bent over the bag again. ‘Letters. These were all letters from Graham to you. Well, say goodbye to lover boy. They’re gone.’
Andy let out a whimper of unhappiness. Rhona must have found the Victorian workbox in which she had kept all Graham’s letters, tied up with ribbon.
‘Don’t!’ she called. ‘Don’t. You can’t!’
‘Why can’t I?’ Rhona was laughing now. Another handful of papers fell into the burning cauldron as the wind and rain circled the fire, whipping the flames into a frenzy.
‘No!’ Andy ran the last few steps towards her and reached for the bag. ‘Leave it! You can’t! They are not yours.’
‘They aren’t anyone’s now. If they meant so much to you, why did you leave them behind?’ Rhona was exultant.
‘You wouldn’t let me take them!’ Andy shouted.
‘No, I didn’t, did I.’ Another handful went onto the flames.
Andy reached after them desperately, her fingers clearly visible this time near Rhona’s as she reached into the smoke. She caught a handful in mid-air as the flames reached up to engulf them and for a fraction of a second she was holding a fiery torch that licked greedily at her hand. With a scream she dropped them and was once more in Sue’s bedroom in Wales.
Tearing herself away from the open window Andy ran to the door and dragged it open. She fled down the landing to the bathroom, sobbing. Turning on the tap she thrust her hand under the cold water and held it there for several minutes until it was numb with cold then she pulled it away and stared down at it. There was no sign of a burn. She was, she realised, shaking violently. She turned her hand up and down, examining front and back, then stared down at her fingers. She could still smell the smoke. Couldn’t she? She stood in front of the mirror and stared at herself. She was pale and her face was streaked with tears but there was no sign of smoke or soot. She grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled it to her nose. It smelt of shampoo.
Sian welcomed her in and sat her down by the fire in her chaotic small front room. Andy had grabbed a bottle of wine from Sue’s rack as she fled out of the door and they opened it. Before Andy could bring herself to explain her arrival she had taken several gulps from her glass. ‘I’m really sorry, I should have rung. I just couldn’t …’ She paused. ‘I couldn’t take it another moment. I keep having these awful dreams. Of home. Of my partner. Of his wife.’ She clenched her fists and winced at the pain. She stared down at her hands and her eyes widened in horror. A livid red scar had spread across the back of her left hand.
Sian leaned across and touched her wrist. ‘My God, Andy, how did you do that?’
Andy shook her head. She couldn’t speak.
Sian waited as Andy swallowed another mouthful of wine and only then after a deep breath did she manage to tell Sian the whole story.
When she had finished she sat looking down into the fire in silence, waiting for Sian to say something. The flames had burned low and Sian pulled a couple of logs out of the basket, dropping them onto the embers. She reached for the bottle and topped up Andy’s glass. ‘You’re right. It’s the house. Sleeper’s Castle. That old man I told you about, who told people’s fortunes? One of the ways he was supposed to have done it was by dreaming for people. They would ask him something and he would tell them to come back the next day and he would give them an answer. It cost them, mind you.’ She gave a sad smile.
Andy picked up her glass and stared down into it. ‘Was he right in his predictions?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And were people pleased?’
‘Not always, no. They thought he was a wizard. Or a warlock. Once someone set fire to the house.’ Sian’s gaze went back to Andy’s hand.
‘You won’t tell anyone what I’ve told you tonight, will you,’ Andy whispered.
‘No, of course not.’
‘It is all so strange. So real.’ She stared down at her hand miserably and her eyes filled with tears. ‘My letters. I had kept them all. His love letters to me, spanning ten years.’
‘You can hardly blame her for targeting them, I suppose.’
‘I know.’
‘None of this is real, Andy,’ Sian said gently. ‘It’s a dream, you know. None of it really happened. It can’t have done.’
Andy sniffed as she looked up. ‘But that’s it, Sian. It is real. Not just my hand. The police came.’
Sian stared at her.
‘Rhona could see me as clearly as I could see her.’
Sian sat forward, her elbows on her knees, and studied Andy’s face in silence for a while then she reached for the bottle. As she refilled their glasses she shook her head slowly. ‘God, I wish Meryn was here. He would know what to do. Rhona must be freaking out if you’re popping in and out of her life the way you describe.’ She put the bottle down. ‘This is all in your mind, isn’t it? It has to be. You don’t actually go back to Kew. Obviously. But then,’ she paused, ‘how did you burn your hand? How does Rhona see you? Is she asleep and dreaming too?’ She climbed to her feet. ‘Come into the kitchen. I think we both need something to eat. And you must stay the night here. By the time we’ve finished this bottle of wine you won’t be in a fit state to drive back, and I think a night away from the mayhem and intrigue of your life over the mountain will do nothing but good.’
Andy followed her into the kitchen. ‘So you do actually believe me,’ she said as she sat down at the kitchen table.
Sian was rummaging in the fridge. She emerged with a box of eggs. ‘Will an omelette do you?’
‘That would be lovely.’
‘I do believe you, yes. I’m a firm believer in Hamlet’s little dictum about there being more things in heaven and earth.’ She reached into the fridge for the butter. ‘Y
ou haven’t mentioned Catrin,’ she went on. ‘When we spoke before you told me you had been dreaming about someone called Catrin. Is she part of this story?’
Andy shook her head. ‘Another set of dreams. Set in the past. Catrin lived in Sleeper’s Castle hundreds of years ago.’
Sian stared at her briefly then she reached for a bowl and dug a whisk out of a drawer. ‘No wonder you’re tired, you poor love, with all this going on.’
‘I sound crazy, I know.’ Andy gave a rueful smile. ‘Catrin’s life is very exciting. She’s a poet. She and her father are friends of Owain Glyndŵr.’
Sian was concentrating on breaking eggs into the bowl.
‘Ella suggested I might be dreaming about some novel I read when I was a child.’
‘You’ve been talking to Ella?’ Sian looked up.
Andy nodded. ‘We had coffee together. I met her when I was buying some notebooks to write down everything that happened in the dream so I could see if any of it checked out.’
Sian put down the whisk. She reached for her glass. ‘Did you tell her about Rhona?’ she asked cautiously.
‘No. No, that’s too real. That’s private stuff.’
‘Well, a word to the wise. Our friend Ella, God bless her, is not known for keeping secrets, so it’s as well you didn’t tell her. I love her to bits, but she can be a gossip. If you mentioned Glyndŵr and let on you were having dreams about him I don’t think she could contain her excitement. You would have journalists on your doorstep. In fact, you would probably find yourself on national TV within the week.’
Andy stared at her, aghast. ‘You don’t mean that.’
Sian grimaced. ‘I think I do, I’m afraid.’
‘She mentioned that Meryn had been involved with some sort of haunting that involved Jesus.’
‘Well, there you are. Heaven knows how Ella heard about that. I thought Meryn managed to keep a lid on it at the time.’
‘But he talked to you?’ Andy was wondering more and more about this mysterious man in whom Sian obviously had so much faith.
Sian grimaced. ‘He knows I can keep quiet.’
Andy smiled. ‘I only talked to Ella about Catrin and her father. I didn’t mention Glyndŵr.’
‘Well, remember Glyndŵr is a magic word in Wales. If you haven’t said anything to anyone, leave it like that.’ Sian began to whisk the eggs. ‘I know I keep saying it, but I wish Meryn was here. Now that is a man you could trust with your life and your soul.’ She set the bowl aside and fished salad and tomatoes out of the cold box and put them down on the table. ‘Would you like to construct a salad? And there’s a nice loaf of bread in the bin. One of the best things about Hay is that there seem to be more artisan bakers per square inch here than anywhere else on the planet. I hope you don’t plan on staying slim.’
Andy smiled. She took another gulp of wine. ‘I used to know all sorts of magic formulae for keeping evil at bay,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘But I’m not sure they would work for Rhona.’
Sian let out a yelp of laughter. ‘Sorry. I thought for a minute you were referring to artisan bakers. OK. I suspect all you have to do is stop thinking about her, or is that too simplistic?’
‘I think it may be. Inadvertently I seem to have stirred up a hornet’s nest.’
‘And does that go for Catrin as well, do you think? If she’s been hanging around for six hundred years or so the odd bit of magic formula might not work.’ Sian produced a knife and put it in front of Andy. ‘Toms. Start chopping.’ Turning to the cooker she lifted a heavy pan onto the heat. ‘I’m sorry, Andy. I am finding this hard to get my head round. I know all these weird things happen at Sleeper’s and I know people sincerely believe it. I wouldn’t be Meryn’s friend if I couldn’t accept that he believes it all, but I’ve never had any of these experiences myself and it’s hard to understand. Maybe that’s why he talks to me. I keep him grounded.’
‘No one really understands,’ Andy put in. ‘Isn’t that rather the point?’ She picked up the knife. ‘I need to talk to my dad. He would know what to do. He was the one who made me interested in all this stuff when I was a child.’
‘Have you spoken to him about all this?’
‘I tried. He’s away at a conference. If your friend Meryn doesn’t show up, I’ll phone him again.’
‘Well, you could send a psychic email into the ether for Meryn. You never know, that might work. Where does your dad live?’ Sian poured in the beaten eggs.
‘Northumberland.’
Sian’s eyebrow shot up. ‘And your mum is in Sussex?’
‘It works for them. He has remarried but they still get on.’
‘So miracles do happen.’ Sian slid the omelette onto a plate and set it to keep warm while she made the next.
They sat for a long time over their supper with Sian’s two dogs asleep under the table and Andy almost asleep in her chair. When at last Sian showed her upstairs to her spare room, Andy turned to her in horror. ‘What about Pepper? I haven’t fed him this evening.’
Sian smiled. ‘He won’t starve in one evening.’
‘But he’ll be furious. He will never trust me again.’
‘Of course he will.’ Sian reached past her to switch on the light. ‘Let me tell you a little secret. Sue spent more than one unscheduled night with me after we’d demolished the odd bottle of wine. Pepper got over it. I’m not saying he won’t sulk – cats always sulk if they feel hard done by – but he will recover the moment you rattle his biscuit box. Grovel a bit and make a fuss of him.’
Andy was still smiling when she crawled under the sheets and closed her eyes. For a few seconds she wondered if Catrin or Rhona would disturb her dreams, then she was asleep.
It was after nine when she awoke to the smell of frying bacon.
‘So, did you sleep well?’ Sian was standing in the kitchen, reading the morning newspaper.
‘I slept like a log.’ Andy stared at the table, laid with cereal and toast and a huge pot of coffee.
‘Here. Take this.’ Sian thrust a plate of bacon and fried tomato and mushrooms at her. ‘Sit down and tell me about your night. Did you dream?’
‘If I did, I can’t remember it.’
‘Good. Well, I want you to remember one thing. If ever you get fed up with your dream factory over the hill there, I want you to come to me for a few nights’ peace. Promise?’
Andy grinned. ‘I promise.’
She meant it.
The evening before, Bryn had drawn up into his accustomed parking place outside Sleeper’s Castle. He sat there briefly staring up at the house. Her car wasn’t there. No matter. He didn’t want to see her. Far from it.
In a moment of absent-minded aberration he had left earlier in the day without his canvas holdall. He was a man who looked after his tools; he had his own in the back of the van. At each of the houses he worked in he insisted on a basic set of the heavies, as he called them. Wheelbarrow, mower, roller and a few more of the things which were too heavy or bulky to cart around with him, but apart from that he had his own spades and forks and trowels, the smallest of which were in his holdall with his flask and his sandwich box. Slamming the car door behind him, he ran up the flight of steps and ducked round the back of the house to the outbuildings at the side, one of which was used for garden implements. Sue was almost as fastidious as he was when it came to one’s personal tools. Hers were neat and clean and hanging on the walls of the shed in meticulous rows. ‘You can borrow them when you like, Bryn,’ she had chortled when they were going over the garden maintenance plan. ‘I know you never manage to have all the tools you need.’ He had grinned back. It was a long-standing joke of theirs that between them they had enough to stock a garden centre. Opening the door he picked up his bag, which was lying inside the shed. That was all he needed. He walked slowly back towards the path, the bag slung over his shoulder. Outside the back door to the house he stopped. Pepper was sitting on the windowsill inside. Bryn tapped the window. ‘Hi, fella,’ he said softly. H
e always spoke Australian to Pepper. It was another joke between him and Sue. ‘Has she gone out without feeding you?’
The cat of course made it clear that she had. Bryn knew where the cat food was. If he were to nip inside he could give Pepper a handful of biscuits and no one would be any the wiser.
He tried the back door. It was locked. He frowned. Sue had never bothered to lock the door even when she was going away for a few days. That way he could always get in if she rang and asked him to look in on the cat. He tried the handle again. There was a spare key hidden under a flower pot on the terrace; she had never mentioned it but he knew. It was kept there in case she ever got locked out, which as far as he knew she never was – largely because the door was never locked. If the key was still there he could go in. He glanced back at Pepper, who was now making a huge fuss about the possibility of being fed. The fact that he could easily come out through the cat flap did not seem to occur to him. It was a matter of principle. He wanted Bryn inside. Now. With a smile, Bryn found the key, pushed open the door, slipped off his boots and padded into the kitchen. A handful of cat biscuits pacified the starving wild animal in Pepper at once.
Bryn stood still and stared round the kitchen. It felt different. He tiptoed over to the table. Her laptop lay there amidst a sheaf of papers and piles of books. He glanced at the papers. Doodles. Sketches, some of flowers. He picked one up and scrutinised it. It was good. Accurate. And it had captured the personality of the plant. There were lots of jotted notes as well and two fat notebooks, one of which was unused, the other already a quarter-full of her handwriting. Those he ignored. He glanced round and listened intently. The house was silent except for the delicate crunching of cat biscuits. Quietly he walked through into the great hall. All Sue’s furniture was still there of course, but the surface detritus was different. Her stuff had gone; another set of belongings was scattered around the sitting room. Pens and paints and brushes; sketchbooks. There was a strong smell of paint. He wrinkled his nose. The table was covered with sketchbooks and there were paintings clipped to a makeshift clothesline across the room. So, she was a working artist. The pictures were lovely; he hadn’t realised she was a professional painter. That must be how she earned her living.