They arrived just before midnight, driving along an unsurfaced lane to an empty parking area. Gaynor pulled over under trees, switching off her lights. Will told her to wait and, joined by Lougarry, cast around for a footpath to the water. The one they selected was stony and would show few tracks; Will took the motorcycle and followed the path up to a low bluff, wishing he could extinguish his headlight but afraid to negotiate the rough ground without it. At the top, he dismounted, shutting off the engine, and wheeled it across the gra.s.s to the edge. Above, a pale blur of moon shone through thin cloud, silvering the wind-scudded water farther out, but immediately below he could see only blackness. "Is it deep enough?" he whispered.

Lougarry turned her head.

Yes.

He inched the Harley forward until the front wheel dipped over the brink. One last shove and it plunged down, swallowed up in a huge splash that sounded very loud in the dead midnight. Spray rose toward them and fell back; the disturbed water seethed and bubbled for what seemed like an age but was really less than a minute. Walking carefully in the dark, Will trailed Lougarry back to the car.

"Now for the nasty part," he said to Gaynor.

She turned to him a face whose expression he could imagine, though he couldn't see it. "I've been thinking-are you sure we can't tell the police? After all, it was was self-defense. His prints must be on that knife. She could say he went mad or something . . ." self-defense. His prints must be on that knife. She could say he went mad or something . . ."

"And she just happened to have a spear on hand?"

"Sorry . . ."

"Look, if you want to back out, it's not too late. I could drive you somewhere, Lougarry and I will finish this, and I'll pick you up later. Disposing of dead bodies wasn't in the job description when you opted to become my girlfriend."

"No," she said. "I'm with you. All the way."

She got out of the car. He took her hand for a second, clasping it tight and hard.

"I'm okay," she averred.

Lougarry led them to another path, shorter and muddier, skirting the lakesh.o.r.e in the opposite direction. Will produced a flashlight-Luc's flashlight-and shone it along the bank. The moon had vanished altogether, and they moved in a world of dim shapes, groped by the occasional outstretched arms of bush or stunted tree, feeling rather than seeing the expanse of water beside them. Lougarry, trotting ahead, came to a halt at a point where the flashlight showed them the bank sloping steeply down and a thin breeze chilling the water into gooseflesh.

"Here?" asked Will.

Yes. I can smell the depth. He will roll down and the weed will bind him. It will be many years and an ill chance ere anyone draws him out.

"Right," said Will. "Let's go and get it."

Back at the car, they opened the trunk. The light panned over the contents, the terrible guilty thing m.u.f.fled in sheeting, folded into lumps and mounds. Will said: "You take the legs." With no hands free they had to switch off the flashlight, groping for purchase on their load, dependent on Lougarry's guidance to take them back along the lakeside. The body was awkward and very heavy, with the additional weight of the leather jacket and pockets stuffed with stones. Gaynor found herself wondering about rigor mortis and whether the mild warmth of Dale House could have delayed it; the limbs still felt supple enough. But she had little s.p.a.ce for thought: physical effort took all her concentration. More than once, she had to rest, setting the legs down while Will supported the torso. The second time the sheet fell back, and she saw the head lolling against him, a pallor of skin, a darkness of hair.

She said: "I can't believe I'm doing this. I could believe in the other stuff-dragons and goblins and magic circles-but not . . . this this."

Will said: "Nearly there."

It seemed to take a long time, staggering sideways, or forward, or backward, enc.u.mbered by a bundle that felt heavier with each step. A soft drizzle began, powdering everything with damp; Gaynor felt her hair adhere clammily to forehead and neck. Her sneakers slithered frequently on the muddy path. "It'll blur our footprints," Will said. "Not that anyone'll come looking."

We hope, Gaynor thought, and shivered with the rising terror of discovery, the idea that someone, somewhere might be watching-a nocturnal dogwalker, lovers at a rendezvous-that police might come, the next day, or the next, searching for the impression of distinctive shoes, fishing in the black water . . . She mustn't think like that, or she would never sleep again. The task itself was enough to burden her conscience.

She stumbled on.

And eventually Lougarry halted and turned-Gaynor saw the yellow blink of her eyes-and Will said: "This is it."

They hefted the body over the edge, half dropping, half rolling it down into the lake. They could see almost nothing: rain blotted out their surroundings, darkness filled them. The splash this time was muted, but they heard the water slurping against the bank like the licking of giant lips. Will said: "Has it gone?"

Yes.

"Better get rid of this, then." He threw something out into the lake; Gaynor realized it was the flashlight. Then his arm came around her, guided more by instinct than sight, and he hugged her close, and suddenly she knew that she loved him, that he loved her, not for a month or a year but for always. He had done this for his sister, this terrible secret thing, and he had taken her with him, trusted her, and she knew in her gut-in her soul-that he would have trusted no one else. It seemed strange and wonderful to her that at such a moment she should experience this revelation. So they clung to each other, staring across the water, into the rain. The darkness looked thicker out there, drawing into itself, condensing into a core of blackness deeper than the engulfing night. It was difficult to be sure, but Gaynor thought she could distinguish it as a billowing ma.s.s, hovering above the lake, drifting sh.o.r.eward.

"He sold himself to a demon," said Will. "Maybe the demon is coming to collect."

He pulled her back from the bank and hurried her along the path, though she needed no urging. Lougarry was already there, visible as a gray movement flickering ahead of them. They were almost running now, despite slithers and stumbles. They didn't look back.

As they turned away from the lake toward the parking lot, Will thought he caught a faint echo of sound somewhere behind them, like a bell tolling far away, or deep under water.

A fortnight went by. Fern had returned to London and work immediately but struggled to cope with the simplest tasks and was instructed to take a week's leave to recover, though n.o.body knew from what. ("Lovesick," opined an a.s.sociate. "It turned out badly. He doesn't call anymore.") Gaynor stayed a few days with her and Will visited constantly, usually bringing therapeutic videos since she didn't seem to want to talk things out. Ragginbone, who was not much of one for videos, went back to Yorkshire. In the FT FT and the and the Economist Economist, they read the breaking news of an investment banker with a hitherto unblemished reputation who was implicated in a vast fraud involving both clients and colleagues. By the time the story reached the tabloids, a mystery woman was included who had since disappeared, the protagonist's son was said to have absconded, also-according to rumor-with large sums of ill-gotten money, and the whole business had acquired a flavor of Greek tragedy or TV saga. Kaspar Walgrim was shown in photographs and on television, between arresting officers, turning away from the cameras. ("Poor man," said Gaynor. "It wasn't his fault.") Lucas Walgrim had been sighted at the gambling tables in Monaco, on the top of the Empire State Building, in the souk in Marrakesh. Dana was reported to be in rehab, then was said to be recovering from a "long illness" in a private clinic somewhere.

"I ought to go and see her," Fern said out of the blue. "I owe it to-to Luc. Or to her."

"You don't owe him him anything," said Will. anything," said Will.

"I'll go if you like," Gaynor offered. "As your representative. It isn't as if she knows you."

"Would you?" Fern sounded truly grateful. "It must be terrible for her. In a coma for months, and then coming around to all this. And not-not understanding any of it."

"Should I explain?" Gaynor asked uncertainly.

"I don't know . . ."

"Use your own judgment," said Will. "I'll go with you."

But she declined, feeling that two of them might be too much for someone in Dana's presumed condition. The next day, she took the afternoon off and arrived in Queen Square behind a large bunch of flowers, only to find Dana had been moved and staff were reluctant to reveal her present whereabouts. "You might be a journalist," said a senior nurse, bluntly. "She needs privacy right now."

"I'm not," said Gaynor. "Honestly I'm not. I restore ma.n.u.scripts. You can check." She gave her work number. "I know Luc-Dana's brother. He came here a couple of times with another friend-Fern Capel-who'd been in a coma too and was trying to help them. Support stuff. She's not awfully well now, so I'm here instead of her. We just want to know Dana's okay."

"I'll get back to you," the nurse conceded.

Gaynor took the flowers to Fern, and they returned to their perusal of the papers, who were getting nowhere in their search for the mystery woman. Melissa Mordaunt was clearly a fict.i.tious ident.i.ty, but since the person behind it had no records of any kind-no birth certificate, National Insurance number, pa.s.sport, or driver's license-they were unlikely to track her farther than Wrokeby. Luc's defection continued to baffle, but no one suggested he had been murdered, and the issue was clouded still further when someone in his office managed to shift responsibility for some dubious financial transactions onto him. Meanwhile, Kaspar Walgrim's lawyer expressed remorse on his client's behalf and called in psychiatrists to explain that he had acted while the balance of his mind was disturbed. Pictures appeared of Dana at various society events over the past several years, but the newspapers were beginning to abandon the carca.s.s of the story for lack of meat when the clinic finally contacted Gaynor.

The following day, armed with more flowers, she drove down to an exquisite Georgian country house where those who could afford it retired to convalesce, generally from drug addiction, alcoholism, or nervous breakdown. Knowing a little of Dana's history, Gaynor wondered if she had been there before. During the journey she had dwelt unhappily on the fact that this was Luc's sister she was going to see, and although she had done her utmost to put that night at the lake out of her mind, she could not help feeling steeped in guilt. Dana's opening remarks nearly sent her bolting straight back to London. "I don't know who you are," she said, "but I'm told you're a friend of my brother. Have you any idea what's happened to him?"

She didn't resemble Luc, Gaynor thought, striving desperately for a natural reaction. She was a little thin and pale, which suited her, and had the type of good looks that result more from grooming than nature: well-cut, high-gloss hair, clear skin, manicured hands. There was none of Luc's suppressed intensity or Modigliani bone structure. Unable to find a suitable answer to her question, Gaynor handed her the bouquet and hovered undecidedly by a visitor's chair.

"Actually," she said, "I'm only an acquaintance, really. I didn't mean to deceive you, but it was too difficult to explain properly at the clinic. The thing is, Luc got in touch with Fern Capel-she's my best friend-because he'd heard from a doctor that she'd gone into coma in circ.u.mstances very like yours. Luc thought maybe she could help him. I know she went to see you a couple of times when you were unconscious and she wanted to visit you now, but she isn't very well at the moment, so she asked me. I'm sorry: does any of this make sense?"

"n.o.body makes much sense right now." Dana looked bleak. "Look-sit down. I could ask for some tea. They don't allow alcohol here."

"Tea would be lovely," said Gaynor.

Dana pressed a bell and ordered the tea, and Gaynor, in a painful attempt to adhere to the truth, said: "I'm afraid I-I haven't seen your brother in a while. I don't think anyone has."

"They're saying he's gone off with money from the firm," Dana persisted, "but he wouldn't do that. He's unscrupulous sometimes, but not a thief. He's not that stupid. He had a great life-plenty of dough-why quit for a few extra bucks?"

Gaynor mumbled: "I don't know."

"Some people came from the Serious Fraud Office," Dana went on. It occurred to Gaynor that she was short of a real confidante and desperate to talk to almost anyone. "About Luc and-and Daddy. They said Luc might have debunked because he'd found out about Daddy, or been involved with his business affairs, but that's nonsense. I told them, he would never just leave leave. Not without a word. We hadn't seen much of each other lately, but when we were kids he always looked after me. He would never, ever ever run out on me. They didn't believe me. They didn't say so, but I could see it. They looked awfully cynical, and tired, and run out on me. They didn't believe me. They didn't say so, but I could see it. They looked awfully cynical, and tired, and sorry sorry for me . . ." She began to cry helplessly, trying to sniff back the tears. Gaynor groped in a flowered box for a wad of tissues and decided this was quite the worst afternoon of her life. for me . . ." She began to cry helplessly, trying to sniff back the tears. Gaynor groped in a flowered box for a wad of tissues and decided this was quite the worst afternoon of her life.

"I'm so sorry," she said, feeling like a criminal. Technically she supposed she was one.

"No . . . no. I'm I'm sorry . . . I keep crying at people. They say it's okay-therapeutic . . ." sorry . . . I keep crying at people. They say it's okay-therapeutic . . ."

"Of course it's okay."

"The psychiatrist's very kind-she's quite young, you know, and not patronizing like some I've had-but it's so nice to talk to a real real person." person."

"What about your friends?" Gaynor asked unguardedly.

"Oh, a couple of them came down. They were excited about all the stuff in the papers and kept sort of looking at me sideways, to see if I knew something I wasn't telling, but I don't. And Georgie's always fancied Luc, but he didn't reciprocate, so she was mouthing off about him. My best friend's in Australia, having a baby. She's phoned several times, but she's nearly eight months gone and she doesn't want to fly. I might go over there after the baby's born." She mopped her face with the tissues and glanced up blearily as the tea arrived. She didn't say thank you, so Gaynor said it for her. "Tell me about your friend-Fern what's-her-name. You said she'd been in a coma like me."

"It was two years ago," Gaynor said. "She was supposed to be getting married, and we went out for her hen night, and she drank too much and pa.s.sed out and didn't come around for a week."

"A week week?" Dana sounded mildly scornful. "I was out for months."

"The thing is, there was nothing wrong with her. Like you. It was as if-" Gaynor trod carefully "-her body was in suspension, and her spirit had gone . . . somewhere else."

Dana's expression froze into sudden stillness. "That's how it felt," she said. "I had such awful dreams. I was shut in a jar, in this huge laboratory. I kept banging on the sides and shouting, but no one came to let me out. I felt like an insect trapped under a gla.s.s. I was terrified they were going to perform some horrible experiment on me."

Gaynor said: "They?"

"There was this woman who would come and peer at me sometimes. She was huge, or maybe I was very small, and she had this big red smile full of teeth, and black eyes-really wicked eyes, like looking into a dark cave when you know there's something dreadful lurking down there. She always seemed to be wearing evening dress; all wrong for a laboratory. And there were these other faces, nightmare faces, distorted and leering, like an ill.u.s.tration for 'Rumpelstiltskin' in a book I had as a child. That picture always scared me so much I was afraid to go to sleep, but now it was as if I had, and the picture had turned into reality, and I couldn't wake up. I couldn't wake up."

"Fern had bad dreams, too," Gaynor offered. "About a pair of witches, and a gigantic Tree that filled her whole world."

"Sounds more fun than mine," said Dana. "Lindsay-the psychiatrist-says it's frightfully interesting and Kafkaesque." A note of gratification flickered in her voice. "But at the time, it was so . . . not exactly real, but horrible, because I was stuck in the dream or whatever it was, and I couldn't get out. Lindsay says it was symbolic, but it didn't feel feel symbolic. Apparently it all has to do with my mother dying when I was young and my relationship with Daddy." symbolic. Apparently it all has to do with my mother dying when I was young and my relationship with Daddy."

"I'm sorry about your father," Gaynor said.

"I can't believe he would do anything against the law. He's always been so aloof, and stuffy, and high-minded about things. It can't all have been hypocrisy . . ."

She sounded hopelessly bewildered, and Gaynor found herself thinking: She doesn't love him very much, but she must have relied on him. He laid the rails that she had to go off.

She couldn't think of anything to say in the way of comfort.

"How did you get out of the jar?" she asked eventually.

"It's funny, isn't it?" said Dana. "That's what Lindsay asked me. She said dreams of this kind have their own logic. I don't know: I never had logical dreams before."

"But you do recall getting out?"

"Not very clearly. All I know is, Luc was there. And someone else, I think, but I only remember Luc. His face was huge too, all bendy through the gla.s.s, and then it shrank back to normal size, and went far away, and I suppose after that I must have woken up. And now he's gone . . ."

"I'm sorry," Gaynor said for the umpteenth time. "So sorry . . . I'm sure he would have done anything for you. Anything at all."

That evening, she gave Fern an edited version of the interview, and Will, later, a rather more detailed one.

"She seems pretty self-absorbed," Gaynor told Fern. "She didn't appear very interested in what might have happened to you. As far as I could make out, her psychiatrist thinks she had some sort of dream sequence symbolizing her relationship with her father."

Fern attempted a rather shaky laugh. "If the Eternal Tree was a hallucination," she said, "what the h.e.l.l does that say about my family background?"

"The point is," said Will, "there's nothing you can do for her. She may be confused and upset, but she's well off, well looked after, and in a month or so she'll be winging her way to Bondi Beach to forget. You don't need to agonize over her."

"No," said Fern. "After all, I killed her brother. There isn't a lot I can do to make up for that."

"You had no choice," said Will.

How often had she heard that phrase? Her face twisted. "There's always a choice," she said.

She had been back at work for a while now, struggling to concentrate although the world of PR appeared completely surreal. The launch party for Woof! Woof! magazine was due in a few days, with a full complement of celebrities and their pets, most of which seemed to have even more rarefied tastes and eccentric habits than their owners. Fern felt so detached from the action, she found it curiously easy to retain what was left of her sanity. But the nights were difficult. She would lie staring vacantly into the darkness, trying not to relive that final moment, blanking out the terrible wonder of their lovemaking, thinking about nothing till her head ached from the strain of it. Every evening she drank a gla.s.s of wine too much in the hope that it might soothe her, or warm her, or chill out the pain. If it magazine was due in a few days, with a full complement of celebrities and their pets, most of which seemed to have even more rarefied tastes and eccentric habits than their owners. Fern felt so detached from the action, she found it curiously easy to retain what was left of her sanity. But the nights were difficult. She would lie staring vacantly into the darkness, trying not to relive that final moment, blanking out the terrible wonder of their lovemaking, thinking about nothing till her head ached from the strain of it. Every evening she drank a gla.s.s of wine too much in the hope that it might soothe her, or warm her, or chill out the pain. If it was was pain. Mostly, it seemed to her that her life had ended when she ended Luc's, and the rest of her days would be filled with emptiness and the taste of dust. Gaynor dosed her with Mogadon, and Rescue Remedy, and kava kava bark, all of which Fern took meekly, and then she would laugh a little, or cry a little, or sleep a little, but the emptiness inside her devoured both laughter and tears, and sleep would not drive it away. pain. Mostly, it seemed to her that her life had ended when she ended Luc's, and the rest of her days would be filled with emptiness and the taste of dust. Gaynor dosed her with Mogadon, and Rescue Remedy, and kava kava bark, all of which Fern took meekly, and then she would laugh a little, or cry a little, or sleep a little, but the emptiness inside her devoured both laughter and tears, and sleep would not drive it away.

"I'm really glad about you and Will," she said once, with something approaching true feeling. The two of them were alone together; Will was out charming a commissioning editor.

"I didn't know you'd noticed," Gaynor said candidly.

"Of course. I suppose . . . I'm afraid to say too much. Everything I touch turns to ashes these days."

Later that evening, Skuldunder arrived. Fern didn't notice him before he materialized, perhaps because she didn't want to look.

"The queen is coming to see you," he announced from under his hat brim, his one visible eye straying toward the chardonnay on the table. Evidently he had acquired a taste for it.

Gaynor glanced at Fern, who said nothing, and spoke for her. "We will be honored."

Mabb duly appeared, garlanded with dying flowers and carrying a particularly vicious thistle stem by way of a scepter. Her eyelids were painted purple with iridescent spots that spread over her temples, and her customary rank odor was mingled with overtones of what might be Diorissimo. Gaynor saw Fern flinch slightly as the smell hit her. ("The perfume was a mistake," she admitted afterward.) "Greetings, your highness," she said, adding bravely: "You are most welcome."

"I show you great favor," Mabb declared, perching herself on an armchair. "My loyal subject here, the Most Royal Burglar Skuldunder, has told me how you commended him for his courage in the witch's house."

There was a note of doubt in the a.s.sertion, so Fern responded: "Yes."

"I have also heard how your companion slew the giant spider, aided by my burglar, and how, with Skuldunder's help, you stole the demonic head from a sapling of the Eternal Tree."

"Absolutely," Fern said faintly.

"And now the witch is dead." It was not a question. News of the events at Dale House, or some of them, had obviously reached Mabb. "It was a great feat," the queen continued. "She was mighty among witchkind, but you proved mightier."

"Not really," said Fern. "Everyone has their weak spot. I found hers. I am not-" she shivered "-in the least bit mighty."

"You don't look mighty," Mabb agreed. "You have not my regal presence, or the mien of one of the great. But by your deeds you are known. You will be the most powerful and most dreaded of Prospero's Children-you will be as Merlin, as Zarathustra, as Arianrhod of the Silver Wheel. None will be able to stand against you. Therefore I salute you, and cement our allegiance." She made an imperious gesture, and Skuldunder disappeared, reappearing an instant later holding a curled shard of tree bark piled with herbs, a few wildflowers, and a small green apple.

"Thank you," Fern said. "I'm afraid I haven't anything for you right now."