Lamp Black, Wolf Grey

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For Tad and Skyla

PROLOGUE

I
N THE DARKNESS
something scuttled. The girl shivered in the chilling damp of the small room. The dead grey stone of the walls seemed to drain the warmth from her body. Even in her heavy velvet gown she felt naked, exposed, vulnerable. She ran her hands over the dress, as if she might gain some heat from the rich, fox-red fabric. She looked down at the unfamiliar garment, puzzled, in her distress, to see such fine clothes on her body. The feeble, flickering light from the entrance to the room caught the amethyst on the ring finger of her left hand. Its brilliance jarred in the frightening gloom. The girl worked at the ring, struggling to free it. Her hands were cold, but made clammy by fear, so the ring clung to her flesh as she pulled. Panic began to rob her of air. Fear tightened its grip around her throat. She took a steadying breath, but it left her in broken gasps which clouded in the bitter air of the room. Her nostrils filled with the musty smell of the wet walls, of a space unused and unlived in. A space that rejected human presence. A space that spurned life.

The workman in front of her labored at his task without once looking up. With every scrape of his trowel the girl flinched as if he were administering blows. She watched him work on, at once both fascinated and appalled at his detachment, his lack of compassion. But then, she knew he was no more free than she. That his life was ransom in the same way as hers, should there be any person living whom he cared about. Whom he loved.

He will find me,
she told herself,
he will come. He must come.

The sound of approaching footsteps shocked the girl from her thoughts. The dim light was momentarily brightened by the lantern in the hand of the man who now stood in the doorway. He held up the light, its rays falling on his face, casting heavy shadows beneath his eyes.

The coldness of this fearful place,
the girl thought,
is as nothing when compared to those eyes.
And though the sight of the man worsened her state of fear, it also brought hatred. And anger. And in these she found a small, powerful kernel of strength. She straightened her back. She would not show her suffering.

“I see that even in this wretched gloom,” said the man, his voice low, “your radiance remains undimmed. Such a waste.”

He took a step toward her, his gaze sliding the length of her body. The girl stepped back, feeling herself trapped against the rough wall. Nowhere left to run. The man sighed.

“Just remember, my dear, in the long hours to come, remember who is responsible for the …
lamentable
position in which you now find yourself.” He turned to leave, then added, “I know you are certain he will risk all to come heroically to your rescue. I suggest sightings of him riding west from here an hour ago indicate otherwise. How will love fare when a lonely death comes close, I wonder? Will you cry out for your precious lover then, d’you think? Or will you curse him for abandoning you with such ease?”

The girl held her breath as the figure stepped out of the opening and disappeared without a backward glance.

The mason quickened his pace, as if eager to be done. The girl felt fear growing to unmanageable terror. The horror of the fate that had been chosen for her was too much to bear. Her knees weakened as if they could no longer support the weight of her dread. As the last stone was put in place the mason’s eyes met hers for a brief, painful instant, then he was gone, and with him the last of the light. A scraping sealed the gaps around the rock and the deathly, suffocating blackness swamped her. In the unnatural silence and stillness she was left, shaking, alone.

1

“A
ND THROUGH HERE,
we have the fourth bedroom, again with the exposed beams and rather charming, sloping ceiling.” The estate agent pointed as he spoke.

Laura wondered if he thought all viewers needed hand signals as well as endless commentary to fully appreciate a house, or if he were making a special effort because they were from London. She still hadn’t forgiven Dan for letting slip the fact they were selling their house in Hackney. She had seen the way the agent rubbed his hands together at the thought of getting commission on the full asking price.

“A small room, but plenty big enough for a nursery.” The man was unstoppable.

She could feel Dan looking at her but refused to meet his eyes. Did he think she was going to fall apart every time someone mentioned babies? It was ridiculous.

The agent tried another tack.

“And, yet again, gorgeous views, I think you’ll agree.”

Laura and Dan stepped toward the little window, both having to stoop to avoid the low beams. Even if Laura had not been tall, she would have had to duck. Dan took her hand and gave it a firm squeeze. She smiled back at him, a practiced, stop-fussing-I’m-fine smile. She gazed out at the seductive vista. The countryside was dressed in its prettiest May garb—everything budding or blooming or bursting out in the exuberance of late spring. For Laura, the landscape at thirteen hundred feet up a Welsh mountain was the perfect mix of reassuringly tamed and excitingly wild. In front of the house were lush, high meadows filled with sheep, the lambs plump from their mother’s grass-rich milk. Their creamy little shapes bright and clean against the background of pea green. A stream tumbled down the hillside, disappearing into the dense oak woods at the far end of the fields, the ocher trunks fuzzy with moss. On either side of the narrow valley, the land rose steeply to meet the open mountain on the other side of the fence. Here young bracken was springing up sharp and tough to claim the hills for another season. Beyond, in the distance, more mountains rose and fell as far as the eye could see. Laura undid the latch and pushed open the window. She closed her eyes. A warm sigh of a wind carried the scent of hawthorn blossom from the hedgerow. She breathed in deeply. The breeze moved the wisps of dark hair at the nape of her neck that had escaped being tied back. As they tickled her skin she felt a sharp quiver travel over her scalp. She stood for a moment, eyes still closed, listening to small birds toiling to feed their young, and the far-off mewing of a soaring buzzard.

This is what I’m going to paint
, she thought,
not just this place, but the
essence
of this place.

She felt Dan’s breath on her ear.

“Go on, admit it, you’re in love.”

She opened her eyes slowly. His boyish, familiar face wore a knowing grin. She smiled back at him, a genuine, connecting smile this time. The first in a long while.

“This is the place,” she said.

“You really want to live here?” he asked, raising a doubting eyebrow at the idea.

“I
really
want to live here,” she said. Then, seeing his reluctance, she took his hand. “Please?” she said quietly. “I need to try this.”

Dan hesitated, then sighed and shrugged. He nodded toward the fidgeting estate agent, “Come on, then,” he whispered. “Let’s make his day.”

Laura was about to step away from the window when a movement outside caught her eye. She squinted against the light, down into the far corner of the meadows. A figure—a man—was striding toward the woods. He was tall, dressed in dark clothing, and carried a heavy stick which he pushed hard to the ground with each step. He walked purposefully, head down, intent on his destination, and beside him loped a shaggy grey dog.

“Laura?” Dan touched her arm. “Are we going to do this thing?”

She turned to look at him, nodding decisively, “Yes,” she said. “Let’s.”

As she moved from the window she glanced back, but the walker had vanished into the dense woodland.

*   *   *

T
HREE MONTHS LATER,
sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor of her London home, the chaos of last-minute packing around her, Laura was doing her best to stay calm as she swaddled yet another wineglass in bubble wrap. Despite a ruthless purge of all cupboards and several trips, laden, to the local Red Cross shop, she remained overwhelmed by the endlessness of the packing. She sighed. Sorting and organizing and efficient planning were not her strong points. She had always known the major part of the move would fall to her, and it niggled her that Dan would have done a better job of it. But he couldn’t possibly take time off. She frowned as she thought of him now, happily ensconced in the Blue Boar with his work cronies, enjoying his habitual Friday-night wind down. It was just typical of him to have worked up until the last minute, and yet not be here now to lend a hand. The moving van was due early the next morning and there was still a daunting amount to do. Her shoulders sagged as she gazed at the mess that had been their living room. To make matters worse, she could already hear Daniel berating her for not labeling things properly. Unpacking was going to be equally stressful. Well then, he shouldn’t have left it all for her to do. He was the one with the organized mind, the one who liked order and logic and everything in the right place. And he’d have a hangover on moving day. How sensible was that, for heaven’s sake? It was as if by carrying on as normal until the actual moment of leaving, he was putting off accepting that they really were going. This was her dream, her idea, her choice. Dan had paid lip service to the plan for weeks before having to declare his true feelings when Laura had started to push property details under his nose at mealtimes. He had admitted, then, that he couldn’t imagine living out of London, moving to somewhere remote and rural, starting a new type of life. But Laura had been as persuasive as she knew how. She could work anywhere, and he could take his time finding the right job near their new home, staying in a rented studio flat on weekdays in the meantime. He would get used to the idea; he would surely come to see how much better, more relaxed and less stressful their lives could be. And how that might, just might, give Laura a chance to conceive. And hadn’t they tried everything else? Could they really give up without trying this one last thing?

She swore under her breath and picked up another glass. As she leaned forward her hair swung down, wet and heavy. She had found a moment to wash it, and now it hung about her shoulders in glossy black ringlets. It would take hours to dry naturally, but she hadn’t the time to deal with it, and in any case, the hair dryer was already nestled in the bottom of a box somewhere.

The telephone rang. Cursing the interruption she searched for the handset, eventually spotting its flashing light peeping out from under a pile of newspapers.

“Hello, Laura, darling. Just thought I’d ring to see how you are.” The tension in her mother’s voice was unmissable.

“I’m fine, Mum. Just sorting out a few last-minute details.” She wedged the phone under her ear and continued to wrap as she spoke. “How was your lunch with Miriam?”

“What? Oh, noisy and fattening. I can’t think why she insists we try out a new restaurant every time we meet. Will someone tell me the point of enormous plates when you are given a silly little table? We had to put the cruet on the floor…”

Laura let her mother chatter on, relieved she had so easily deflected her from talking about the move. She knew Annabel hated the thought of her only daughter leaving London, and she was having to learn to live with niggling guilt at moving so far away from her lone parent. It would have been easier if her mother had been more open in her objections, but she confined herself to the well-placed sharp observation. To this she added a near-constant expression of hurt and quiet insistence that she would get used to the idea. In time. Laura closed the box of glasses and walked over to the mantelpiece. The room was clear of breakables now, save for a heavy vase and a photo in a silver frame. She picked up the picture and gazed at it. Younger, happier versions of herself and Dan beamed back at her. She remembered it had been taken just before they had started trying for a baby. Before they had realized there was a problem. Before her heart had been broken.